1. It’s mine, and you can’t have it
CHAPTER ONE
it’s mine, and you can’t have it
My treehouse is my favorite place in the world.
Me and my best friend, Jenny, used to hang out in it all the time.
It’s high up a tree in her back yard that kind of leans into mine—the perfect in between.
When we were just little kids, our dads built it for us, so we could have our own clubhouse.
It was a little scary to climb up the ladder at first, but I can climb it so fast now.
I’m big enough that I can look down from the top without getting scared.
Jenny and I would come up here even when it was raining or snowing or too cold to be outside.
We didn’t care. This treehouse could protect us from anything as long as we stayed back from things that’d blow through the open door.
It’s where we told each other secrets and did our homework and looked for shooting stars… though we never actually saw any.
I’m by myself now. Jenny and her family moved away a couple weeks ago, and Mom says I’m not supposed to be up here since the tree isn’t “on our property.” But I swear I’m not bothering anybody. And it’s still my clubhouse.
I crawl over to the doorway so I can peek out.
The tarp we use to cover it is rolled up, so from here I can see between my house and Jenny’s house to the street out front.
Some men are unloading a huge truck parked by the curb.
They can’t see me, but I glare at them. I hate them.
I know I’m not being nice. It’s not their fault Jenny left, and they might be ok people, I guess, but right now, I hate them anyway.
Jenny lived next door for my whole life, and I don’t like that she’s gone. The new people that move in won’t be as good. I don’t understand why things had to change. They were perfect before.
One man has been helping the movers all morning and telling them what to do. I think he’s the new dad, but I haven’t seen the rest of his family. Mom told me they have two kids, but I don’t think they’re here yet. It doesn’t matter. Neither of them will be Jenny.
Angry, sad tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink until they go away. I don’t want to cry again.
I jump as the back door on Jenny’s house slams loudly.
It’s only open a foot, stuck in the same spot it always jams. The dad tries to force it, but it won’t budge.
He doesn’t know you need to pull up on the handle and wiggle it or it won’t open all the way.
Jenny’s dad knew how to open it. The man is still fighting with it when a new car honks out front.
I watch the mom, a girl, and a boy climb out of a white car in the driveway.
My heart jumps a little, like a traitor, when I see the girl, but she’s older than I am, and I can tell she won’t want to hang out with a kid like me.
She’s listening to music and hurries into the house with her head tucked low, fingers flying over the keys on her flip phone.
The boy is younger than the girl, and he’s smiling when he looks up at his new house. At least somebody is happy about all this.
The dad leaves the back door to meet the rest of the family, but he comes back a minute later with the mom. When they force the door open, I crouch down low and slide back to hide better. If they tell Mom I was up here, I’ll get in trouble.
I crawl into a corner where I won’t be seen, even if they walk around the tree, and hug my knees to make myself as small as possible.
“This will be good for us, John,” the mom says.
The dad grunts before answering her.
“The treehouse will have to go before winter. The kids are too big for that, and I won’t be dealing with wood rot,” he says, and my heart plummets.
My face is hot and wet, and I realize I’ve failed at not crying again.
All at once, it gets noisy outside—someone yells something about patio furniture from the front of the house where there’s another crashing sound, a high-pitched voice calls out “Mom!” from inside, and all the movers seem to be stomping around—but I feel like I have my swimming earplugs in.
They’re going to tear down my treehouse. I don’t try to stop the tears anymore. I don’t care if crying over a treehouse makes me a baby. I love it here.
Suddenly, I get the distinct feeling I’m not alone, and my head whips toward the door that leads to the ladder. I find two bright, green eyes staring at me from behind glasses that look too big for the face they’re on, and I squawk like a bird.
“Sorry!” the voice attached to the eyes says as the boy from the driveway pulls himself up. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Forrest.”
Once he clambers into my treehouse and sits on his heels, Forrest holds out a long, pale arm toward me.
He has messy reddish-brown hair that’s sticking out in every direction and a round face.
His eyes crinkle easily, like he’s used to smiling, and up close he looks like he could be my age, even though I can tell he’s definitely taller than I am from how close his head is to the roof.
His dad was right. He’s too big for my treehouse. And his sister is even taller.
I look at his outstretched hand like it’s diseased and push even further against the wall behind me, like I could melt right into it.
Forrest scoots closer, and I watch him look me over before settling on my face. His expression becomes concerned.
“Are you ok?” he asks when he sees my probably blotchy face.
“Get out!” For some reason, his kindness only makes me angry, and I snap when I find my voice, furiously wiping the back of my hand across each cheek, embarrassed to be caught like this by somebody who’s going to be my enemy. “This is my treehouse! You can’t have it!”
Forrest’s face falls, and I immediately feel a little bad. I know I’m being rude. Mom says I lash out, and I can kind of tell what she means right now. I’m acting like our cat when we try to get her to take a bath.
Maybe I’ll grow claws and scratch the boy too.
“I don’t want to take your treehouse,” Forrest says calmly, finally dropping his arm. I guess I don’t scare him.
Bummer.
“Your dad does,” I snarl. “He said he’s going to tear it down before winter.”
“Oh,” Forrest says, looking thoughtful. “I can tell him not to, since it’s special to you.”
I huff dramatically. This kid is nuts if he thinks it’s that simple.
“It won’t matter. Grown-ups don’t listen to kids.” My eyes burn as I imagine his dad taking apart my special place. Would he use an axe and chop it up? Would he cut down the whole tree?
“No, I’ll make him listen. He won’t take it down.” Forrest scrunches his face until his eyebrows make a straight line right across his forehead. “I promise.”
I squint at him, trying to figure out if he’s lying, but he looks like he means it. I think he’ll try to help, even though I don’t think it’ll work.
“I’m Camilla,” I say, digging deep to find my manners. “I live next door.”
“Hi Camilla,” Forrest says, and that easy smile is back.
“My best friend used to live in your house. She had a dog. Do you have a dog?” I ask, trying to create a list of ways in which he isn’t as good as Jenny.
“I don’t,” he says. “And I’m sorry your friend moved away.”
Something in me wants to like him since he’s being so nice, but it feels like a betrayal to Jenny.
I’m skeptical at best, but his vow to save my treehouse is the first promise Forrest Dane ever makes to me. And he never breaks a promise.