Chapter 1
It’s been seventy-four days since my last panic attack. Seventy-four days without someone posting a picture of my hair. Or my clothes. Or zooming in on my teeth like they’re a science experiment. Seventy-four days where my only nicknames are “Ozzie” or “Sweetheart.”
That feels like a miracle. But today is Monday. And two weeks from today, school will start.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed and follow the path of light to the window. Early morning clouds hang on the mountain like ghosts caught between worlds. Living at the foot of the Bitterroot Mountains, surrounded by rocks and trees and animals—I can see why my parents love it so much, I do too. But right now, my mind is focused on middle school starting and me being the topic of somebody’s Instagram post.
“Darcie?” Mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you up?”
“Yes!” I dig through my dresser drawers for a clean pair of hiking shorts and a t-shirt. We moved to Montana three months ago, and have spent about every day this summer hiking the mountain trails. Mostly so my parents—the forest ranger and the botany professor—can get to know the wildlife as personal friends. My brother and I tag along, mostly because we don’t have a choice, but also because it’s fun.
The smell of pancakes and bacon drifts upstairs, and my stomach immediately growls like one of Dad’s bears. I check my hair and braces in the mirror. Disaster. Brown frizz sticks out in every direction but down—proof that gravity is optional and Instagram posts are probable. And don’t even get me started on my braces. On most people, they’re no big deal, you hardly notice them. Me? Somehow, they take up my entire mouth—like my teeth are literally made of metal.
If we were still in Oregon, Veronica would have a field day posting this mess, and most of the student body would be commenting before first period.
I stare at my reflection. What if the same thing happens here?
*Wait*…I don’t *have* to go to school. I can stay home! Plenty of kids do virtual school; why can’t I? I mean, since we moved in May, the end of last year was remote anyway. My parents were fantastic teachers—both are major brainiacs, and they love the idea of anything educational. Look how much I learned from them this summer just hanging out. Plant species. Animal tracking. Bear etiquette. See? Educational. I head downstairs, excited. This is the answer to all my problems.
“Morning!” I call.
My parents look at me like I just stepped out of a spaceship. It’s the hair—completely out of control.
Three-year-old Andrew launches himself at my legs. “Ozzie!” That’s what he calls me. He wraps himself around me like a koala. He’s always happy to see me. Actually, he’s happy to see anyone.
“Morning, Sunshine.” Dad waves a spatula in the air. “Who wants pancakes? Prizes if you can identify the animal shape.”
“Me!” Andrew releases me and flings himself at Dad, who lifts him with one hand and flips a pancake with the other.
“Good morning, Darcie.” Mom says, pulling me into a hug. “Your morale appears to be heightened for a Monday.” She brushes the hair out of my eyes and kisses my forehead.
“I’m just really excited about our hiking trip today,” I say. “And Monday mornings are only a problem if school is involved.” I lift Andrew into his highchair and slide into my seat. Dad drops a pancake onto each plate.
Andrew stares at the blob with wide eyes. “What’s dat?” he squeals.
I glance down at my plate. No animal—living or extinct—has ever looked like this. I tap my finger against my lip and slide my eyes toward my brother. His lips make a farting noise as he lets out a burst of laughter, and I can’t help it—none of us can—we’re doubled over, laughing until we can’t breathe.
I wipe my eyes. “What animal is this supposed to be, Dad?”
He adds butter and syrup, then spins the plates around. “They’re bears. See the chocolate chip nose and eyes?”
We bust out laughing again.
“Okay,” Dad says. “Now I’m taking it Paw-sonally.”
Even Mom groans.
“See?” I say, leaning forward. “Isn’t this fun? All of us together?” I try not to sound like I’m selling something; even though I definitely am. I stuff a huge bite of pancake into my mouth, talking before I swallow. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could do this every day?”
Mom wrinkles her nose at the gunk in my braces and hands me my water. “Rinse, please. And yes, that would be delightful. Also impractical. Your father and I work, and you go to school.” She turns to my father. “More coffee, Marcum?”
Dad winks at me and hands her his cup. “I guess Mom could bear-ly stand the crud in your teeth.”
“I’m sure it was a grizzly sight,” I say, rolling my eyes, “but still—you guys are such great teachers. I learned a lot this summer.” I add more syrup.
“Speaking of grizzlies,” Dad takes a huge bite of pancake. “What can you tell me about them?”
*Talk about changing the subject.*
Andrew throws his hands in the air. “Der big and do dis.” He growls and curls his fingers into claws, then tips his head back and laughs like he just told the funniest joke in the world.
I lean back and fold my arms. Okay. Maybe this isn’t the best space for this conversation.
But that’s fine. I have a full day of hiking to convince them. Timing is everything. With a little ingenuity—and maybe a perfectly chosen example or two—I will officially be a homeschooled kid by the end of today.
Totally doable.
After breakfast, Andrew spills the rest of the syrup all over himself and Mom rushes him straight to the shower, so Dad and I are alone in the kitchen. This is it.
“Want me to help with the dishes?” I pick up the butter and syrup and place them in the fridge.
He stops whistling *The Happy Wanderer* and hands me a towel. “I’d love some help with the dishes.”
I practice snapping the towel at his backside. One of these days I’m actually going to do it. Apparently, today is not that day.
“I thought we’d start our hike close by,” he says. “That way, we can leave the car in the garage. Remember that trailhead about a quarter mile down the road?” He rinses a plate and passes it to me. “I heard about a logging family that lived in a little cabin out there. It’s not far from the trailhead. I’m surprised we never came across it. Thought we could check it out.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “There’s even a scary story connected to it.”
I lean against the counter as my stomach plays volleyball. I can’t think about cabins or scary stories right now. I have my own nightmare to worry about.
“You okay, Kiddo?”
Suddenly I’m not so sure. “Yeah. It’s just…” My chest tightens—for real. "This summer has been the best one of my life. Did you know it’s been seventy-four days since I had a panic attack?” I turn to face him. “And seventy-four days since I tripped over my own feet in front of everyone? Do you know how that feels?”
He hands me another dish. “It feels fantastic to me, so I’m guessing it feels pretty awesome to you. That’s quite an accomplishment. So why the frown?”
My stomach twists. “I can’t do all that again. The laughing. The names.
The pictures online—”
“Hey.” He bumps my shoulder. “People mock what they don’t understand. Trust me, I get weird looks every time I talk to my trees.” He pulls me into a hug.
“It’s not the same.” I squirm out from his grasp. “How do you get away with being so weird?”
“Weirdness is endearing. Maybe not to middle schoolers, but to everyone else.” He brushes hair from my eyes. “I have a good feeling about this school year, Sweetheart. Things will be different in Silver Pines, I promise. If you want, we can talk more about it on the trail. But right now…” He steals my towel and snaps the air behind me. “We’ve got to get a move on. Brush your teeth and tame that hair. We leave in twenty minutes.”
***
The sky is filled with angel-wing clouds. I take it as a sign that my idea for homeschool is spot on. We head down the road, Andrew on Dad’s shoulders like he’s a football star. He waves to everyone passing by: cars, buses, semis. And they all wave back. That’s my brother. He has a gift for making you feel like you’re his best friend.
I zip up my nylon jacket and breathe in the crisp air. Right now, I’m wishing I’d worn jeans because my legs are sprouting goosebumps, but in an hour or two, I’ll be glad for the shorts.
Andrew’s singing the SpongeBob theme as loud as he possibly can, and Dad—because he’s Dad—jumps in with the pirate voice that sounds totally on point. I cover my ears, but I’m laughing anyway. Mom matches my pace, and everything feels…I don’t know—kinda right.
Their song ends just as we reach the edge of the forest. Ponderosa pines line the path, and sunlight streams through the branches. Sap-coated needles cover the ground, and they stick to my boots. We crunch through them, breathing in the warm scent of butterscotch. Who knew all pine trees don’t smell like pine?
Dad swings Andrew down from his shoulders and takes in a breath. “Love that mountain air!” he whispers, just like he does every other day.
A chipmunk pops up from behind a tree and runs right over Andrew’s shoe. He shrieks like a bear just stole his lunch and takes off running—so much for a quiet moment in the forest.
We all chase after him, calling for him to stop. But of course, he’s so obsessed with the chipmunk that he doesn’t even hear us. Dad catches up with him, so I take my time.
It’s so beautiful here. This part of the forest actually sparkles. Butterflies hover just inside the beams of light like they’re trapped inside a vortex. Moss and white flowers cover the ground like snow. I almost expect fairies to turn up and grant me a wish. Just in case, I make my request. *Please, let me be homeschooled.*
I follow the sounds of Andrew’s squeals—he’s discovered something—and my jaw drops when I see the house nestled inside a cluster of pines. It’s a log cabin really—the kind Dad and Andrew build on the floor with Lincoln Logs. I take a few tentative steps. The cabin’s logs are dark with age, but it almost gleams in the shadowy forest. It looks abandoned, but somehow, feels lived in, cared for. It doesn’t make sense.
I join my family at the cabin’s window, and I’m surprised at how neat and tidy everything is inside. No dirt or grime on the windows, no cobwebs or dead bugs. It’s like someone scrubbed it clean then left, and forgot to come home. I can’t take my eyes off the room. A bed pushed up against the wall with a handmade quilt. A table and chairs. Stone fireplace. Even a pan hanging from a hook, waiting for someone to fry some eggs or something. But no one could possibly live here now, could they? There’s not even running water—only a washbasin and pitcher.
“Can we go inside?” I press my forehead against the window. “It looks like someone just walked off and left it one day—like they might come back any minute.”
Dad tries the door handle. “No. It’s all locked up. Vandals wouldn’t leave it alone if it was open—it looks surprisingly clean though.”
Fear winds its fingers through my brain, and I get the feeling that I’m not just looking into the cabin—but something inside is looking back. I spin away from the window, my skin prickling, and hurry back to where my parents sit on the stoop. “Eerie,” I say, rubbing my arms. “Don’t you think?”
“Could be that the Shadow Man really does lives here.” Dad winks at Mom, and she swats his arm.
My pulse stutters. “The Shadow Man?”
“They say he wanders the forest searching for—“
Mom stands, brushing pine needles from her pants. “The Shadow Man is an urban legend. Completely illogical, and not something we’re going to talk about.”
I scan the forest, my heart thudding. The light between the trunks seems thinner somehow. Less light, more shadow. If the urban legend is real, I get the feeling he’s watching.
***
By afternoon, the temperature has heated up to eighty-two degrees, and so has my mood. I can’t stop thinking about school, I’m hot and tired, and bored.
“Can we at least take a break?” I throw my pack to the ground and slump against a giant trunk.
Dad has to turn around because he and Andrew are fifty feet ahead of Mom and me.
“Careful, kiddo. You keep frowning like that, and a bear’s gonna mistake you for a grumpy pinecone.” He lowers Andrew from his carrier and hands me a bottle of water. He turns to my mother. “Whadda ya think, Esther? Is this a suitable spot to have some lunch?”
Mom agrees and passes out sandwiches. “Are you just hungry, Darcie, or is your foul mood unrelated to an empty stomach?”
Andrew moves beside me. Jelly already smeared on his face. “Yeah, Ozzie. What’s wong?” He takes a bite of his sandwich, adding a smear of peanut butter to his cheek. He smiles up at me—all cute and messy.
“I can’t handle going to school, that’s what’s wrong!” The words slip out before I can stop them. Tears burn my eyes, and I hate that my voice sounds shaky. This is not the calm, well-planned speech I’d imagined. Anxiety never sticks to the script. “It’s only two weeks away. What if everyone makes fun of me? What if my hair isn’t right, or my clothes?… Changing schools is no guarantee that it’s not going to happen again.”
Mom studies me for a moment. “You’re drawing a conclusion without enough data,” she says. “You’re assuming your new school is filled with people like Veronica. She was the only one who treated you poorly. Am I right?”
I wince at the name. “No one stopped her.”
Dad pipes in. “Are you sure about that?”
“Taylor!” Andrew shouts, lifting his sandwich like he’s just called Bingo.
“And Keeley.” Mom adds. “Sydney. Piper. They even came to say goodbye.” She meets my eyes. “One outlier doesn’t get to define your entire experience.”
*They really have no clue how many people were in on it. Sure, my friends weren’t, but there were others.* I nod, even though part of me wants to argue—arguing will just get me blocked from Instagram. Why did I open my mouth? This isn’t working the way I planned.
Dad stands and stretches.“Let’s stick to the plan, and if you’re still this anxious after the first quarter, we’ll revisit remote learning. It’s too close to the start of school, and Mom and I are both starting new jobs.” He pats the tree next to him. “And I gotta get to know these trees better.” He grins. “I tried telling this one a joke, but it was sappy.”
I roll my eyes and glare at him.
Mom hands me a bag of trail mix. “We’ll go shopping for school clothes on Wednesday.” She stands, sliding her pack onto her shoulders. Dad does the same. The conversation is over.
I stay where I am for a second longer, crunching trail mix I can barely taste.
Just like that, the decision has been made. No homeschool for me.
I’m going back to middle school.