The Tracks by Sally Royer-Derr (little readers TXT) 📕

with skinny-bark trunks surrounded us. Patches of blue sky, visible through the branches, appeared to be moving while the clouds ambled past. My ponytail slapped my neck as we moved faster.

“Just a little farther ahead,” Tommy said. “And we’ll be there.”

Chapter Five

I brushed back sticker bushes and silently cursed myself for the flip-flops on my feet today. I hadn’t realized I’d be going on a nature hike. Tommy glided through the trees while I trailed along hoping we’d soon arrive at our destination.

The woods became denser this far down. I might even say lush woods. The trees, thick and majestic, provided an emerald canopy above us. Green moss-covered rocks created a soft bed under my flip-flops. We made our way through a patch of willowy ferns when the trickle of running water filtered through.

We emerged from the ferns to a slow-moving stream a few feet away. An old wobbly-looking wooden bridge created a pathway to the other side. More ferns and moss lined the banks. I listened to the soothing sound of the water. I’d always rather liked its melody.

“This is it.” Tommy grabbed my hand. He led me to the right.

A wooden structure lay ahead of us. It appeared like a small house with a black shingled roof, plain wood-plank walls, and even a tiny window on the side. We hurried to the building.

“Welcome.” Tommy opened the crooked wooden door and gestured for me to come inside. “To my clubhouse.”

“Cool,” I said, stepping inside. A big cobweb greeted me, and I batted its stickiness off my face.

I viewed the dusty, cobweb-filled room. A couple of mildew-covered pillows sat on the floor next to a pile of dust-filled comic books. A plastic patio table sat on the other side of the room accompanied by a flowered lawn chair missing one of its legs. Various drawings, in pencil and ink, hung on the walls by yellowing Scotch tape.

“I haven’t been here in a while.” Tommy blew the dust off the pile of comic books. “I guess you can tell.”

“It is a little dirty,” I said. “But what an awesome place! How did you find it?”

“I made it.” He smiled. “When I was thirteen. I used to hang out here all the time.”

“You built it? How did you find all the stuff to do that?”

“One of my mom’s boyfriends worked at a dump. He was an okay guy. Used to take me to work with him sometimes. I got everything from there.”

“Wow.” I walked over to the drawings. I recognized the stream and ferns in one of them. One of the train tracks in the summer with blooming trees and grass. Another one in the winter months, bare trees and swirls of snow in the air. I turned to look at Tommy. “You drew these.”

“I did.” He smiled. “I’m an artist. Like you.”

“They’re really good.” I studied each drawing. “Especially this one.”

The picture showed a boy running in the woods. Details in his face, very similar to Tommy, showed the anxiety, maybe even the desperation he felt. I wanted to know who he was running from and where he would end up. The drawing pulled me into that moment of time he experienced.

Tommy nodded. “One of my favorites. Thanks, Em.”

“Is this you?” I needed to ask.

He gazed at the picture. “Yes, or at least a part of what I was feeling at the time. You know how your feelings spill into the drawings or writing. Not that I write. But I think the feelings are similar in both writing and drawing.”

“I completely agree.” I surveyed the clubhouse. “First of all, we have to clean up this place if we’re going to hang out here.”

Tommy shrugged. “I guess.”

“I can’t believe you don’t hang here all the time.” I eyed the cobwebs again. “How long has it been since you’ve been here?”

Tommy looked around the room wistfully. “Too long.”

“Nothing some elbow grease can’t fix,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll bring some old rags and cleaner. This place will be sparkling in no time.”

“Bring some of your drawings, too,” Tommy said. “We’ll hang them up next to mine.”

“It’s a deal.” I held out my hand to him.

He shook it firmly, and I grinned.

“Our own personal art gallery,” I said.

***

Rummaging through the cabinet under the sink, I found some all-purpose cleaner and a sponge. I grabbed some old rags from the adjoining laundry room and stuffed them in a plastic grocery bag.

“What are you doing?” my brother asked. He stood in the kitchen in a pair of faded sweatpants and eating a bowl of cereal. Little droplets of milk hung in his somewhat growing mustache.

“Gross. Wipe your mouth,” I told him.

He did. With his arm. He never ceased to disgust me.

“Why are you digging around under the sink?”

“Just getting some cleaning stuff.”

“For what?”

“For cleaning, dummy. What do you think?”

“Excuse me, Your Highness. I guess my question is why are you taking cleaning stuff and putting it in your backpack? Planning on scrubbing down your locker on Monday?”

“None of your business.” I glanced at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall. It was shaped like a big red strawberry. Mom thought strawberries were cheerful. I just thought they were fruit. “Don’t you have to get to work?”

“Damn it!” Sam quickly slurped down his cereal. “I can’t be late again.”

“You better get moving.”

Sam paused in the doorway and pressed his lips together. “I still think you’re up to something. I will find out eventually what you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” I zipped my backpack. “Just helping out a friend.”

Sam disappeared in search of a clean shirt for work. I slung my backpack over my shoulders and headed outside, the screen door slamming shut behind me. Mom had left about an hour ago