Shifting

Shifting Page 30

“May this room be filled with peace,From ceiling to floor, may it be happy,From wall to wall, may it be happy,May all who enter dwell in safety,May all who leave return in safety,All around me, may it be happy.” He stuck the smudge stick into the bowl of crystals and the pale smoke curled toward the ceiling.

“What was that?” I asked.

“A Navajo house blessing.” Bridger replaced the eagle feather above the door. “So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Clean Mrs. Carpenter’s house, feed the dogs, shovel manure, collect the eggs—”

“You’re sleeping up here tonight, right?” he interjected.

“Yeah, I’m sleeping up here. Why?”

“Because I don’t know if her front door will lock, so you’ll be safer up here. You know what you should do?”

I studied Bridger. “What should I do?”

“Let Bear sleep with you. He’s tougher than he looks.”

I scrunched my eyebrows together. “Who in the world is Bear?”

“Mrs. C.’s dog. The black-and-white one?”

“You mean Shash?” I asked, wondering if he was feeling as sleep deprived as me.

He grinned. “Shash means ‘bear.’ It’s—”

“Let me guess. Navajo?”

Bridger nodded. “I’ve got to go. Some family friends are coming into town this afternoon and I need to arrange a place for them to stay. I’ll try to get someone over to fix Mrs. C.’s door.”

“All right. Thanks. For, you know, the clothes, the house blessing, everything.”

Bridger smiled and I had to fight down a sudden surge of butterflies. “That’s what friends do, Maggie.”

When it started getting dark out, I grabbed a box of crackers and a jar of peanut butter from Mrs. Carpenter’s pantry. With food in hand, I went to the barn.

I brought the crackers to my room, a snack for later. The full moon shone in through the window, creating a steel-blue square of light on my bed. I pulled the curtains closed, and even though I didn’t feel the moon’s pull as strongly as usual, I undressed and shifted into Shash’s twin.

Ears perched and heart pounding, I sat by the door that led out of the barn and waited. Waited for wolves. Or wild dogs. Anything. But nothing came. After half a night of waiting, I gave in to canine instincts and played.

22

Someone pounded on my bedroom door and I jumped awake. Shash, cozy atop my feet, lifted his head and wagged his tail.

“What in the …” I looked at my watch and knew something must be wrong. Only bad news came knocking at a quarter past six in the morning. “Oh, no!” I gasped, imagining all sorts of bad news, Mrs. Carpenter’s death topping the list.

I yanked my feet out from under Shash and leaped from bed, completely unconcerned that all I wore were panties and a black wifebeater, and pulled the door wide.

Bridger’s eyes filled with relief when they saw me. “I was worried about you—worried the wolves might have come back,” he said. And then his eyes moved from my face to my legs, then to my tank top and back to my face. He took a small step back.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is Mrs. Carpenter all right?”

He cleared his throat and focused on my eyes. “Yeah. She’s great. I talked to her last night. She tried calling the house first, but you didn’t answer, so she called me and asked me to relay a message. She is doing well and hopes you had a nice night, and found the barn to your liking.” His eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “She sounded worried about you, but made me promise to wait until morning to give you the message.”

“Oh.” A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Found the barn to my liking? Yep. I’d chased chickens and rolled in the dirt with the dogs for hours.

I glanced down at my pj’s and closed the door halfway, hiding behind it. Shash, thrilled to see Bridger, tried to nose the door open. “Shash, stop it,” I said, nudging him away with my knee. “If Mrs. Carpenter’s fine, then why are you here so early?”

“You don’t have a phone. I came to see if you wanted to go mountain biking with me.”

“You mean right now?” For the first time I noticed he was wearing biker shorts and a jersey.

“Yeah, right now,” he said with a laugh. “Sunrise is the best time to go; plus this is the only activity I could think of where Katie couldn’t tag along.”

“Your plan is flawed. I don’t have a bike,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“I know. I brought Katie’s bike—hence the reason she can’t come,” he said with a wicked grin.

I laughed. “I’ve never been mountain biking.”

“Do you know how to ride a bike?”

“Of course. I’m a foster child, not an invalid.”

“Then you’ll be able to mountain bike. Get dressed and meet me in the driveway.”

“But … Mrs. Carpenter’s house. It’s a disaster. I need to clean it.”

“Do it this afternoon. Hurry up and get dressed. And in the future, lock the barn at night.”

With that he turned and left.

Mountain biking was like discovering a new world, riding trails where hardly any human ever walked, seeing lizards, chipmunks, hawks, and the occasional snake. Bridger took me on a tree-shrouded trail that switchbacked up the side of a steep mountain. And believe it or not, I was pretty good at mountain biking—until it was time to ride back down.

“I’ll meet you at the bottom,” Bridger said. He stuck his shoes into the clipless pedals of his bike and was gone, yelping and hollering as he sped out of sight.

Thirty minutes later, I finally made it down to the bottom of the mountain, my hands cramping from gripping the brakes so tight. Bridger was lying on a giant shaded boulder, shirt off, eyes closed, no helmet, and hands behind his head. His bear claw necklace gleamed against his tan skin, and I thought about what he’d said the day before—that you can’t tell a person’s beliefs just by looking at them. There had always been something slightly different about Bridger, something more than the eye could see.

“What took you so long?” he asked, cracking one eye to look at me.

“That trail was so steep, if I squeezed the brakes on my front tire, my bike started tipping forward.”

Bridger laughed and sat up.

“Did your friends arrive all right?”

“Who?” he asked, pulling his jersey back on.

“The people you were finding a place to stay?”

“Oh. Yeah, them. They made it.” He put his helmet on. “So, you want some help cleaning up Mrs. C.’s house?”

“You mean from you?”

He looked left and then right. “Who do you think I meant?” he asked with a grin.

“You’d seriously help me clean her house?”

“You’re surprised. Why?”

“I don’t know. Because you’re rich. And rich kids usually don’t help clean old ladies’ ravished houses.”

“Oh, really? And how many rich kids are you basing this observation on?”

I bit my lip and grimaced. “One?”

“Just because my dad makes lots of money doesn’t mean I don’t know how to work. The day I turned sixteen he made me go out and get a job. At his insistence I assembled kids’ bikes at Wal-Mart for two years for minimum wage. He believes the only way to learn to work is by working. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Maggie.”

“Ditto.”

“And just to warn you, Katie’s going to insist on coming, but she’s not big on cleaning.”

Cleaning the house with Bridger and Kat made it seem more like a pleasure than a chore. Kat followed me around and watched me clean, talking nonstop about Europe, or telling me what pants and accessories I should have been wearing with her hand-me-down shirt, because apparently I’d worn the wrong pair—and no accessories. Bridger did all the hard work, like hauling the destroyed sofa out into the driveway and getting the cushion stuffing off the ceiling fan blades. Kat, finding a way to be useful without actually having to clean anything, called a trash service to remove the sofa and the black garbage bags Bridger and I had piled up on the front porch.

With the living room clean, Bridger helped me move the sewing machine and table where the destroyed sofa had been. Then we took Mrs. Carpenter’s double bed apart and brought it downstairs to the sewing room.

Bridger, with Kat trailing on his heels like a lost puppy, came over every day. And by the time Wednesday came, the house, minus the brown leather sofa, was in pristine order. Bridger had even repaired and painted the front door.

“Are you all right?” Bridger asked as I was fluffing the pillows on Mrs. Carpenter’s love seat, the final touch before she came home. Kat, sitting at the dining table, looked up from the magazine she’d been reading, her eyes moving between Bridger and me.

“You seem sort of …” Bridger trailed off, glancing at his sister.

“I’m fine,” I said, pounding the pillow into submission. Kat went back to reading.

“Would you mind doing me a favor?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Go to your room and get a smudge stick and one of the eagle feathers. I’m going to bless the house before Mrs. C. gets here.”

I ran to the barn room—my room—and stopped inside, giving in to the frown that had been trying to dominate my face all morning. I took a deep breath and grabbed a smudge stick and feather.

Back at the house I removed my frown and handed the smudge stick and feather to Bridger. He lit the sage and began walking from room to room, saying;

“Bless this house, these walls north, east, south, west,May this be a good place to live again,May peace enfold the inhabitants,May harm never pass through the doors,May joy and love grow within these walls,May it be a place of healing,May the sun, my mother’s ancestor, shine upon this house.” After we’d walked through every room, Bridger laid the smudge stick on a plate and placed it on the dining room table beside Kat’s magazine.