Livia wore a doll’s hand around her neck.
The doll had first belonged to Livia’s grandmother. She had passed it down to Livia’s mother, who had then given it to Livia. Over the years, the doll’s green silk dress had grown worn and tattered. It had lost an arm when Livia’s mother and aunt fought over the doll as children. Livia’s cat had scratched the head and ripped off its real human hair that was tied in tiny braids. Piece by piece, the little doll had fallen apart. Finally, only the left hand remained, and Livia now wore it as a necklace.
Livia had explained this to the other girls on her first night at summer camp. The girls in her cabin were getting ready for bed when one of them, Emily, saw something moving at Livia’s throat. It was the hand, swinging on its chain.
The girls all looked closer at the little hand.
“It’s porcelain,” Livia said.
“That’s what my grandma’s teacups are made of,” said another girl, Amber.
Livia nodded. “It’s very delicate.”
All the girls could see that the little hand had tiny cracks running through it. The fingernails had faded from red to pink. A thin bracelet of gold wire wrapped around the doll’s wrist. Another wire with a little hoop on the end stuck out of the wrist like a skinny bone. A chain ran through the hoop and hooked around Livia’s neck.
Her cabin mates “oohed” and “ahhed” over the doll hand. A few of them asked to touch the white fingers, but Livia shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s quite delicate. It’s so old. And I’m so afraid it might break.”
All of the girls understood. All except for Brooke.
Why can’t I touch the doll hand? Brooke wondered as she sat in bed that night. Just touching it once won’t hurt.
All night, while the others slept soundly in their bunks, Brooke stared at the bunk above hers. She was angry with Livia. Brooke hated snobby people, and she thought Livia was one of the worst. So scared of letting anyone touch her stupid, precious doll, thought Brooke. Not even a doll. Only a stupid hand.
But the more Brooke thought about it, the more she wanted to try on Livia’s necklace. Anyway, why shouldn’t she touch it? Why not wear it? It would only be for a minute. Half a minute. What was wrong with that?
But Brooke knew Livia would never give her permission, so she waited. All week she waited to find the necklace lying on the little table next to Livia’s bunk. Or on her pillow. As the days rolled by at camp, however, Brooke learned that Livia never took off the doll hand. She wore it in the morning to the Sing-Fest. She wore it during crafting class. She wore it on the bird-watching hike. When the rest of the campers went swimming in the lake, Livia sat on the shore and read. She said the water could ruin the porcelain.
Every night as Livia got ready for bed, Brooke saw her pat the doll hand to make sure it was still there before she slipped into her bed to sleep.
Brooke grew angrier and angrier. Who does Livia think she is, anyway? People are supposed to share. They’re supposed to take turns.
It just wasn’t fair, Brooke thought, that she couldn’t hold the doll necklace in her hands. Or feel it around her neck.
Late one night, when everyone in the cabin was asleep, Brooke threw back the cover of her sleeping bag and crept out of her bunk. It only took a few steps to reach the side of Livia’s bunk. Brooke stood there, looking down at the sleeping snobby girl. It was hard to see in the darkness of the cabin. She bent closer toward Livia’s neck.
Brooke gasped. She covered her mouth with her hands, afraid the sound might wake the sleeping girl.
The chain hung around Livia’s neck as it always did, but the doll hand was gone.
Goose bumps ran up and down the back of Brooke’s neck. She hurried back to her bunk and squirmed into her sleeping bag. She shivered, even under the thick cover. Why did the sight of the bare necklace frighten her? Perhaps the hand had slipped off while Livia slept, and it was hidden under her hair or her T-shirt.
Brooke closed her eyes and tried to calm down.
That was close, she thought. If her gasp had woken up Livia, what would she have said? What excuse would she have made up?
Just then, Brooke heard a tiny sound on the side of her bed. A soft, metallic sound. Zzzzz. The sound grew slightly louder, closer. Zzzzz. It reminded Brooke of a zipper.
Someone — or something — was zipping up her sleeping bag.
Brooke forced herself to open her eyes. But no one was standing beside her bed. All the girls were sleeping in their bunks.
The zipping stopped, but another sound took its place. Scratching. She felt something small crawling down her sleeping bag toward the foot of the bunk. Brooke thought of mice and almost screamed, but then the crawling stopped.
She took a deep breath. The sound returned, coming from the post of the bunk. It climbed up the post to the bunk above her. It stopped for a moment, but then it moved again.
Brooke saw a tiny shadow moving on the underside of the bunk above her. A mouse? A moth?
The shadow grew wider, as if a tiny hand were spreading its fingers.
Suddenly, a white hand fell from above and landed on Brooke’s mouth. Its cold fingers grew and grew. Soon it was as large as a human hand. The hand was covered in cracks with pale pink fingernails.
Worst of all, the hand was strong enough to keep anyone from hearing Brooke cry out.
* * *
“Brooke’s gone!”
Livia and the other girls woke up the following morning to Emily’s cry. They were surprised to see Brooke’s belongings all packed up. Her sleeping bag was rolled up neatly and resting on the floor. A few minutes later, the camp counselor came in, followed by Brooke who picked up her suitcase and bag and left without saying a word.
On her way out the door, the camp counselor turned to the speechless campers and whispered, “I think Brooke misses home. She had a bad night.” Then she quietly closed the door behind her.
“She didn’t even say goodbye,” said Amber.
“What do you think happened?” asked Emily.
Livia giggled softly. Too softly for the others to hear. She wasn’t laughing because Brooke was leaving. She was laughing as if she was being tickled. As if something small and delicate was wiggling near her throat. As if something small was waving goodbye.