I walked slowly down the hall after the final bell rang. I didn’t use the school library very often, and I wasn’t all that anxious to get there. Miss Snow, the librarian, gave me the willies. She had about a million rules, and she screamed if you broke any of them. I heard her rip into a little sixth grader once for chewing gum, and the poor girl started crying. I don’t need that kind of stress.

Silver sat near the back in front of a computer at one of the library’s round wooden tables. She’d fastened her hair up in one of her plastic clips, and her lips were shiny with gloss. The air around her smelled like watermelon.

“Hey,” I said softly.

“Oh, hi.” She nodded at the seat next to her, her fingers still moving across the computer keyboard. “Can you sit down for a minute?”

“Sure.” I felt uneasy for some reason, like I was in trouble. Which I wasn’t. At least not that I knew of.

“Okay.” Silver lifted her hands off the keyboard. She moved the computer toward me, adjusting it an angle so that I could see the screen. “Take a look and tell me who you think that is.”

A picture of a woman stared out at me. She was pretty, with curly dark hair and blue eyes. A square neckline emphasized her pale skin, and a row of cloth-covered buttons ran down the front of her dress. I squinted and leaned in, examining the picture more closely. There was a pale brown mark of some kind, shaped like a butterfly, above the woman’s right eye.

“Any guesses?” Silver asked.

“Uh-uh.”

“That is Bedelia Weatherly.” There was an edge of triumph to Silver’s voice, as if she had just won a game I hadn’t known we were playing.

“Bedelia Weatherly?”

“Otherwise known as Witch Weatherly.”

“No way.” I looked back at the picture. “Are you sure?”

“Totally.” Silver pressed a few keys. “Look. I googled the names Weatherly and Sudbury and all this stuff came up.” She sat back in her seat and pushed a few more keys. “There was only one picture, taken at her college graduation. It says here that she went to the University of New Hampshire and graduated with a degree in botany.” Silver glanced from the screen to me. I was speechless. She laughed out loud. “I bet no one in this whole town would recognize her. Or even remember that she used to be a real person once.” She paused. “And a pretty one, too.”

“The botany stuff,” I said. “That’s plants, right?”

“Right,” Silver said.

“I remember hearing something about her being really good with plants even before she went up to the mountain. Like, she’d use them to create her magic potions. That must’ve been where she got the information.”

“Hmmmm …” Silver said.

“Is there anything in there about her house?” I asked. “That got burned down?

“That’s the other thing I wanted to show you.” Silver’s fingers zipped across the keys until the image of a charred house came into view. The entire structure was gutted, every visible corner dark with soot. Only the chimney remained, standing like a proud, dirty soldier among the ruins. “It says here that Bedelia Weatherly came home from work on May 23, to find her house in flames.” She sat back, her mouth over her hand, and continued reading: “Despite violent protests from emergency personnel, Ms. Weatherly rushed into the building and disappeared from view. Two firemen ran after her and, moments later, emerged with her burned, unconscious body in their arms. Ms. Weatherly was taken to the hospital, and then transferred to a special burn unit for treatment.”

Silver shook her head. “Can you imagine? Running into a burning building? Why would she do something like that?”

“She was probably trying to get her stuff,” I said. “You know, all her magic books and things.”

“Maybe.” Silver looked thoughtful. “I doubt she was able to save anything, from the looks of this.”

Overhead, the bell rang, signaling the start of bus lineup.

“Darn it,” Silver said, clicking off the computer. “I wanted to print out the picture.”

“Do it real quick,” I said. “I’ll wait.”

“I don’t know why my mom’s late.” Silver put a hand over her eyes, and looked across the street at the elementary school. “Wait, is that her over there? Who’s she talking to?”

I looked in the direction Silver was indicating. Russell’s teacher, Mrs. Tyrone, a tall, willowy woman with short brown hair, was talking to Aunt Marianne. Mrs. Tyrone looked exhausted—and majorly aggravated. Russell was standing a few feet away from them, swinging his backpack from side to side and scowling.

Great.

Mrs. Tyrone never came out of the building to talk to a parent unless one of the kids had given her a hard time. It figured that Russell would pick today to act up in class. Without bothering to answer Silver, I stalked toward them. If anyone should be getting briefed by Mrs. Tyrone about Russell right now, it was me. Momma and Dad were AWOL. And for as good as Aunt Marianne could be with Russell, she still didn’t know anything about him. Not really.

“Oh, hello, Wren.” Mrs. Tyrone had a large brown mole on her upper lip, which I never seemed to be able to look away from when I talked to her. “How are you, honey?”

“Fine, thank you. What happened with Russell?”

Mrs. Tyrone and Aunt Marianne exchanged a glance. For a moment, I thought neither of them was going to say anything.

“I burped in class,” Russell volunteered. “And farted, too. Real loud. I’m not s’posed to do those things.”

Mrs. Tyrone fluttered her eyes and took a step toward me. “Wren, your father has made me aware of your family circumstances. And I know it’s been very hard on both of you. May I ask you to encourage Russell to open up a little about things? Just between the two of you? I’ve tried, but he’s not interested in talking to me about it, which is perfectly understandable, considering that it’s such a personal matter. But I think part of the reason he might be acting up in class is because things are starting to build a little inside him. He needs to vent—in a positive, constructive way. He really does.”

Talk with Russell? In a positive, constructive way? Was she serious? How was I going to talk about what was going on with Momma with someone whose primary concerns revolved around Captain Commando and pancakes? And even if Russell could sit through a conversation like that, what would I tell him? I still wasn’t even sure what was going on.

“I’ll try,” I said to Mrs. Tyrone’s mole. “He doesn’t like to talk about a lot of heavy stuff, though.”

“I do, too,” Russell said. “The heavier, the better.” He dropped his backpack and flexed his muscles. “People have no idea how strong I am.”

Mrs. Tyrone took a step back and draped an arm over Russell’s shoulders. She bent over so that she was at eye-level with him and tried to smile. “We’ll have a better day tomorrow, Russell, won’t we?”

“Depends.” Russell scowled again.

“On what?” asked Mrs. Tyrone.

“On what kind of day it is,” Russell said.

Aunt Marianne and Mrs. Tyrone exchanged the kind of look that Momma and Dad sometimes did whenever Russell said something that left them speechless.

I grabbed Russell’s hand. “Yeah, let’s go, Russell. Come on.”

Ten minutes into the ride home, though, after Aunt Marianne announced she was out of pancake mix, Russell went ballistic. I watched with horror as he nailed Aunt Marianne in the side of the leg with his fist, causing her to swerve dangerously to one side of the road. Then he kicked the dashboard with both feet until something fell out of it. By the time we got him back to the house and into the living room, Russell was crying and screaming like a crazy person. Even Jackson, who tried to lick his face, couldn’t calm him down. Russell pushed the dog away with two hands, and then, when Jackson came back, whacked him in the face. A high, piteous sound came out of the dog as he slunk away, his tail between his legs.

I grabbed Russell hard then, the way I’d seen Dad do, and shoved him on the couch. “Enough!” I yelled. Poor Jackson was whimpering in the corner. Silver and Aunt Marianne were behind us, trying not to watch, but I didn’t care. “That is enough, Russell! You either tell me what’s bothering you, or I will keep Jackson away from you for the rest of the day!”

He leapt to his feet and glowered at me. His little face was red and squished up, and tears were sliding out of his eyes. “I want my momma!” he yelled. “I want her back! I’ll be good, damn it! I promise! I’ll be good this time!”

I rushed toward him as he sank back down on the couch. He leaned over and buried his head against his knees, sobbing with great big gulping noises, as if he couldn’t get air in fast enough. I put my arm around his back, hoping he could hear me. “She didn’t leave because you were bad, Russellator,” I whispered. “She left because she’s sick, and she has to get better. It’s not your fault, buddy. It has nothing at all to do with you. I promise. It’s not your fault in any way.”

Even as I said the words, I wished I believed them. But it didn’t matter what I believed right now. Russell needed to hear good, positive things about Momma.

To my amazement, Russell didn’t pull away. Instead, he sat still, listening to me. For a moment, the wet slurp of his breathing was the only sound in the room. And then he leaned into me and let me hold him. His hair smelled like blueberry pie for some reason, and his left sneaker had a hole in it. After another minute, he reached down, grabbed the edge of my T-shirt, and blew his nose into it.

“I used a blankety-blank,” he said in a stuffy voice.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I stroked his hair.

“Can we call her?” he asked. “Just to say hi?”

“Of course you can call her!” Aunt Marianne started up, as if someone had lit a match beneath her bottom, and began rummaging around in the kitchen. “In fact, your father called me today at work, and left me the new number to her room. Let’s give it a try right now.”

She brought the phone over to the couch and sat down a little ways from Russell. He propped himself up on his knees and leaned in eagerly as she began punching the numbers.

I looked up, but Silver had disappeared.

“Dad?” Russell began to cry as soon as Aunt Marianne put the phone to his ear. “Dad, it’s me. It’s Russell. I was a pest to Momma and that’s why she went away. I was driving her crazy. Can I tell her I’m sorry?”

My nose prickled with tears as I stroked the back of Russell’s neck. He was such a pain in the butt, but I loved him so much. Sometimes I wondered how much he picked up about the truth of our family. How much of what was really going on did he know?

How much did I?

“Why not?” Russell rubbed one eye with a dirty fist. “She’s still not feeling good? I thought you said there was doctors! Giving her medicine!” He stamped his foot. “I don’t want to wait anymore! I want to talk to her! Now!” His lower lip jutted out as he listened for a moment. “No,” he said. “I don’t understand at all. And I think you’re both stupid.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and threw it across the room. Then he raced toward the kitchen door.

“Russell!” I shouted.

Aunt Marianne rushed after him. “Let me take care of him,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll get Jackson, too. You talk to your father.”

I picked up the phone, watching as Aunt Marianne ran after Russell, chasing him through the backyard. Jackson raced after both of them. “Dad? What happened? Did something happen to Momma?”

“She just had a little bit of a setback today, Wren. That’s all. She’s fine. She’s sleeping and can’t come to the phone right now.”

“What do you mean, a setback?” I asked.

“She just wasn’t feeling as great today as she was yesterday.”

“Like how?”

“She just … Oh, honey. I can’t get into it all right now. I’m sorry. I promise I will when I come up on Friday though, all right? I’ll tell you everything. You’ve got to trust me that everything’s okay right now, all right?”

I felt like telling Dad that he was stupid, too. Stupid for thinking that we didn’t know anything. Stupid for trying to make us believe that everything was fine, when in fact, just the opposite was true. “No,” I said instead. “It’s not all right. I’m not a little kid anymore, Dad. I’m twelve now, okay? And you need to tell me what’s really going on with Momma.”

“I will, honey. I promise. As soon as I come up on—”

“No, Dad. Now. I need to know right now. Russell and I have been having a really hard time, but the hardest part is thinking that you’re keeping all the bad stuff a secret from us. That we might not know any of it until it’s too late. And that’s not fair. It’s just not. You have to tell us, Dad. You have to tell me.”

There was another long pause. I was clutching the phone receiver so hard that my fingers were turning white. Please just tell me the truth. Pleasepleaseplease.

“Wow,” Dad said finally. “I had no idea you’d gotten so grown-up, Wren.”

“I’m old enough to know the truth about Momma.”

“All right.” His voice sounded as if he were trying to pull it through cement. “The truth is that, well, Momma had a bit of a breakdown.”

“What do you mean, a breakdown?” My heart was already speeding up. “I thought you said this had to do with something in her head.”

“It does,” Dad said. “Momma’s been anxious and depressed for a very long time. It sort of grew and grew over the years, and then when she went to Grandpa’s funeral, it all came to a head. She just sort of crumbled and shut down. But she’s with the most amazing doctors, Wren. They’re helping her so much. And she’s really doing great.”

I could hear a noise that sounded like a man talking over the loudspeaker in the background.

Dad sighed. “Visiting hours are almost over. I have to go and check on Momma before I leave. Listen to me. We will talk more about this. I promise. I have to go right now. But I don’t want you to worry, okay? I’ll be there in a few days, and then we can talk some more. Be a good girl, honey. I love you.”

“Dad!” There were a million other things I wanted to ask, a billion other things I needed to know.

“Sweetie, please. I’ll call you later. I promise.”

And with a click and a hum, he was gone.