Chapter 1

Several days had already passed since we moved from the cheap motel in Houston to Three Maples Street, a prestigious part of town with well-kept houses and green lawns. Mom had beautiful dresses now, and I had a room of my own with a big window, a bed with a pink canopy, and a real bookcase, where I put my favorite books and schoolbooks.

I was accepted into Ellison Middle School, and the principal himself, Mr. Gibson, promised to help me get into the music program. Everything was almost wonderful, except for Nick, who from the very first day did a fine job of ruining my life. Whenever our parents did not notice his behavior, he made ugly faces and snorted contemptuously whenever he ran into me in the house.

It was a sunny April day. Mom and I had come back an hour earlier from the school, where we had taken my documents, and I asked her permission to go to the bookstore. It was at the very bottom of the street, in a small plaza*, between the pharmacy and the bank, and getting lost seemed impossible. I wanted to buy a postcard for my friend Camilla with the state marked on it, write her a touching message the way grown-ups did in movies, and send it by real mail, in an envelope with stamps and the print of my lips--the way girls in Texas did when they considered themselves grown-up enough to use their mother's lipstick.

I waved to Mom, darted out the door into the street, and ran down the paved little path toward the road. I had already jumped onto it, the road sloping down to the store, when I suddenly stopped at the sight of an enormous white oak growing at the edge of the lawn by the beautiful house across the way. It caught my attention and would not let go.

I had noticed it from my bedroom window, but now I saw it up close and could not walk past.

Its leaves had already begun to open, but the strong, thick whips of its branches, spread wide like arms, were still bare, and the high blue sky showed through them.

Suddenly a bird with crimson-red plumage fluttered from one branch to another: a northern cardinal. I had never seen one before. It chirped cheerfully, "cheer-cheer-tok-tok," flicking its bright little wings. People said a cardinal came to a house as a messenger of happiness, and if you caught one of its shed feathers and tucked it under your pillow, you could safely make a wish.

I had plenty of wishes, more than enough, but not a single feather! I threw my head back and hopped backward to get a better look at the bird, when I heard a loud, warning shout behind me.

Too late. Something rammed painfully into my back; I threw out my hands and fell into the grass. When I turned around, I saw an unfamiliar dark-haired boy nearby. He was sitting in the road beside an overturned bicycle, rubbing his bruised knee with his palm. It looked as if he had gotten the worse of it.

We stared at each other in surprise.

- Are you okay? - the boy asked, and I nodded cautiously:

- Yes.

With a gasp, I sprang lightly to my feet and hurried to help him. The fall had been my fault, and I hoped he was not badly hurt.

- Sorry, I didn't see you! I didn't mean to!

The boy accepted my help and did not look offended at all. Once he was up, he brushed off his knees and looked at me with curiosity.

- Hi! Who are you? Where did you come from?

- What about you? Children often answer a question with a question when they are flustered, and I was no exception. But he answered.

- I'm Alex Wright, and this is my house. - He pointed to the large two-story cottage. - And I haven't seen you around here before. So who are you?

I had never shaken hands with boys before, especially not boys this cute: slim, tousle-haired, with beautiful blue eyes. But this boy clearly had no intention of leaving, so I decided to try. I held out my hand and smiled:

- Hi, my name is Lena Holt, - I introduced myself the way my parents had taught me, and pointed behind me. - And I live in that house!

My house was no worse than his: two stories, white, with beautiful columns at the entrance. How could anyone compare it with our little apartment in Houston, where the kitchen was so tiny that Mom and I could barely fit inside it together? Ridiculous! That was why I pointed so proudly.

The boy named Alex was surprised. His blue eyes opened wide.

- So you're that daughter of Mr. Holt's everyone is talking about?

Of course I was curious to know what "everyone was saying" about me in Sandfield Rock. I waited while the boy picked up his bicycle and asked, "What are they saying?"

- Oh, all kinds of things. - He shrugged vaguely. Handing me the bicycle, he picked up my backpack from the asphalt and helped me put it on my shoulder. - Mostly that your father went to a lot of trouble to find you and your mom and bring you home. That's great!

More than anything, it sounded very sweet, and I nodded:

- It really is!

I had no friends here, and Alex looked friendly, and I immediately wanted to tell him everything. About Houston, and Camilla, and how beautiful everything was here on Three Maples Street. I had never lived like this before!

But I said something completely different.

- You know, if I were mayor, I would call this street White Oak Street! It's obvious to anyone! How could maples possibly compare with it? - I turned around and looked at the tree that had made us both fall.

We were on a huge, gentle hill. Far below to the left lay the ocean shore; to the right, beyond the town, mountains and dense forest could be seen; and tall sycamores and maples grew along the streets--definitely far more than three!

Alex also threw his head back. The red bird had not flown away. It was still fluttering among the branches, chirping beautifully and warming itself in the sun.

- This oak is eighty years old. My great-grandfather planted it before he went off to war, when his wife, who was half Native American, was expecting a baby. They really wanted a son and asked a Native fertility goddess for one. And they planted this tree. You see, my great-grandfather might not have come back, and the oak symbolized the continuation of the family line.

- And you believe that?

Alex shrugged.

- Not really, considering that his son--my grandfather--was a Protestant all his life, and my grandmother worked as an announcer at the local radio station for thirty years and, to be honest, liked to embellish. She told stories wilder than that!

I looked at the boy with new interest.

- But you don't look Native American at all, - I said. In the places where I had been living lately, in the Southern states, I had not often met Native people, but I did not see any of the features I associated with them in Alex's appearance.

- That's because my mom is Dutch and my dad's ancestors came to America from Ireland, - Alex explained readily. - But I'm darker than you.

That was true. Though my hair was not like Mom's--not golden wheat-blond, but dark blond and a little wavy--I had inherited her fair skin. And her eye color, too: green-hazel.

We looked at each other carefully, as if sizing each other up, and then, as if by agreement, turned our heads toward the oak.

- It's awful, isn't it? - Alex said it with admiration, and I giggled:

- Oh, ye-es! It looks like a big scarecrow, but a kind one.