Chapter One: Moonlight and Midsummer
Sarah rolled over in her bed and stared with exasperation at her alarm clock. The luminescent dials remained obstinately stuck at 2:15. She sighed, rolled onto her back and switched her stare to the ceiling. She had recently returned home after her first year at Boston University where she had been up till all hours every night either working on homework or talking with friends. Now she was having trouble adjusting her sleeping patterns. Even though it was only early June the summer was proving to be a hot one and she didn't want to waste the cool hours of the early morning by sleeping in. Besides, her family usually ate breakfast early and she wanted to be up in time to help her harassed stepmother with feeding the twins. With these laudable goals she had marched up to bed at ten o'clock and determinedly switched off the light. And here she still lay, watching the rotating blades of the sluggishly turning fan. Her room was just under the eaves of the old farmhouse and although she had opened her tiny window as far as she could it was still almost unbearably stuffy. By the time it was cool enough to sleep it would probably be morning, Sarah reflected ruefully.
Glancing back at the clock she saw that it was now 2:17. How was it possible for time to move so slowly? She closed her eyes and reached a sudden decision – this wasn't working and it was time to try something else. She sat up, briskly swinging her bare feet down onto the floor. Walking across the darkened room she kept her arms stretched out in front of her. At her old house in New York she had known every inch of her room, but during the school year her family had moved to this New England farmhouse and this was her first night here. She managed to find her way across the room without stubbing her toes, and she switched on the lamp on her desk. Fumbling in the drawer she found her old pink plastic flashlight and turned it on. It cast a doubtful glow. The batteries were obviously less than robust, but Sarah optimistically decided that it would be good enough. She switched the lamp off again and then tip-toed to her bed and bundled up the afghan that was draped over the footboard. Next she stopped at the bookshelf that had been wedged into the corner of the room under the sloping ceiling and, after some reflection, selected A Midsummer Night's Dream from among the well-worn titles.
Creeping downstairs Sarah tried to make as little noise as possible. The old staircase seemed to creak loudly in the silent house no matter how carefully she placed her feet. Finally she reached the bottom. It took her a few minutes to loosen the bolt on the front door. Her parents might live surrounded by Massachusetts farm country now, but they were still in the habit of locking up every night. Eventually the bolt slid back and Sarah opened the door and slipped out.
A cool breeze greeted her. Looking up she could see swathes of stars glittering far brighter than the stars of the city. She swept her long, dark hair back over her shoulder and trotted around the corner of the house. She already had a destination in mind. On the far side of the big field behind the house there was a huge old barn. It was empty and weather-beaten, but it was still solid enough to be safe. When she had arrived that afternoon with a car-full of boxes to unpack, Toby had given her no rest until she had accompanied him out to the field to see his "secret fort." Toby had turned five recently and was at just the age where having a place of his own to play, away from his baby siblings, was appealing. Sarah could appreciate this sentiment: she had had similar feelings about Toby when he was the twins' age. His mother, Karen, allowed him to play in the barn with the stipulation that he stay out of the loft, a rule which he grudgingly obeyed.
Sarah was under no such restriction. When she reached the barn she went in – draping the blanket over one shoulder and clamping the book under her chin – and lightly mounted the ladder. She was just reaching for the sixth rung when she felt a slight tug on the blanket. It was hooked on something. Gingerly, she reached down and tried to work it free. It was caught on a rusty old nail that was sticking out of one of the ladder's uprights, and it wasn't coming loose. Sarah grunted in frustration. Finally, she gave up trying to disentangle the yarn from the nail head and just tugged at the nail itself. It was loose, and on the third try she got it out, nearly dropping her book in the process. She extricated the nail head from the fringe of the afghan and, after a moment's thought, slipped it into the pocket of her pajamas. It was better not to litter the barn floor with rusty sharps – Toby was very fond of running around in bare feet, to Karen's everlasting dismay.
The loft was much cooler than her bedroom. In one place in the sloping roof there was a ragged window-sized hole where a large branch had fallen through a few years before. The hole was just about waist height. Breezes and moonlight came through the opening. Sarah could see the stars of the milky-way stretched out against the night sky with a waxing moon in the foreground. She settled down on the floor of the loft, sitting on the blanket and leaning against a convenient hay bale. By the wan light of her flashlight she began to read. Midsummer was an old friend of hers. She had once played Peaseblossom in a middle school production. In high school she had performed it again, this time in the coveted role of Titania. She smiled, remembering. A lot of girls had auditioned that day, partially because Titania got to wear a long, strapless, peacock-blue gown with a train, and mostly because Oberon was played by the most sighed-after boy in school. Mrs. Andrews had said that she gave Sarah the part because she was the only girl who sounded the least bit sincere about foreswearing his bed and company. Sarah started reading the play at a comfortable pace, picturing her classmates' renditions of Hermia, Lysander, Helena, Demetrius, Peter Quince, and Bottom the Weaver. She grinned, reading the lines of the mischievous Puck, and remembering the exuberant damsel who had played that role. She had dyed her hair pink because (she said) she pictured Puck having pink hair. Her explanation did not impress the principal who had compelled her to follow dress code and dye it back again.
Sarah was growing drowsier. She was reading more slowly, stretched out on the floor with her head propped against her arm. She had just come to her first scene. Oberon and Titania had discovered each other in the wood "Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania . . . ." The book slipped from her hand as she finally dozed off.
Toby wasn't the only one who used the barn as a refuge. There were a couple of kids from the neighborhood who also looked on it as their own property, although they came at different times and for a very different reason. Max Duggins was the one who had first come up with the idea for a secret club (shortly after seeing the Dead Poet's Society). Sam Potter, who secretly wished that he had been the one who thought of it, had asked with a touch of scorn what the point of this "secret club" was to be. Max had immediately suggested the most scandalous and (he hoped) coolest thing he could think of: smoking. The other kids were duly impressed and (even more satisfying) Sam was left at a loss, and so the plan had proceeded. The first meeting of the Smoker's Anonymous Club (the name was suggested by Annie Thatch, who imperfectly understood the purpose of "Anonymous" associations) had been about a week and a half ago. Aaron Michaels had swiped a pack of cigarettes from his mom's purse and they had all dutifully smoked them in relative silence in the barn, trying not to let each other see how sick they felt. Max had doggedly proposed another meeting, and no one else had wanted to be the one to veto the plan, so at 3:00 am that night they all arrived and congregated in the barn, speaking in whispers. This time Sam was the one to provide the cigarettes, and everyone reluctantly took one and lit it. The smoking proceeded in glum silence until Ramona Phelps, who had been turning progressively greener by the minute, suddenly dropped her cigarette and clapped a hand over her mouth, rushing headlong out of the barn. With every evidence of relief, the others thankfully stubbed out their own cigarettes and followed Ramona. No third meeting was proposed, and the Smoker's Anonymous Club died a peaceful death. All except for Ramona's cigarette butt, glowing in a bed of straw. That was very much alive.
