The Imaginary Boyfriend: Wild Men, #7

Dedication:

For my amazing patrons on Patreon for giving me back hope.

This one’s for you!

Part I

The boy and his raven

"There was once a queen who had a little daughter, still too young to run alone. One day the child was very troublesome, and the mother could not quiet it, do what she would. She grew impatient, and seeing the ravens flying round the castle, she opened the window, and said: ’I wish you were a raven and would fly away, then I should have a little peace.’ Scarcely were the words out of her mouth, when the child in her arms was turned into a raven, and flew away from her through the open window."

The Raven, fairytale by the Brothers Grimm

Chapter One

C laire! It’s getting dark. Where are you? Come back home!

That’s Mom calling me, and it’s an unusual thing in itself. A rare occasion, since she’s rarely home, unexpected. A nice surprise.

And it still isn’t enough to make me come out of hiding.

Silent, quiet as a mouse, I hide behind a hedge trimmed in the shape of a wave. It’s the outer wall of a small maze you can’t really get lost in, sadly. I often wish I could get lost among the trees and bushes, find a way into another world, into Wonderland, like Alice did.

Our garden is big. Seems endless, its fences often lost in the mist, trees and bushes lining its boundaries. Somewhere, somehow, I should be able to find a way out, though I have no idea where I’d go if I did.

Back, probably. To our previous home, many hours flight away, across deserts and mountains and lakes and forests. It was a much smaller house, with a tiny garden, a narrow street with old houses and many kids.

I had made some friends there. It’s hard to believe they are so far away now. This garden is huge but empty. I’m the only living creature in it, apart from moths and butterflies and sparrows pecking at the ground.

Claire. Your dinner’s getting cold, Mom warns, her voice a distant bell, marking the passing of time.

She could come out and find me. It’s a kind of hide and seek, right? She could come out and seek me. I’m fed up with playing alone.

I don’t care about dinner. I’m not hungry, and besides, our cleaning maid, Carmen, will heat the food up for me, so the threat isn’t quite so effective.

Carmen stays in a small room in the basement. I don’t understand why she can’t stay upstairs with us. Plenty of empty rooms. The one beside mine would be perfect. Mom and Dad’s room is at the very end of the hallway, and I sometimes feel like I’m alone on earth.

When I’m in bed at night, covers up to my chin, I like to keep the curtains parted so that I can look out the window at the trees and sky. I imagine I’m the last girl on earth, or that I have landed on another planet where humans haven’t arrived yet. They will, though. One day, I won’t be alone anymore.

Being the daughter of a diplomat and a socialite sure is a lonely affair.

Claire! If you don’t come home right now, you will be grounded. I’m not kidding!

Uh-oh. Mom sounds exasperated. Is she upset? She’s not often home, and when she is, she’s too tired and impatient.

Coming! I call back, rolling my eyes. Be right there!

Does she really think Carmen will keep me inside the house if I’m grounded? Maybe she’ll try, but I always find a way out. Escaping is my talent. I hate heights but I’d climb down from my bedroom window if I had to.

Just like I dive deep inside story worlds, in between the dusty pages of old books just as in videogames and movies. Was I born this way, a runaway?

Slowly I stand up and brush dead leaves and dirt from my dress. I glance at the house, a big white cube with columns and French windows, verandas and pergolas. Pretty, I guess.

Still, it doesn’t feel like home. Not yet. And I don’t want to go inside. It’s summer, the sun has only just dipped beyond the horizon, and the air smells of flowers and of the freshly-mowed lawn.

Something catches my eye as I turn to leave the maze, down on the ground, right beside my pristine silver-and-white ballerina-clad feet: a green hill of shredded leaves.

The next moment, a gust of cold wind blasts through the maze and scatters them.

How frigging weird...

I glance around, a prickling feeling on the back of my neck. I’ve found such offerings before, and thought it might be an animal, but I’ve never seen anything around other than birds.

Would a bird do that? Or a hedgehog?

I’d love to see a hedgehog.

Once more I look around, unconvinced. Something tells me someone is watching me—every afternoon as I skip around the garden, or sit in the sun to read. Someone, not a bird, not a hedgehog.

But once again, nobody’s there.

PREDICTABLY, MOM HAS to dash out of the house before I’ve even finished my dinner so that she can attend some charity event or other, one that she has been organizing with her friends. That was her quick explanation after she noticed the time on her phone and got up in a rush to get ready.

It’s a ritual, of sorts. Seeing her for precious few moments as she runs from event to event, flushed and excited and stressed.

Now I watch her go out the door, all dolled-up in her prim black ruffled dress and high black heels, her hair twisted up and a single line of pearls around her pale neck. Classy. Efficient. Beautiful. That’s my mom. Her perfume lingers long after she’s gone, flowery and sweet.

Quiet once more. Just another evening in the Hawthorne house. Silence and empty spaces, a huge house just for me to run around, if I wanted to.

I toy with my fork, drawing lines like those of claws in the bechamel sauce and melted cheese.

Carmen clears my plate away, giving the rest of my lasagna a sad look, and shoots me a quiet smile before heading off to finish her ironing. Even though it’s mainly Mom and myself living in the house, Dad only passing through from time to time when his job allows it, she seems to find herself with piles of clothes to iron.

This house is full of mysteries, and even as I shake my head at myself and tell myself not to be an idiot, I think about the garden, the pile of leaves, the feeling of being watched, and shiver.

Come on, Claire. Stop this.

I sit on the sofa in the living room. Through the French doors I can see the garden outside, dark and full of shadows. Something draws me outside, out of these four walls and the echoes of my thoughts. Curiosity. Boredom. The need to move and experience time outside of the pages of stories.

If I went out, nobody would know. Carmen is busy, my parents absent. I swing my legs restlessly. I’m supposed to sit primly and read or play the piano in the corner of the room. It’s a grand piano, black and lustrous, huge. Sometimes when my parents are away, I sit on top of it and pretend it’s a watchtower and I’m watching out for orcs and dragons.

Not in the mood for that now.

God, I wish I had a friend. All our neighbors live far and don’t have any kids my age. Though we only moved here a couple of months ago and I’m not giving up.

Carmen says I should be grateful. I have everything. She has left her daughter back in Colombia and misses her. I understand that.

She also likes to remind me that there is Annie. Annie is a few years older than me. She’s the daughter of another diplomat, friend of Dad’s. Her parents bring her over sometimes and leave her with me while they discuss whatever it is grown-ups discuss.

I don’t like her. I think it’s mutual.

So anyway, I know my parents are busy working to give me everything I need. I am thankful. I know I’m lucky. I get it. I’m not a stupid little kid.

But happiness isn’t all about serendipitous happenings.

That means accidental. Serendipitous, that is. I try to learn a new word every day, and that is today’s word.

I don’t even speak like an eight-year-old but rather like a grown-up. That’s because I spend a good part of my life surrounded by adults and reading books I borrow from my parents’ upstairs library.

I’m not supposed to. I’ve been grounded quite a few times for sneaking in there.

But like I said: it’s lonely. I’ve read my own books, borrowed Mom’s tablet and read some of her books, too, but they were mostly romance novels, and ew.

So I’d rather stick to the old classics, in their old, leather-bound tomes, their pages heavy with dust and ink, crinkled with time. They must have belonged to my grandparents. I think Dad mentioned that once, in one of those rare occasions when we gathered in the immaculate living room, in front of the lit fireplace, the three of us. When we ate together arepas with avocado that Carmen left for us in the oven, and he and Mom told stories from their childhood and their time in college.

It was a revelation. It never crossed my mind that Mom and Dad had ever been little.

Duh, Claire. It just wasn’t something I’d thought about much, you know? How they might have been once, how like me, how they have changed. How growing up changes you.

The solution to that is simple, I think as I get up from the sofa. I won’t grow up. Simple as that. Grown-ups are so complicated, grumpy, never pleased. Always running after something—work, events, shopping, errands. They don’t play. They don’t dream. They read stupid romance novels, and watch shows and discussions about politics and money.

Dead boring.

I wish I had a pet. Mom won’t allow it. A dog, one of those corgi types, with short legs and upright ears, to play with. We could run around in the garden together, chase after butterflies and roll in the grass.

I think again about the pile of leaves, about the feeling that someone is there. If it is a bird, an animal, I want to see it. How do I do that?

Food. That’s it. Carmen sometimes scatters bread crumbs outside the kitchen and sparrows and pigeons flutter down to feed. I’ll try that.

What have I got to lose?

LYING IN MY BED LATER, staring at the pages of a book and not registering a thing, I sigh. Summer vacation has never seemed this long. For the first time ever, I long to go back to school, even if I don’t know anyone there yet. But the possibilities! How can you make friends when nobody’s around? School has plenty of friend potential, at least.

Putting the book down, I roll on my side and let my mind wander. I find myself wondering what kind of food I should put out to trap that animal in the garden.

No, not to trap. Wrong word. I only want to attract it, so that I can see it. Curiosity is eating at me. I could tiptoe out right now, try my luck. Animals are active at night, aren’t they? Many are, anyway. Aren’t hedgehogs nocturnal?

But I hesitate, staring at the darkness stretching outside the window. Normally, I’m not a scaredy-cat, and I’ve wandered the garden at night before. Secretly, obviously. Tonight, however, I feel strangely unsure.

Throwing the covers off me, I step over to the window, open it and lean out. The marble sill is wide, and below stretches the garden, an oak tree blocking half the view with its foliage, close enough to jump onto if I wasn’t so scared of heights.

Yes, that’s one thing I really am scared of. Heights and spiders.

I shiver a little in my thin nightgown—more because of the whispers of the garden below than actual cold, though the light breeze has a feathery bite. I tuck long hair behind my ear, the strands snagging on my earring—a plain golden hoop my dad said belonged to my grandma once upon a time.

When I glance up again, something moves in the garden below.

A cry catches in my throat. I swallow the sound and lean out further, trying to see. It’s half-hidden by the hedge. I thought it was a big shape, but as I narrow my eyes, it grows wings and flies away.

A magpie? A crow? A raven?

Are those beady eyes the ones that have been watching me all this time?

I grin to myself, even if my heart is racing. A serendipitous sighting. The bird seems to like my spot behind the hedge. So that’s where I’ll lay my trap.

Okay, it is a trap.

It won’t hurt anyone. It won’t really trap the raven. Just bring it close enough for me to maybe touch it. Never touched a raven before.

For the first time since summer began, I’m excited. They say ravens are intelligent. Maybe he can be my friend, since humans won’t.

Chapter Two

I ’m going out! I run into the kitchen, only stopping to think what to grab and what I’m doing. It’s early morning and I have no idea if ravens are awake at this time. Carmen!

That makes me wonder what ravens do when not flying around. Do they play? Do they sleep? Where do they go? What do their nests look like?

Making a mental note to look that up on Mom’s tablet when I get back inside, I raid the cupboards and the fridge. I’m pretty sure ravens eat meat. I find a package of cooked ham and some cheese. Then I remember water, so I also scrounge around for a container I could use.

Carmen peeks inside the kitchen, shakes her dark head at me, and goes back to mopping the floor. An endless chore that will keep her busy for most of the day.

Thusly armed with my prizes—the ham, cheese and a plastic cup filled with water—I rush out of the house and climb down the veranda steps to the garden. The sun has barely risen, pale rays falling on the swing hanging under the oak tree, the fountain with the cupid in the center of the lawn, the dark meander of the maze.

I slow down as I enter the maze, its paths still in shadow, out of breath even though I didn’t run all that fast. I glance behind me, at the brilliant lawn and the tall white house, draw a long breath and lift my chin.

Nothing to it, Claire. It’s just a bird. You’re the hunter, setting a trap.

Why are you trembling?

The spot where I’d hidden yesterday is right in front of me, the small hill of leaves scattered and withered. I crouch down, study the browned leaves. Setting down the food and water, I open the packages and arrange them on the packed earth.

It’s cold, so early in the morning, and I huddle in the light hoodie I threw over my T-shirt and skirt. Now I wish I’d brought a blanket or something. It’s a... a stakeout, right? I’ll have to wait and see if the raven returns.

I run back to the house to grab everything I need for this new game.

THE RAVEN DOESN’T COME.

The end.

No, really. It’s the end of my stakeout, at least. I’m lying on my blanket, reading, unable to focus on the words dancing in front of my eyes because I keep thinking I’ll miss the bird if it arrives.

It’s not a hummingbird, Claire. It’s pretty big. Miss it, you say? How?

My mind isn’t listening to me.

Eventually, as the sun rises up in the sky, playing hide and seek with small white clouds, I give up, gather my blanket and book and move to the chairs of the veranda. I’m getting hungry, too, so I pop into the kitchen and steal some pop tarts that I can munch on while reading.

Not supposed to eat pop tarts for breakfast.

I shrug to myself and push another one into my mouth, disappointed with the failure of my trap and back to being bored and annoyed with the world.

Mom always says I should be practicing my piano. Or my French, so that I can entertain her and Dad’s guests. Being a diplomat, he gets many guests from other countries, and he and Mom like to show me off. Make me say things in different languages. Play the piano. Serve the tea.

And it’s okay. I don’t really mind. I’m proud I know so much.

But right now, the piano and French are the last things I want to do. I could go explore—for the hundredth time—the attic and the covered furniture in storage there. Or I could go out and lie down on the lawn, close my eyes, fill my vision with crimson from the sunlight, and imagine I’m on a boat on a calm sea, floating toward a white beach.

I sometimes imagine a friend waiting for me on the sand, a girl or a boy, waving as my boat hits the shallow bottom and I rock to a stop. Welcome back, they’d say and grab my hand to help me out. Let’s go play with the raccoons and the monkeys.

And it would be awesome. It would be fun.

I’m already standing up and heading out when a familiar, annoying voice stops me short. A girl’s voice.

No way...

Claire? Are you in there? Mom isn’t back yet, but Annie’s mom is at the door. Look who wants to play with you.

God.

I debate running out and hiding in the maze, but Mom will hear about it later, for sure, and she won’t be pleased if I let her friend down.

In here! I call out and head into the living room to meet them. Hi Annie.

She smiles, and a shiver runs through me. I should be happy to play with another girl my age. But something bothers me about Annie.

Her mom is already stepping out of the house. I will leave you girls to play. Carmen will be here, if you need anything. I have some errands to run. She smooths her hands over the bodice of her black polka dress, over the flared skirt. Be good.

Annie doesn’t even look at her mom. The door clicks shut.

Okay. Want to go out and play in the garden? I have to ask, even if the garden is my magical kingdom and I don’t like to share it with stuck-up girls like her.

But it’s just so sunny out there, and I hate the thought of staying cooped up inside on such a nice day.

Annie stares at me, a cold fire in her blue eyes, as if reading my face. Well, I don’t want to go out, she says. I’d catch a cold.

I blink. It’s warm. It’s summer.

You can catch a nasty cold from sweating and running around like a boy, she says with a little sniff. She looks me up and down. You look like a boy.

No, I don’t! Indignation fills me. Anger heats my face.

She arches her brows. So you say. Anyway, girls aren’t supposed to run about like savages.

Says who?

Says my mom.

Then she doesn’t know anything, I mutter.

Annie’s hands clench into fists and her gaze hardens. My mom knows everything. Unlike yours.

We’re standing nose to nose, scowling at each other. The need to pull on her stupid pigtails is eating at me. What do you mean? My mom knows things.

Like what your dad is doing with mine? she hisses. Let me tell you, your mom has no clue, does she?

I don’t understand what she means. I want to call her stupid and roll with her on the floor, scratch at her skin, scream my frustration.

But that’s not what good girls do.

Frowning, I turn away. Fine, whatever. Let’s go up to my room, then.

I hope you have something good to play with, she says, sounding bored, as we climb the stairs to the first floor.

What’s her problem? Seriously. We can play with my dollhouse. Or we can play ‘Super Smash Bros: Ultimate’ on the computer!

I’m excited about this. Even if I don’t like Annie much, I never get a chance to play against someone, unless Dad is at home, and that never happens.

You really are weird, Annie says, entering my room after me, looking for all the world like a princess exiled to the jungle to live with Tarzan and the apes. Dolls it is.

Jeez Louise. Resisting the mounting urge to roll my eyes, I lead her to my dollhouse. Here you are.

She stops and grimaces. "That’s it? Don’t you have any new ones?"

This girl is really hard to please. They are new.

The dolls I have at home are prettier, she says and kneels down in front of the three-story dollhouse. I have a Pink Splendor Barbie. It cost four hundred dollars, you know.

I throw my hands up. Why would your parents spend so much on a stupid toy?

Why not? And it’s not stupid. She has 24-Karat Gold-plated thread in her bodice, a Swarovski crystal necklace, and 14-karat gold-leaf shoes. It’s an investment.

"What do you mean, an investment?"

She sounds like a grown-up in ways I can’t, and wouldn’t want to. Investment. I’ll have to look that word up tomorrow.

She doesn’t reply, grabbing one of my barbies and starting to change her clothes. She rips the dress my doll was wearing and chucks it away, then pulls the doll’s head off.

What are you doing? I shout and try to pry my barbie from her. You destroyed her.

She’s ugly, Annie says, letting the doll go and grabbing another. Your dolls are all ugly and stupid.

She is mean. She has no kindness, no gentleness. That is why I don’t like her. She’s no friend of mine.

I somehow think that the raven I saw in the garden would make a much better person than her.

SPEAKING OF THE RAVEN, I see it again in the later afternoon, sometime after Annie’s mom comes to collect her.

What a relief it was to see her go.

Weirdo.

Though my mom has yet to come back, and Carmen is somewhere upstairs sweeping, and I’m not sure other kids my age spend so much time home alone.

Doesn’t matter, though. I’m fine. Better off without Annie. No sooner has her white dress disappeared behind the closed door of the house, I run out into the garden. Carmen calls after me from deep inside the house, asking if I want some milk and cookies, but I need to get out.

The sun has dipped behind the next house down the road, with its tall trees and red-tiled roof, but the light is still enough to see. The grass looks like a pale carpet, the trees like black scratches against the darkening sky, the maze a mass of shadows.

It’s cool out here, and I take off my shoes, though Mom forbade it. Probably because she forbade it, and because Annie’s snide comments about what girls should and shouldn’t do, and about me, are still ringing in my ears.

The grass is wet and cold, and then I’m slipping into the maze, and stop, back up a few steps, my mouth going dry.

Here it is. The raven, perched on top of the hedge.

It flaps its black wings and settles back on the ground. It’s been eating the ham and cheese I put out, I realize. The package is empty. The plastic cup dry.

The raven tilts its black bullet head and stares at me from one beady brown eye, as if expecting something. It hops once, then it’s still, just looking.

A hush has fallen over the world. It’s just me and the raven, and My curiosity slowly overcomes my fear. The bird doesn’t look like it’s going to attack me. Maybe it’s hoping for more food?

Good bird, I whisper, and taking a chance, crouch down. Whatcha doing here? I’ve never seen another of your kind around these parts.

The bird clicks its beak, turns its head and regards me with the other eye.

Are you a raven or a crow? I read that you are different. If you caw, you’re not a raven. Can you caw?

The bird croaks. Sounds more like a frog.

Hm... Guess you are a raven, after all, I muse. So you’re the one who’s been watching me all this time, huh?

All is explained.

But in fact, nothing’s explained at all, because looking more closely, I see that the raven is wearing a silver collar. Like a cat’s collar. I narrow my eyes at it, lean forward to see better. Yes, it is a collar. How can that be?

Does the bird belong to someone?

If so, where is that someone? Who is it? And what does he or she want with me?

Chapter Three

Mom pokes her head inside my bedroom door as I’m drawing the pile of leaves I saw inside the maze in my diary. It looks like a smudge. Claire, I thought you might be in there. What are you doing?

Nothing. I whip the drawing pad behind my back, not sure why I feel the need to hide it, unable to explain the vague sense of guilt. What do you want?

A shadow crosses her face, her gaze. To see you. I was away all day. Didn’t you miss me?

Oh. Yes, I did. My voice is small because I always do miss her, and maybe I wasn’t so nice to her right now. I let the drawing pad fall. Want to play with me?

Well. She smiles and steps inside, her smile bright, her dark hair curled, her white summer dress so cute I want one the same. Actually, I had an idea. Shall we invite Annie over to play?

Oh boy. No, Mom. Let’s not, please.

Her eyes go wide. She looks funny like that. What’s wrong? I thought you liked Annie.

Um, no.

She is the only girl of your age around here.

She’s older.

Just by two years.

"And mean."

She makes this funny face, like she’s not sure if she wants to smile or grimace. Oh, honey. You need to learn to share your toys with other kids, learn to interact and accept other children’s ideas.

I turn away so I can roll my eyes in private. I don’t have to like every kid my age. Do you like all adults your age?

She laughs, a slightly strained sound she makes sometimes when I say something strange. It’s not the same thing, honey. You’re a kid. Kids are different.

Are they? No idea. But maybe other kids aren’t like me. Maybe I’m too weird. What if it’s not Annie’s fault I don’t like her? What if it’s mine?

See, I’ve always been a bit of a loner at school, too. The two times we moved home, that I changed school, every time I thought that things would be different—but what if it’s not the school’s fault but mine?

You’re thinking too hard again, I can tell. Mom winks at me and smiles widely. Tell you what: how about we have breakfast on the veranda and you explain why you don’t like little Miss Annie?

You think too hard.

She says it fondly, and says it often, whenever I seem to adult too much. She wants me to act more like a child, to talk about cartoons and