Ten Years Later

  The first thing people notice about Charlotte is her scar.

  Not her bright green eyes or her wavy red hair, but the scar. Dark brown, almost black, spreading across her left cheek in the shape of a rose. Some people stare. Some look away quickly. Little kids point until their parents shush them.

  Charlotte has learned to tilt her head so her hair falls over it. She's learned to look down when she walks through the halls at Riverside Elementary. She's learned that the scar makes her different, and different means alone.

  She's just days away from turning ten years old now—and she's been alone for as long as she can remember.

  It's the last day before winter break. Charlotte sits under the big oak tree at the edge of the playground, her notebook open on her lap. She's drawing a castle with a girl standing on top, looking down at tiny people below. The girl has red hair and a scar on her face, but in the drawing, she looks powerful. Untouchable.

  Not like Charlotte feels at all.

  "What're you doing, Charlotte the Harlot?"

  Charlotte's pencil stops. Her stomach drops. She doesn't look up.

  Clarice Morrison, three years older, stands over her, blocking the sun. Two other girls flank her sides—Becca and Morgan, who never talk but always laugh at Clarice's jokes. Clarice is the tallest girl in fifth grade, with perfect blonde braids and a mean streak that runs deep.

  "I'm drawing." Charlotte keeps her voice steady. Her mama told her that if she stayed calm and didn't fight back, bullies got bored and left.

  So far, Mama has been wrong about that.

  "Drawing? Let me see." Clarice snatches the notebook before Charlotte can close it.

  "Hey!" Charlotte scrambles to her feet, reaching for it. "Give it back!"

  Clarice holds it high above her head. "Look at this! She drew herself as a princess! Charlotte, you can't be a princess. Princesses are pretty."

  Becca and Morgan giggle on cue.

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  Something hot and sharp fills Charlotte's chest. Her palms prickle—that feeling she gets sometimes, like electricity running under her skin. "That's mean. You're being really mean!"

  "Aww, is Charlotte gonna cry?" Clarice's voice drips with fake sweetness. She lowers the notebook, examining the drawing. "And what's this? A scar on the princess? That's so—"

  "Stop it!" Charlotte's voice comes out louder than she meant. The prickling sensation shoots down her arms. "Just STOP!"

  Clarice opens her mouth to say something else—probably something about Charlotte's face, because she always does.

  But before she can speak, the air changes.

  It grows thick, heavy. Charlotte's ears pop. The playground sounds fade—the shouts of kids playing kickball, the squeak of swings, all of it muffled and distant.

  Then the oak tree moves.

  Not sways. Moves.

  A thick branch stretches downward, slow and deliberate, like an arm reaching. The bark creaks and groans, splitting with sounds like bones breaking. Leaves rustle even though there's no breeze.

  Clarice's eyes go wide. "What—"

  Another branch curls inward. Then another. The tree's trunk seems to shift, and in the pattern of the bark, Charlotte sees it—a face. Dark knots become eyes. A split in the wood becomes a mouth, opening wide.

  The face looks down at them.

  Then it looks at Charlotte.

  And winks.

  Charlotte's breath catches. Her notebook falls from Clarice's frozen hands, pages fluttering.

  "Run," Becca whispers.

  The tree's branches sweep through the air like arms sweeping toys off a table. They don't hit anyone, but they come close—close enough that all three girls shriek. Clarice stumbles backward, trips over her own feet, and falls hard. Her head hits a rock with a horrible thunk.

  She doesn't get up.

  "CLARICE!" Morgan screams.

  Becca is already running toward the school.

  Charlotte stands frozen, staring at Clarice's still body, then up at the tree. The face is gone. The branches hang normally, swaying gently in a breeze that Charlotte doesn't feel.

  Did I do that?

  Kids are screaming now, pointing, running. Teachers burst out of the school doors, faces pale with panic.

  Mr. Yamamoto, the gym teacher, runs toward Charlotte. "Charlotte! Charlotte, are you hurt? What happened?"

  He kneels beside her, hands on her shoulders, checking her for injuries. Charlotte can't speak. Her throat feels tight. She shakes her head.

  "The tree—the tree tried to kill Clarice!" Morgan is sobbing, pointing at the oak. "It came alive! It moved!"

  Mr. Yamamoto looks at the tree, then at Charlotte, then back at the tree. His face does something complicated—confusion, disbelief, fear. "That's... trees don't move, Morgan. You're upset. You saw Clarice fall and—"

  "No! It MOVED! Ask Charlotte! She was right there!"

  All the teachers look at Charlotte then. Mrs. Henderson is cradling Clarice's head, talking urgently into a walkie-talkie. Principal Davies is running across the playground, her heels clicking on the pavement.

  "Charlotte?" Mr. Yamamoto's voice is gentle. "What happened?"

  Charlotte looks at Clarice, who still isn't moving. She looks at the tree, standing innocent and still. She looks at all the kids who have stopped playing and are staring at her with wide, frightened eyes.

  "I don't know," she whispers. "Clarice took my notebook, and I got mad, and then..."

  Then the tree came alive. Then it protected me. Then everything went wrong.

  "Then she fell."

  She's not sure anyone believes her.