The Key to Extraordinary Page 3

  Other days, I saddled my horse, Moonbeam, and rode farther still. No one ever even tried to stop me.

  After all, who would imagine a young girl with no papers to be a threat?

  I am not the first to have the Destiny Dream, but I am the first to write it down. I hope I am not the last. We might be hundreds of years apart. But the thread of destiny connects us all.

  This is my admonition to you: History is a story that must be told. And it is up to us to turn the pages.

  I shook my head and looked up at Granny Blue. “I don’t understand.”

  Mama tapped the page. “Since before the Revolutionary War, every woman in our family has dreamed of a field of blue flowers. We’ve kept a record of it since Ingrid Noble. And in that field, they always see … a clue. A clue to their extraordinary destiny.”

  “Did you dream of blue flowers?”

  She nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “What did you see?”

  “An electric guitar.” Mama grinned. “When I dreamed of the guitar, I knew I was born to make music that’d shake the world.”

  “And you?” I looked at Granny Blue. “You had the dream, too?”

  Blue sighed. “Your mother and I feel differently about the Book of Days. I think it’s poppycock.”

  Mama laughed. “Your granny Blue did have the dream, Emma. But she got frustrated and ripped her page out. She won’t tell a soul what it said.”

  Blue waved the notion away. “It didn’t work for me. That’s all. It seems to work fine for most everybody else.”

  “And Ingrid”—I glanced down at the pages again—“saw a general?”

  Mama’s eyes flashed excitedly. “Not just any general. She saw General George Washington himself.” Mama leaned closer to whisper, “She became one of his spies.”

  Goose bumps rippled up my arms as Mama reached over and turned the page. On the back of Ingrid’s note was a newspaper clipping.

  “And there’s more,” Mama said. “Many, many more …”

  I saw more names, newspaper clippings, letters, and odd trinkets. “We call the women in our family the Wildflowers. Because no matter how difficult the circumstance, and no matter where the wind carried them, they bloomed, bold and bright.”

  “And I’ll be one of them someday?” I asked. I looked to Mama. And then to Blue. “I’ll be a Wildflower and do something extraordinary?”

  “You better believe it,” Mama said softly. Proudly. “The women in our family, they have a certain … charisma …”

  My heart fell flat. I did not have charisma.

  “A certain … grace.”

  I sighed. I was not graceful, as evidenced by the mustard splotch on my T-shirt. Ever since lunch, I’d smelled like a corn dog.

  “The Wildflowers accomplish great things,” Mama said. “I’m part of it. And so are you.”

  I swallowed down the lump of fear in my throat. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Jasmine.” Blue’s voice was sharp. “Don’t get carried away.”

  But Mama ignored Blue. “I’m telling you now”—her lip trembled—“because I believe you’ll have the Destiny Dream early, Emma. I think it’s going to happen for you soon. Often in our darkest days, in our hardest times … that’s when we find our destiny. You’ll have your dream, too. You’ll be the youngest Wildflower yet.”

  “Jasmine,” Blue breathed.

  Mama held up a weak hand. She looked into my eyes. “I know it’s been a tough year for you. And it might be a tougher year for you still. But no matter what happens, you have the dream to look forward to. And then we’re connected forever, you and me.”

  Mama tilted my chin up until I was looking into her eyes, eyes the same color as mine. “You are special to me. You always have been. Never doubt your starry aim, Emma Pearl Casey.” She pressed a quick kiss on the top of my head and hugged me close, like she did when I was a little kid. I held her tightly and wished my love was enough to keep her there—right there with me—forever and always.

  She whispered against my hair, “If we’re ever apart for a little while, you and me, I want you to know we’re connected that way. We have the cafe, and all of our special places. We have our songs. And we have our destiny. You and me—we’re Wildflowers.”

  I took one last look at my mama before I walked inside. Her hair blew gently in the breeze. Her thin face looked golden in the fading light. I knew I would always remember my mama exactly that way, not sick. But shining, brave, and bright. Shining even on her dark days. Shining until the end.

  More thunder shook me loose from the memory of my mama and the day she gave me the Book of Days. My Destiny Dream was coming soon; my mama said it would.

  I wouldn’t let her down.

  I double-checked the lock on the gate. And I stilled as I heard someone call my name.

  “Emmmmmma …”

  Clearly, my brain was just frazzled by the morning’s shenanigans: storms and ghost stories and thoughts about destiny. So I commenced with my walking.

  But I heard my name again.

  “Emma.” Now it was a long, low whisper. “Emma Casey … I have something to say to you …”

  Suddenly, a wild mass of curly hair came flying at me from the general direction of the azalea bush. My best friend, Cody Belle Chitwood, giggled as she threw her arms around my shoulders and squeezed me tight.

  “Did I really scare you?” She grinned. “I’ve never scared you before!”

  “My nerves are a mess today,” I sighed. I locked my arm through hers as we scampered toward the cafe. “I’m happy you’re here, CB. I have stuff to discuss.”

  “Ditto.” Cody Belle nodded. “You go first.”

  “I was restless last night, in a weird way …”

  “You had the dream!” Cody Belle yanked me to a stop. Then she hugged me tight, swirling me up off the ground.

  “Not yet,” I said when she finally let me go again. “But it’s going to happen soon. I know it. I’ll tell you about it inside.”

  Cody Belle zoomed ahead of me and opened the door. My BFF is a born runner. The girl can move lickety-split fast. I’d never be able to keep up with her if she didn’t slow down for me, but she always does. This past year, Cody Belle went to a different school, due to a stupid zoning law. This is one of the big reasons the past year had been especially rotten. We’re still best friends even though we aren’t together 24/7.

  The cafe was steadily filling up with folks. Mugs clinked against the tables. Happy chatter filled the air. Newspapers were fanned open, all bearing the latest news, which never seemed to be good these days. I picked up an abandoned paper on the table and read the headline:

  SO LONG, WAILING WOODS?

  STEELE ASSOCIATES BUYS TRACTS OF LAND

  ACROSS THE CUMBERLAND GAP

  “Warren Steele,” I muttered. “Cody, go grab our usual spot. I need to talk to Blue.”

  “I’ll have Boneyard Brew waiting for you.” Cody Belle patted my shoulder.

  It occurred to me that there are at least three indisputable facts about best friends:

  1. They wait for you, and

  2. They slow down enough to walk beside you, and

  3. They always know when you need hot chocolate.

  I scrambled down the hallway to Blue’s office. Framed portraits of her favorite singers line the walls.

  She calls them her pep squad:

  Loretta,

  Emmylou,

  Reba,

  Dolly,

  and Ramblin’ Rose.

  My favorite picture is the framed photo on the end. The woman in that photo is wearing a grin so toothy-big you can’t even see her eyes. Daisies are woven into the braids of her hair. That’s my mama, Jasmine Casey.

  A stray beam of golden light broke through the rain clouds outside and reached through Blue’s office windows, lighting that photograph just so. It seemed fitting that my mom should be on a wall of stars, that the sun would be her spotlight. Those portraits were a comfort
ing presence to Granny Blue. They made her feel like a tough old broad, she said. That’s not exactly what she said, but I hesitate to repeat her verbatim.

  Granny Blue was looking out the window, with her back turned to me. But I could tell by her stance she was in tough-broad mode. Her motorcycle boots were planted wide. Her shiny silver hair was bound in a thick braid down her back. The only thing that looked granny-like about her was her apron. But she hadn’t been out of her office, so it wasn’t scuffed full of flour dust just yet.

  When some people hear the word granny, they think of a little old lady with sparkly eyes and a twinkly laugh. My granny Blue is not that way. For one thing, she’s not little at all; she’s taller than most men I’ve seen. Years ago, long before I came into the world, Blue was a boxer. If Granny was a musical instrument, she’d be an electric guitar. If she was a flower, she’d be one of the wild yellow roses that grow thick in the Wailing Woods. So pretty you can’t look away. So prickly that it’s hard to get too close sometimes.

  And while most people in the Hollow wear flowers in their hair, or pinned to their shirts, or stuck in their baseball hats (or tucked in their beards), Blue’s different. She has flowers tattooed on both arms all the way from her shoulders to her wrists.

  So she doesn’t really look like other grannies in Blackbird Hollow.

  But she loves harder and truer than any person I’ve ever known. Which makes her the best granny I could possibly hope for.

  Uncle Periwinkle sat on the edge of Blue’s desk, talking to her in a low voice. Thankfully, Blue doesn’t do anything quiet, especially talking. Makes it much easier to eavesdrop.

  “You want to know what I think of Warren Steele?” Blue’s voice rumbled. “In all honesty? I think he’s a good-for-nothing dirtbag.”

  Blue kept her eyes on the graveyard and the silver sky behind it. “But I don’t have any other choice.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Peri asked.

  “Look at this place, Peri.” Blue shook her head. “It’s all run-down. It ain’t worth much to most people. I think I got a fight left in me where it matters—for Topher and Emma. For you and Club Pancake.”

  Club Pancake is Blue’s name for her close friends: Peri; Greta; Greta’s dearly departed brother, Jacob; and my grandfather. Blue says true friends turn a bad day into something wonderful faster than a pancake flip. Cody Belle is like that for me; she’s a pancake flip of goodness even on a crummy day.

  Blue sighed. “But for this place? Sometimes I don’t know if the Boneyard’s worth my fight. It’s just a place. It ain’t worth much to most people. Warren will give me more for it than most people could.”

  “But there’s more than land tied up in this place,” Peri said. “You have memories here. The kids have spent their whole lives here. So did Jasmine.”

  Blue shook her head. “But what are the kids going to do when I’m gone? You think they’ll be able to keep up this dump?”

  “So you’re just going to sell, then?” Peri asked as he stood up. “Is that it? You’re just closing shop and giving up on Blackbird Hollow like everybody else.”

  “Not by choice.” Blue pointed her finger at his face. Then her arm fell to her side and her voice softened. “But I’ll give in … maybe. If I have to. Money’s not coming in like it used to.”

  Blue crossed her arms over her chest. The trees slashed back and forth in the wind, like they were trying to get her attention.

  “He’ll probably tear this place down,” Blue said, her breath fogging against the glass. “Turn it into a putt-putt course or subdivision. If I sell it …”

  “Blue!” I cried, jumping out from my hiding place. “What are you talking about? You can’t sell the cafe.”

  Blue sighed. “How long have you been listening, Emma Pearl?”

  “Do you even hear yourself?” I asked, coming to stand in front of her. She towered over me, but I didn’t mind. I’d always felt safe in Granny Blue’s shadow. “You want to sell our cafe? To idiot Warren Steele?”

  “Emma, you’ve never met Warren.” Blue shrugged. “You don’t know that he’s an idiot.”

  “You just called him a dirtbag.”

  “Ha! So you were eavesdropping.”

  I waved my hand. “That’s beside the point.”

  Blue’s eyes spoke volumes to me. I can’t read people as easy as Topher can, but I knew the look in Blue’s eyes:

  I’m sorry.

  I’m tired.

  I don’t know what else to do.

  “Maybe.” I hopped up and sat on Blue’s desk and sat pretzel-style. Beside me was a thick contract, which, thankfully, Blue hadn’t signed just yet. “If Warren could just see this place … he’d know it was something special. Maybe he would invest in it!”

  Blue gave me a certain look that translated: Not a chance. “As far as I can tell, Warren Steele is motivated by one thing: money. And that’s it. He’s as rich as they come now, thanks to his knack for buying and selling little bits and pieces of the mountains. As if the mountains belong to anybody. As if anybody has the right to sell off trees and dirt roads and tall pine trees. Either I sell it to him, or enough money had better fall from the sky for us to keep it. We don’t have that kind of money, Emma. If he’s willing to pay for this run-down dump, maybe I should let him have it.”

  Granny Blue might as well have been talking another language. I didn’t see any sort of run-down dump when I thought of the cafe. I saw shade trees tossing shadows across our little back porch. I saw long walks in the woods and mornings among the graves. I saw wildflowers blooming even in the ditch by the road.

  And I thought about how just the promise of this place feels to me. Like when school was the pits and I finally got to climb on the bus. I felt the bump on Station Camp Road and knew I was nearly home, to the Boneyard Cafe.

  I was home. And this was the rhythm of my home:

  The swish-swish of the tall evergreens.

  The squeak of the oven door when the sugar cookies get pulled out.

  The screen door slapping shut.

  Blue singing Patsy Cline songs while she mixes blackberry muffins.

  Home, where I always heard music, sometimes the banjos and guitars and twangy lyrics on the jukebox, sometimes people stomping out real tunes on the front porch. And always, every day, just voices of people I loved: Topher and Cody Belle and Club Pancake. And my mama, once upon a time. That’s the best part of all: I have memories of my mama in every room. I need those memories.

  Periwinkle cleared his throat and patted my shoulder. “I think I’ll leave you two alone for a bit,” he said, and made his way toward the door. “Let’s talk about this before you do anything, Blue.”

  I hopped off Blue’s desk and paced across the floor, the same way she does when she’s trying to solve a problem.

  “Emma—”

  “You can’t sell this place,” I told Blue, and hoped my voice sounded determined. Fiery. Like I meant what I said. “Not yet. Not to Warren Steele. Sell it to Topher someday, when he’s a millionaire fiddle player. He’ll take care of it.”

  The sadness was heavy in Blue’s voice when she answered, “Don’t know if we can hold out that long.”

  “Do you remember what Mama said about fear?” I asked. “She said fear is just a flashlight that helps you find your courage.”

  Blue rested her hand on my shoulder. “Well, she knew a thing or two about courage. That’s for sure. She was a brave lady.”

  “We are all brave ladies,” I said. “We’re Wildflowers.”

  I left Blue and met Cody Belle back in the cafe. I told her about Warren, and we talked about different ways to stop him. But nothing really made sense, and by that evening, all I wanted was to be alone with the Book of Days.

  I went up to my room and opened to a random page.

  The Journalist

  In my twenty-fifth year, I had the Destiny Dream of my ancestors. There was a part of me that didn’t think the dream would happen for me at all. My fa
mily adopted me when I was a baby, so deep down I’ve often wondered if the blue flower dream would find me. Turns out, it most definitely did. As my mom always said, a family is a family no matter how it’s stitched together.

  When I saw a notebook and camera in the field of blue flowers, I knew I was meant to be a journalist. That would be my destiny. But I couldn’t afford to leave Blackbird Hollow yet. How could I find a story worth telling stuck here in the mountains?

  Terrified of destiny passing me by, I decided to practice. I took photographs of the people in town, the farms, and the flowers. I developed those pictures in a darkroom my husband built for me near our barn. And after a while … something happened. I began to fall in love with this place. I’ve lived here all my life, but seeing the mountains through a camera lens helped me realize the stories I’d missed. I became passionate about preserving the stories here, about collecting photographs that show what life is like here in the Hollow. My articles and photographs went on to win many awards. But the greatest award I won was never a plaque or trophy; it was knowing I’d devoted my days to sharing stories about real people—real lives—that mattered.

  My admonition: You don’t have to go looking for stories across the world. You only have to look out your window.

  It was almost midnight, and Bear and I sat beside each other on my bed, turning the pages in the Book of Days. Clarification: I turned the pages in the book. Bear chewed her paws, mostly oblivious to my situation. She turned a few circles on her favorite pillow, then plopped down and woofed at me while I flipped through the book, turning the pages carefully.

  I saw more names, newspaper clippings, letters, and odd trinkets:

  a lock of hair bound in a ribbon

  a plaid scrap of fabric

  a button

  a butterfly-shaped broach

  Someone had taken the time to write titles underneath each name:

  The Spy

  The Teacher

  The Trapeze Swinger

  The Swimmer

  The Inventor

  The Firefighter

  The Actress

  I touched the ripped seam of the page that should have belonged to Granny Blue. Two years later, and she still hadn’t told me why she’d taken it out.