Jill had written a story in which Mrs. McCreedy was really Medusa in disguise. It had been a huge hit on the school bus.
“We’re going to improve the curb appeal of this place,” Jill’s mom said as she turned off the engine. “I’ll plant flowers in front, and you’ll weed in the back.”
“Where are the McCreedys?”
“In Florida for the summer, thank God. Their miserable dogs are gone, too, so there’s nothing to stop us from gettingsome real work done today. Put all the petunias next to the mailbox. I’ll get the other flowers.”
While Jill lined up pots of pink and violet petunias on the grass near the mailbox post, her mom unloaded two terra-cotta planters. After carrying the planters to the front door, she went back to the car to collect the flat of red geraniums, white lobelias, and asparagus ferns. She was humming to herself as she pulled on her garden gloves. Jill paused to listen, wondering if she recognized the tune.
Her mom made a shooing motion. “Get a move on. We have a lot to do.”
Jill walked around the side of the house to the scraggly backyard and looked around. There wasn’t much of a lawn. The grass was green in a few places, but for the most part, large patches of brown bordered garden beds overrun by weeds.
Directly behind the house was a dirty brick patio surrounded by sickly looking bushes. A wooden fence marched along the entire length of the property. It bulged in places where the trees from Mrs. Smith’s woods leaned heavily against its rails. Vines streamed down from the trees and poured over the fence. Jill could see dozens of thin tendrils stretching across the McCreedys’ sparse grass.
She recognized the vines. Her parents had taught her everything they knew about plants. She knew how to sow, water, and feed vegetables and flowers. She also knew how to prune bushes and kill weeds.
There was a ton of killing to do in the McCreedys’ yard.
Jill gazed at the trees behind the fence. The ropes of oriental bittersweet coiling around the trunks were python thick. Their foliage was so dense that she couldn’t see any farther into the woods. There was nothing but green leaves and shadow.
She felt sorry for the trees, which were being smothered by the vines. Woven into a great, heavy net, they soaked up allthe sunlight and drank up all the rain—stealing everything the trees needed to survive. They’d taken over the woods. Now they were coming for the McCreedys’ house.
Turning her back on the woods, Jill began weeding the garden beds. She pulled out clump after clump of chickweed, filling a black trash bag in no time. Next, she used her trowel to dig up stubborn dandelion and crabgrass roots.
After an hour, her arms were coated with a sheen of sweat and dirt. Her hairline was damp. Her mouth was dry. She wanted a drink of water from her mom’s thermos, but she didn’t want to stop working until she’d cut a few vines with the hedge clippers.
For the next fifteen minutes, the scissor-like blades bit through the vines hanging over the fence. They tumbled to the ground like clumps of hair, and by the time she’d created a small channel of space between the trees and the fence, she was ready for a break.
Wiping her wet brow with the bottom of her T-shirt, she stared into the woods.
They were too quiet.
There was no birdsong or drone of insects.
There was nothing.
In the silence, Jill could sense the vines moving.
She could almost feel their tiny, maggot-white root hairs wriggling through the soil. Stretching and probing. It was only a matter of time before fresh, young shoots climbed over the fence. Without constant trimming, they’d spill down and blanket the brown-bellied juniper bushes. After that, they’d crawl over the patio and come for the house.
Jill imagined them growing and spreading until they couldn’t be stopped.
These vines were the reason behind the concrete drainage gully running between their property and the empty lot nextto Mrs. Smith’s house. As soon as the vines reached the ditch, Jill’s dad would cut them back and douse the lacerated stalks with weed killer.
Year after year, the vines tried to creep onto the vacant lot. They were a constant nuisance, and no matter what Jill’s father did to them, they always came back. But if he didn’t stop them, they’d invade the Scotts’ property.
He told Jill that oriental bittersweet couldn’t be burned. It had to be attacked at ground level. However, trying to rip the spiderweb of orange roots out of the dark earth was only a temporary solution. The roots tunneled deep into the soil, branching out like hundreds of tiny lightning bolts. A severed root could regenerate like a lizard’s tail.
The vine was a survivor. It had found a home in Mrs. Smith’s woods. And now, it wanted more. It wanted to spread, smothering and choking every living thing in its path.
I bet Mrs. Smith wants that, too, Jill thought with sudden clarity.It’s all over her property. She must love it.
Jill swiped at her sweaty forehead and glared at the woods.
She was angry.
She hated the sight of the suffocating trees. She hated having to spend her Saturday cutting the insatiable vines. She was hot and thirsty. And hungry. The bowl of Raisin Bran she’d eaten for breakfast seemed like a distant memory. She wanted to tell her mom that she’d had enough—that she was going to the pool to hang out with her friends. She wanted to sit with them on the hot stone steps and eat a sun-softened ice cream sandwich while they talked about boys.
