scanned the forest floor for psilocybin mushrooms. Ideally they should be young, with white bulbs turning a pinkish brown on top. In time they would turn black and curl up at the edges. Shelley Falkner’s cousin had told them all about it.
The forest was wet from an early afternoon shower, and smelled of mildew and mountain laurel.
Fifty feet to Emma’s left, Shelley Falkner moved around in the thicket like a sasquatch, kicking up dead leaves and snapping off low-hanging branches.
Emma soon grew bored of the mushroom search, so she sat down on the trunk of a fallen sweetgum and searched her backpack for a cigarette. She had to push aside her algebra textbook to find one, which made her think of Manson High, which in turn flushed her system with a familiar brand of anxiety. She was doubly glad she and Shelley had decided to cut class today.
Emma lit the cigarette and dialled up the volume on her Discman until the deep, mournful sound of Morrissey’s ‘Every Day is Like Sunday’ turned the greens of the forest grey. Morrissey was the perfect soundtrack for a town like Emma’s. When she thought of Manson, she pictured a beetle on its back, kicking its legs helplessly in the air.
To an outside observer, of course, Manson must have seemed like a quaint, friendly community. It was true that the town wasn’t nearly as poverty-stricken as its Appalachian neighbours, and Emma guessed there were slightly fewer hillbillies per capita, but it was a long way from being A Slice of Heaven, as the sign on the water tower boasted. The few tourists that trickled through only saw half the picture. They came for the hiking trails, good ol’ fashioned hospitality, and to bask in the glory of Hunt House, a grand, centuries-old mansion that stood at the top of Main Street.
But Emma knew what visitors didn’t: that locals were only truly friendly to other locals, that if it wasn’t in the Bible then it wasn’t worth knowing, and that Hunt House was built on the backs of slaves (and supposedly haunted by their ghosts).
‘No way,’ Shelley called, loud enough that Emma could hear even with her headphones on. ‘Em, check it out.’
As Emma climbed down from the fallen sweetgum, Shelley came lumbering through the underbrush, both hands cupped before her as if carrying a baby bird.
She extended her arms to show Emma two handfuls of small white bulbs. ‘I hit the mother lode.’
Shelley was a hulk of a girl; not fat exactly, just bulky, with wide, slumped shoulders and a pair of glasses she was forever nudging into place with her index finger. ‘This has gotta be them, right? They’re just like Vince said.’
She handed one of the mushrooms to Emma, who took it and held it up to the light. It was a creamy colour, with a brown ring on top that reminded her of an areola.
‘I guess so,’ Emma said. ‘It’s funny, I always imagined them red with little white spots, like the ones that make Mario super. How do we know for sure they’re magic?’
‘There’s only one way to be sure: we eat ’em. If we start seeing, like, unicorns or something, then we know they’re the real deal and Vince ain’t completely fulla shit. If our throats close over and we go blind, well …’
‘Let’s take them this weekend,’ Emma said, pulling her headphones down. It wasn’t that she was particularly pro-drug – she had tried smoking a bong once at Roland Butcher’s house and nearly coughed up a lung – but she knew she had changed and wanted desperately to change back.
It was only last summer she and Shelley spent swimming in Lake Merri; just last spring they spent hiking through Elkfish canyon; only last fall they spent cruising around Manson on their ten-speeds; only last winter they spent skiing the powdery peaks of the Appalachian Mountains.
Now the world had turned grey. Perhaps Shelley’s mushrooms would bring back some of that colour.
‘Tell your parents you’re staying at my place,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll tell my parents I’m staying at yours. I can sneak my dad’s three-man and we could hike out to the gristmill, brew the mushrooms into a tea and then—’
Shelley popped a mushroom into her mouth, ending the conversation. She chewed for a moment, a sour expression on her face, as if her cheeks and forehead were being drawn together. Then she swallowed loudly and grinned.
Emma’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. ‘You’re my hero. What did it taste like?’
‘Dirt. Your turn, lady.’
She took one bulb between her thumb and forefinger and moved it toward Emma’s mouth, like a parent trying to convince a kid to eat their greens.
Emma moved Shelley’s hand away. ‘Oh, I think I’ll wait a few minutes to see if, you know, you go blind or something.’
Shelley’s grin widened. ‘Good call.’
A few minutes later Shelley still seemed fine, so Emma closed her eyes and shoved the bulb into her mouth. Shelley was right. It tasted like dirt.
As they waited for the effects of the mushrooms to hit them, they walked aimlessly through the deep concrete channel separating the forest from the outskirts of Manson. The channel was mostly dry aside from a drizzling current of muddy brown water, which was narrow enough to step over in most places. It was littered with cigarette butts, empty bottles of cheap beer and wine, and the occasional split can of baked beans. According to Shelley’s mom, a community of hobos used to roam the channel, setting up shelters under the overpass another mile up.
To their left sat the jagged back fences of the houses on Grattan Street. This was the mostly forgotten end of Manson, where the lawns were yellow instead of green, and the faces of the people who lived there were tight and worn. Where the fence slats were loose Emma could see into their yards – long grass; a barking dog; two young boys with dirty faces sitting cross-legged on a trampoline.
Dense woodland foamed to the right, on the other side of the concrete channel. Mid-afternoon sun filtered through the sweetgums and cast a spiderweb of shadows over Shelley’s face.
‘Are you feeling anything yet?’ Emma asked.
‘Nuh-uh. Not yet.’
‘Me neither.’
They arrived at the large circular culvert that carried the pitiful brown stream under the highway. The concrete tunnel was tall enough for Emma to walk into – although she still hunched with her arms up, afraid of creepy crawlies – but Shelley had to slouch to avoid knocking her head.
Emma held her breath and kept her gaze on the bright circle of light at the end of the culvert. She imagined secret passages leading off either side of the tunnel. One wrong turn could mean blindly wandering the drains beneath Manson for the rest of her very short—
Shelley grabbed her on the shoulder. Emma screamed so loudly it echoed around the curved concrete walls for nearly five full seconds.
‘You’re such a pussy,’ Shelley said, shoving Emma forward and into the light of the afternoon. Emma couldn’t argue. As the sounds of Manson came back and a cool spring breeze tickled the back of her neck, she felt more relieved to be out of the dark than she ought to have.
They continued up the channel.
‘I have to spend the summer with Dad in California,’ Shelley said after
