by Mary Amato
Then we have a parade and all sorts of contests and music in the town square for the rest of the day. At sunset we all go back to the state park and do the Sunset Hum, which is like the Sunrise Hum, only backward. Usually it’s my favorite day of the year. Even better than Christmas.
There’s no way I can go this year. Everybody will be teasing me about Johnny.
—F.
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:30 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Frankie:
I think you should go to the Fall Festival and try to have fun. If anybody teases you, don’t pay attention. Remember an old African proverb: Ashes fly back in the face of those who throw them.
Yours,
Ayanna
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:31 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Ayanna:
You remind me of my favorite teacher, Ms. Young. She always says wise things.
—F.
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:32 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Frankie:
I’ll take that as a compliment.
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:35 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Ayanna:
No offense, but I still think that naked mole-rats sound horrible. How the heck did you get interested in them in the first place? Why didn’t you pick something cute, like koalas?
Curiously yours,
Frankie
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:40 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Frankie:
My father kept a vegetable plot behind our house in Kenya. When I was about Nutter’s age, I noticed a small hill of dirt forming near the vegetables one early morning after a rain. I crept over and saw a spray of dirt being kicked up by some kind of little animal from below. I couldn’t see the creature’s face. In fact, all I could see was a scrawny, little, ugly, white butt.
I ran for my father. He explained how there are little creatures that live underground and eat crops from below. He ran to get a shovel. He, of course, wanted to open their tunnels and get them to leave his garden. I remember standing there in my little cotton dress, staring at the empty hole (our noise had scared the mole-rats deep into their tunnel), being both afraid and curious. Was there really a secret world of creatures digging under my feet? Part of me wanted to run away and the other part wished that I could become small enough to dive into the hole and see their underground home for myself.
After that, I read every book I could find about burrowing animals and insects. Often when I walked to school or to the village, I would try to imagine what the world under my feet must look like, all busy with unseen activity. I still do it when I’m walking in Rock Creek Park. Sometimes I even do it when I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. Underneath all the concrete, if you dig deep enough, you find life! Somehow that makes me appreciate all life even more.
Deeply yours,
Ayanna
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:42 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Ayanna:
What you wrote reminds me of Nutter. He has a thing for worms. He is abscessed with worms. He has to pick up every rock in order to see if there are worms squirming around in the mud underneath it.
I guess you figured out that Nutter and Skip don’t have debilitating diseases. They are still annoying.
I’ve never thought about what is happening underground. But sometimes I stand still and imagine what it would be like to be deaf or blind. If I could see the creek splashing over the rocks and not hear it, would the creek look different? Would I see more colors in the water? If I could hear the treetops rustling in the wind and not see them, would the sound become visible inside my mind?
Thinking about what it would be like to be blind or deaf makes me appreciate what I see and hear even more.
Thoughtfully yours,
Frankie
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:45 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Frankie:
I can certainly relate to Nutter’s obsession with worms.
What you wrote about trying to imagine being deaf or blind was so interesting. I’m going to be obsessed with thinking about it all day.
—A.
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:51 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Ayanna:
Xnm, xnejheruopffam8794
Sorry. That was Nutter. He tried to pull me away from the computer. He keeps bugging me to help him with his koala costume, but I have no idea how to make a koala costume, and I have work to do. I absolutely must finish my science report right now. It’s due tomorrow.
—F.
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 4:58 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Stuff
Dear Frankie:
You definitely should log off and do your homework. When you’re finished with your report, here’s an idea for Nutter’s costume. Does he have a brown sweater? How about a white scarf tucked around his neck to look like the white fur around a koala’s neck? I bet it wouldn’t take much to make him feel like a koala—and that’s all you need to do. Do you still have that stage paint kit? I’m sure he’d love to have his face painted. Try a mixture of brown and gray with a little black nose.
Hopefully helpfully yours,
Ayanna
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Thursday, Oct. 23, 6:02 P.M.
Subject:
Nutter
Ayanna . . . are you on-line? The most horrible thing is happening. Nutter is missing, and it’s my fault.
I don’t know what to do.
—F.
Still Thursday, 6:10 P.M.
Dear Diary:
Nutter is missing. Dad and Skip went to look for him. I’m here going crazy.
I’ll explain what happened.
After school I e-mailed Ayanna. Nutter kept bugging me about his costume, but I ignored him. Then I logged off, re-read Johnny’s letter twenty times, and forced myself to start on my science report.
Dad came home from work early, and I thought he’d be happy to see me working so hard. But he was upset. He said that he got calls from the librarian, the nurse, Ms. Trolly, and Beth’s mom.
“The librarian said you still haven’t paid for the book,” he said. “The nurse said you’re missing classes. Ms. Trolly said that Johnny Nye wrote you
an inappropriate note, and—”
“He did not write me an inappropriate note!” I yelled. “Jerry Parks forged that note.”
“Frankie, don’t raise your voice. We’re going to talk about this calmly. Mrs. Jamison said that Beth came home from school very upset today. She is worried about you. According to her you ditched school last Friday—”
“What a rat!”
“Ditched school, Frankie. That’s serious.”
“Everybody ditches.”
“That’s not true. Did you go to Johnny’s trailer after school yesterday instead of coming home?”
“I hate Beth.”
“Don’t be mad at Beth, Frankie. She went to her mom for help. She talked to her about you because she thinks you’re getting into trouble.”
I pictured Beth pouring her heart out to her mom, and it made me feel even sicker.
“I want you to start at the beginning, Frankie, and tell me exactly what is going on.”
Before I could figure out what to say, Skip ran in wanting to use the computer.
“Frankie and I are having a serious conversation,” Dad said. “You and Nutter can watch TV until I call you.”
“Where’s Nutter?” Skip asked.
I was sort of happy to have a little distraction; but as soon as Skip asked about Nutter, I got the feeling something was wrong. The house was perfectly quiet. Uneasiness, black and inky, began to drip down the walls of my stomach.
Dad called upstairs. “Nutter?”
“I don’t think he’s inside,” Skip said. He looked at me like he was feeling uneasy, too.
After we checked the basement, the attic, and the front and back yards, Skip finally said: “Maybe he went fishing.”
“Fishing?” Dad’s voice rose. “Why on Earth would he go fishing?”
Skip looked at me. He knew something, and he wouldn’t say it.
Dad grabbed him by the shoulders. “What is it, Skip?”
“If I tell, I’m afraid that Frankie will take revenge on me.”
“What?”
Skip broke down. “Frankie said she’d tell everybody that I wet my bed if I ever spied on her again.”
I glared at Skip. He might as well have gotten a big old box of nails and hammered my coffin shut.
Dad exploded. “Out with it, Skip! Why did you say Nutter might be fishing?”
“Nutter kept bugging Frankie about making him a koala costume. She told him the only way to get a costume was to catch a magic fish that grants wishes.”
Dad looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I am insane. I don’t know why I told that to Nutter. He was obsessing, and I wanted to get rid of him. That story popped into my mind because it’s one of Nutter’s favorite fairy tales. I remembered how our conversation ended:
“Frankie, take me fishing, please? Pretty please with Nutter Butter on top?”
“Go jump in a lake, Nutter. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Frankie.” Dad’s voice was trying to be calm. “Did you tell Nutter to go fishing?”
“It was just something to say. I didn’t think he’d take me seriously.”
“So you just let him walk out the door?”
“It’s not like I let him walk out the door. I didn’t do anything.”
“That’s just it, Frankie. You didn’t do anything. You were supposed to be baby-sitting.” He turned to Skip. “Did you see him leave?”
“I saw him get mad at Frankie, but then I got busy.”
“Probably busy spying on Mrs. Holmes,” I yelled.
“That’s enough, Frankie.” He grabbed Skip. “Come on, we’ll go to Pike’s Pond. Frankie, you stay here in case he comes home.”
The door slammed, and the house filled up with all the quiet of a graveyard.
Now I’m by myself, going absolutely crazy with worry. My mind is wandering between three dark scenes: The first is a picture of Nutter drowned in Pike’s Pond; the second is a picture of Dad handing me over to the police with a look of disgust on his face; and the third is a picture of me pushing Skip off a cliff. Am I a horrible person because I’m feeling sorry for myself and hating Skip at a time like this? Shouldn’t I be worrying only about Nutter’s safety? I think there’s something really wrong with me. I know Dad wouldn’t be thinking about himself at a time like this. Neither would Beth. Or Mrs. Holmes. Or even The Troll.
9:48 P.M.
It’s all over. I don’t think Dad will ever forgive me. I don’t feel like writing; but I want to tell my side of the story, and nobody else wants to hear it.
After I wrote my last diary entry, I cried a whole bunch. Then I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and do something positive. I imagined Dad coming home with Nutter. They’d be really hungry, so I decided to cook dinner. I’d have it all ready so that when they walked in the door, they’d smell something delicious. I put a frozen pizza in the oven and cleaned the living room and set the table. The kitchen timer buzzed. I was just about to take the pizza out when I heard a car and ran to the porch. Dad’s friend Ozzie pulled up in his pickup truck.
“Did your dad find Nutter yet?” Ozzie asked. “I heard he’s looking.”
I shook my head.
“I’ll keep my eye out,” he said. “You know nothing bad could happen to Nutter in Pepper Blossom. Everybody’s on the lookout.” He waved and drove off.
What he said was supposed to make me feel better, but it made me feel worse. If Nutter had been hanging out on the banks of Pike’s Pond, Dad would have found him already, and the call to look for Nutter wouldn’t have gone out on the peppervine.
I pictured Nutter throwing his fishing line into the water, hoping for a magic fish, and it reminded me of the bridge over Dead Man’s Creek. He wasn’t at Pike’s Pond. He was at Dead Man’s Creek!
I almost ran out the door, and then I realized that Dad would be mad if he came home and found me missing. I wrote a very responsible note.
It was about 7:30. I had forgotten a jacket, but the night was warm. I passed a few people and asked them to keep an eye out for Nutter. I ran down the path that leads to the woods; the only sound was my feet pounding on the gravel and my voice whispering inside my head: Please let Nutter be sitting on that bridge. Please let Nutter be sitting on that bridge.
When I got to the woods, I had to stop and catch my breath. It was darker and cooler under the canopy of trees. The creek, which was high from all last week’s rain, was rushing like it had someplace exciting to go and was in a hurry to get there.
I reached the bend and saw something on the bridge. I ran and stopped. Nutter’s koala backpack.
“Nutter?” I called. The woods were quiet. The air had a deep green and gold smell. Above me I could sense the reds of the maples and the yellows of the oaks, even though the leaves were too dark to see. Below me the creek was tumbling over itself, glistening even in the dimness. If Nutter were hurt or dead, these woods and this creek wouldn’t care. They’d go on being beautiful. Nature is beautiful, but it doesn’t care, does it? That’s why people need each other. I thought about what Ayanna said about how lucky I am to have my family. She’s right. I wouldn’t want to be alone.
“Nutter?” I called again.
A sad little voice came from upstream. “That you, Frankie?”
He was crouching on the bank ahead, his feet and arms tucked in like a little turtle, his fishing pole next to him on the ground.
I rushed toward him. “Are you okay, Nutter?”
He kept looking at the ground, sniffling.
“Are you crying?”
He looked up at me, tears in his eyes. “I’m waiting for him to get better. And he’s not.”
A dead baby bird lay at his feet.
I crouched down. “You shouldn’t have left the house, Nutter. We’ve been worried about you.”
“I didn’t catch a fish. But I did find rocks, and then I found this. . . .”
“It’s really late, Nutter. We need to get home.”
“I can
hear him breathing,” Nutter said.
I looked at the motionless bird. “I’m sorry, Nutter. The bird isn’t breathing.” I picked up a stick and very gently pushed on the bird’s back. It was stiff.
Nutter took the stick and did what I did. “He is dead,” he said sadly. “He’s as dead as a rock, isn’t he, Frankie?”
I stood and picked up his fishing pole. “Come on.”
He stayed with the bird. “I bet I know why he died. I bet he was hungry because he didn’t have a mom, and he came down and tried to lift up this rock to find some worms. But the rock was too heavy, and he died.”
The little guy had a whole story figured out.
“We have to bury him,” he insisted.
“Nutter, Dad’s going to kill me. We have to get home.”
He started digging a hole with the stick.
I sighed and put the fishing pole down. We dug a hole, gently pushed the bird in, and covered it up.
“Okay, Nutter. Now let’s go home.”
He didn’t move. “We have to say a prayer.”
I thought he wanted me to say a prayer, so I was rattling my brain trying to remember something appropriate; but then his clear, small voice streamed out, “O Bird, please be an angel and fly free. Over me. Amen.” He smiled, happy that he had thought up just the right thing to say.
I picked up his fishing pole and took his hand.
“I didn’t catch a fish, Frankie.”
