Boys Rock!

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  Wally was on the porch floor, actually, lying on his back, trying to see exactly where in the gutter the drops were leaking out.

  “Counting,” said Wally, and got up, crawling over to the steps again. No one ever understood when he tried to explain things to them, so he wasn’t going to try.

  “Well, we’ve got problems,” said Jake. “Eddie’s going to be editor in chief, so she gets to run the whole show.”

  Wally looked up, surprised. “How did that happen?”

  “She’s tricky, that’s what! But here’s our ace in the hole, here’s what hotshot Eddie never thought about: if she asks any one of us to do something we don’t like— something really awful—it’s all for one and one for all. We’re in this together, and we strike. If the workers on a newspaper go on strike, it means no newspaper, unless the editor in chief does it all herself.”

  “What if she doesn’t care?” said Wally. “What if she figures she won’t even be here when September comes and you have to turn in your summer reading reports?”

  “She’ll care,” Josh put in, “because I’m going to make posters and put them all over town announcing the newspaper.The Hatford Herald, the signs will read. Coming July Sixteenth! Eddie Malloy, Editor in Chief.”

  “The Hatford Herald?” asked Wally in amazement. “Did Eddie agree to that?”

  “Nope,” said Jake. “She doesn’t even know. But by the time the posters are up all over Buckman, with her on the masthead, she’ll have to go along with it. If she tells people she never agreed to the name, it will look as though she’s not in charge. And Eddie could never stand for that.”

  “Anyway,” said Josh, “as the new distributor, would you go down to the bookstore and ask Mr. Oldaker if we can leave a pile of newspapers in his store each week for people to pick up? You know … explain the whole thing to him. Turn on the charm, Wally.”

  One … two …. three…. four…… five……. six……. seven………The water drops were really slowing down now. Wally wanted to see how long it would take after the rain had quit for the water in the gutter to stop dripping altogether. This always happened. If there was something fun to do, he didn’t get to do it. But if there was work or a walk or a mess or a fuss to deal with, guess who got stuck?

  He didn’t have any charm, and the bookstore probably didn’t have any room for stacks of homemade newspapers that kids brought in. What if twenty other kids who were entering seventh grade decided to make one? That was why someone had to go talk to Mike Oldaker in person. That was why someone had to turn on the charm. That was why Wally had to give up an interesting evening on the porch to try out some charm he didn’t have on a bookstore owner who didn’t have any space.

  He thought of telling the twins that he’d changed his mind. He didn’t want to be part of this newspaper after all. But if his brothers were busy for the rest of the month looking up words in the dictionary and writing stories, guess who Dad would choose to clean out the shed? If Jake and Josh were going back and forth to the library to find historical stuff, guess who Mom would pick to mow the grass? Why wasn’t counting drips from a rain gutter as important as drawing a comic strip? Wally wanted to know.

  “All right,” he said, his voice flat. “I’ll go.”

  While Jake and Josh and Peter went upstairs to play computer games, Wally went down the steps and started toward the business district. The Buckman River, to his left, seemed to have no more energy than Wally did. Despite the earlier rain, it flowed so slowly that it appeared hardly to be moving at all. Everything seemed to have come to a standstill this summer, one of the hottest on record.

  Lights shone now along College Avenue, however, and more people were out and about now that the air was a little cooler. Some of the shops stayed open till seven or eight or nine o’clock, and as Wally turned onto Main Street, he was sort of glad he had come. At least he could look over the comic books while he was in the bookstore.

  When he came to Oldakers’, he had to walk up one row of books and down another before he found Mike Oldaker, the owner, who was unloading a box of mystery books and putting them on a shelf.

  “Looking for anything in particular, Wally?” Mike asked.

  “Just you,” said Wally. “You see, we’re sort of… uh … putting out a newspaper….”

  “Let me guess,” said Mike. “Jake and Josh are doing it as part of the seventh-grade summer reading project, right? And you got roped into helping out.”

  Wally stared in amazement. “Right. How did you know?”

  “Because seventh graders get a project like this every year, and they always want to know if I’ll keep a stack of their newspapers in my store.”

  Wally gulped. “So … uh …”

  Mike smiled. “And every year it’s the same. It sounds like a good idea at the beginning, but when kids find out how much work’s involved, usually only two or three end up doing it. So what’s the name of your paper—have you thought of one yet?”

  “The Hatford Herald,” said Wally.

  “Okay. You’ve got yourself a deal. If you guys actually manage to print the first issue, and you do a good job, I’ll make space for you on the shelf by the window.”

  Wally could scarcely believe his good luck. Did this mean he wouldn’t have to walk all over Buckman knocking on doors? That he wouldn’t have to stand on the corner by the courthouse yelling, “The Hatford Herald! Come and get it! Hatford Herald! Absolutely free!”

  At that very moment Wally thought he heard a noise coming from under the floorboards. He glanced toward the trapdoor in the hardwood floor of the old bookstore, the trapdoor that led to the cellar, where the boys had once trapped Caroline. It was closed. There was no sign of any workmen.

  Wally looked at Mike Oldaker, but the owner had gone back to unpacking books, picking them up two at a time and shoving them onto a shelf. There was another sound, sort of a slow, scraping sound, like someone clawing at the bare earth floor of that cellar.

  Wally turned to see if any other customers had noticed, but no one else seemed to have heard. Maybe he’d only imagined it, because Mike Oldaker didn’t let anyone go down there, where there was only dirt and dust and mice and cobwebs.

  But then … there it was again. Scraping, scraping… clawing, clawing. Very strange. “Mike?” Wally said.

  This time Mike stopped shelving books. This time he, too, took a quick look around, as though to see if any other customers were listening. Then he came back over to Wally, one finger to his lips.

  “You heard it too, didn’t you?” he said.

  Wally nodded. “What is it?”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Mike asked.

  Wally nodded again, even though he wasn’t sure. What was he supposed to say? That no, he couldn’t keep a secret?

  “You can’t tell anyone, not even your brothers,” said Mike. “When it’s time, I’ll let you know what you’re hearing down there, and your newspaper can have the story.”

  “But we’re only doing three issues!” Wally said. “The third one comes out the last week of July. Will you tell me before then?”

  “I hope so,” said Mike, looking mysterious.

  “Can’t you at least tell me what’s down there? We won’t print anything till you say so,” Wally said.

  Mike Oldaker leaned closer. “Bones,” he whispered.

  Wally’s back stiffened. Oh, no! He wasn’t going to fall for that! Last November, when a cougar had appeared around Buckman from time to time, but no one saw it long enough to be able to tell what it was, the newspaper had jokingly called it an abaguchie. And the Hatford boys had tricked Caroline into believing that a skeleton of an abaguchie had been found in Oldakers’ cellar.

  When she had crawled down there to see the bones herself, without Mr. Oldaker’s knowing, the boys had stood on the trapdoor so that she couldn’t get back out. They had almost gotten in big, big trouble over that, and Wally wasn’t about to have the same trick pulled on him.

  But why would Mike Olda
ker want to trick him?

  “Wh-whose bones are they?” Wally asked.

  “We don’t know yet. But I’m counting on you to keep quiet about this,” Mike said. “If you can keep a secret, then I’ll see that your newspaper gets the scoop.”

  “But… But how are bones making that noise?” Wally whispered back.

  This time Mike didn’t answer. He just shook his head and walked away.

  Four

  Roving Reporter

  Jake doesn’t know what hit him!” Eddie said a few days later. “I’ve got him over a barrel. He’ll have to do whatever I say.” She was sprawled on the couch, papers scattered around her, and Caroline thought she looked a little too much like Cleopatra, sailing down the Nile on a royal boat.

  This was Eddie at her worst, Caroline decided. Power sometimes went to her head.

  Beth must have felt it too, because she said, “Being editor in chief doesn’t just mean telling people what to do, Eddie. We’ve got to actually put out a newspaper, you know.”

  “I know. I’m working on the layout. As soon as I find out what each of you is going to write about, I can plan where to place each story.”

  “Well, I think I’ll take the bike and ride around town looking for an old haunted house,” said Beth. “I’ll ask at the shops on Main Street and see if anyone knows a good ghost story about a house here in Buck-man.”

  “Take your camera, and if you find one, get a picture,” Eddie said. “I’ll see if I can scan it into the newspaper. We need to fill up as much space as possible. What about you, Caroline?”

  “I’m going to the library and ask if they know someone I could interview about a dead relative,” said Caroline.

  “Now, listen,” Eddie told her. “You can’t just knock on someone’s door and ask them about losing a brother or a grandfather or somebody. Don’t forget to say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ And make it sincere.”

  “You don’t have to tell me how to act!” Caroline said hotly. “I can be the most sincerest person in the world, Eddie!” And Caroline put on her “tragic” face.

  “Shove it,” said Eddie.

  Caroline found an old notebook from school, tore out the pages she had used, and, taking a pen, went downstairs. “I’m heading to the library, Mom,” she called.

  “All right,” said Mrs. Malloy from the next room, where she was writing checks for the monthly bills. “You girls can make your own sandwiches for lunch. That and potato salad.”

  At the library, Caroline waited while a man asked the reference librarian where he could find information on box elder bugs. After the librarian had told him where to look, she turned to Caroline. “Are you interested in bugs too?” she asked, smiling.

  “No, I’m writing obituaries,” Caroline said.

  “Excuse me?” said the librarian.

  “I’m working on a historical newspaper with my sisters, and I want to interview the relatives of famous people from Buckman. Dead people, I mean.”

  “Well, I don’t know that we’ve had any really famous people, but we certainly have had some interesting ones,” the librarian said. “I can give you the names of several relatives, but I can’t guarantee they’ll want to talk to you.”

  “I understand,” said Caroline, “and I’m sorry for their loss.”

  “All right,” the librarian said. “Here are three people I happen to know personally, and it’s quite all right to go inside their houses if they invite you. They all live within a few blocks of downtown.” She wrote the names and addresses on a piece of paper and handed it to Caroline.

  “Thank you,” Caroline told her.

  Outside, Caroline sat on the low stone wall and studied the piece of paper: Ask Jim Hogan about his grandfather who fought in World War I, the librarian had written. Ask Sara Phillips about her aunt who made quilts. Ask Ms. Crane about her sister.

  Caroline started off. The first address was the downstairs apartment in a small, shingled house. When Caroline rang the bell, an elderly man using a walker came to the door. His white hair curled above his collar,and when he smiled, every wrinkle on his face seemed to have a proper place, as though the wrinkles were all a part of that smile.

  “Hello. I’m Caroline Malloy and I’ve heard about your grandfather,” Caroline began. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The smile on the man’s face turned to surprise. “That was twenty-four years ago!” he said.

  “Oh. Well, I’m working on a historical newspaper with my sisters, and the librarian said that maybe I could interview you for a story about your grandfather. I wondered if you could tell me what he did in the war,” Caroline said.

  “Well, why don’t we just sit right here on the porch and I can tell you whatever you want to know,” Mr. Hogan said.

  Caroline had the feeling that perhaps Mr. Hogan was going to tell her more about the First World War than she wanted to know, and she was sure of it when, forty-five minutes later, her hand had grown tired from writing. She wished she had Beth’s job instead, looking for haunted houses.

  “So there he was in the trenches, artillery shells flying overhead, his canteen empty,” Mr. Hogan went on, “when up in the sky he sees this American fighter plane taking out after the enemy. And all the soldiers on both sides, you know, are looking up from the trenches, watching the fight, and it’s noon, you see, and—”

  “Which reminds me,” said Caroline, “I have two other people I need to interview today. I think maybe I’d better be going.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Hogan, sounding disappointed. “Well, you make sure I get a copy of your paper, now, when it comes out. And get his name right—Sergeant Oliver Raymond Hogan. ⃨”

  “Of course,” said Caroline. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know of any haunted houses in Buckman, would you?”

  Mr. Hogan blinked. “Haunted houses? None that I can think of, though there were whispers going around when I was a little tyke that the old building where that bookstore is now was haunted. If my grandfather was alive, he could tell you.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Caroline.

  She went home for a sandwich, then set off again, looking for the next address on the slip of paper. She liked this job—liked being a roving reporter. But she wished she had taken the bike before Beth got it. At least on a bike you got a breeze. She wished, in fact, that for the moment she was Beth, looking up ghosts instead of obituaries. The sun bore down on her bare arms and legs, and Caroline stayed on the shady sides of the streets wherever she could.

  At last she came to a redbrick house and knocked.

  No one answered. Caroline knocked again, more loudly. Still no answer. She turned to go but then saw a car drive up. A woman got out and came toward the house, her arms loaded with groceries.

  “Ms. Phillips?” Caroline asked, and took one of the bags from her. “Can I help?”

  “Why, thank you,” the woman said. “Were you waiting to see me?”

  “I’m Caroline Malloy,” Caroline told her, and explained about the newspaper.

  Ms. Phillips smiled as she unlocked the door and led Caroline inside. “So you want to know more about my aunt,” she said. “Well, why don’t you come out to the kitchen and I’ll tell you about her while I put the groceries away.”

  So Caroline sat on a high stool in Ms. Phillips’s kitchen, notebook on her lap.

  “You’ve probably heard that she loved to make quilts,” Ms. Phillips told her. “She was forever collecting scraps of material to cut up into squares and triangles for her next quilt project. It got so that she always carried a trash bag around with her so that if anyone gave her an old apron to cut up or a flour sack or a sheet, she’d have something to put it in. People began affectionately calling her the bag lady because she took it everywhere she went and it never seemed to come back empty.”

  Caroline wrote the details down in her notebook but was dismayed to discover she was no more interested in quilts than she was in trenches and artillery shells.

 
; “Why, Aunt Irene’s quilts are all over town now,” Ms. Phillips went on. “Each of her friends got one. The church got one to sell at their auction; the college got one; she even made quilts for the firehouse. When she died, we covered her casket with a quilt there at the funeral home to show how much we appreciated her.”

  “Was it buried with her?” asked Caroline.

  “Excuse me?” said Ms. Phillips.

  “I mean … the quilt… if you still have it… since it was on the casket…,” Caroline stammered, not knowing exactly what she meant, but imagining a ghost wrapped in a quilt standing there in the doorway.

  “It was a perfectly lovely quilt and a lovely funeral,” said Ms. Phillips, her eyes unsmiling.

  “And it’s a lovely story,” said Caroline quickly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” said Ms. Phillips.

  It was almost four o’clock when Caroline reached the last house—a huge white Victorian with green shutters. Maybe this could be the haunted house Beth was looking for. It wasn’t until Caroline had unlatched the iron gate and started up the walk that she noticed a thin white-haired woman standing on the porch, arms folded across her brown dress, watching Caroline and frowning. She almost looked like a ghost herself.

  “Well!” she said. “What took you so long?”

  Caroline stared. “What?”

  “My friend at the library called and said you wanted to talk to me about my sister,” the woman said, but she seemed more friendly now that Caroline was up on the porch. “Do you like your iced tea with or without sugar?”

  “Uh … with,” Caroline said, and followed her inside.

  It was obvious that the two sisters had lived together for a long time. The four walls of the living room were covered with photographs of the two girls in high school, of the two girls in secretarial school, of vacations taken together and birthday celebrations in this very house. Tessie and Bessie, San Francisco, June 1951, someone had written in a corner of one of the photographs. Bessie and Tessie, Christmas, 1973.