I think about my friends back home and how much I miss them. Melanie, Lisa S., Angela K., and Shelley H. They were all so much fun.
And so was I…before.
I think about what Mrs. Dickerson said about accepting change. I think about the zesty girl in the round frame from the hall. And about what it used to mean to be Lemonade.
Elizabeth Lilly Witt.
“Well?” Buzz Cut says. “Are you going to just stand there all day or are you playing?”
“All right,” I say, feeling a sudden pain in my stomach and wondering if it’s appendicitis. “I’ll play.”
“Cool,” he says.
I take a step toward the driveway.
One step toward my new life.
On my way home, I try to remember the names of all the kids I met.
Eliza Rose Cline is going into fourth grade, and her cat just had kittens, and she said I could have one if Charlie says it’s okay.
Mei Cunningham, going into fifth grade like me. She’s adopted from China and knows how to speak English and Chinese.
Jorge Santamaria may just be the cutest boy on the planet. And I found out, when we were both hiding behind a pine tree, that he loves Twinkies too! And he agrees that they are way better than Ho Hos, Ding Dongs, or even Banana Flips.
Nick French is real quiet and turns the color of maraschino cherries whenever Mei is around him, because he sent her a note asking if she wants to be his girlfriend, and Mei said yes. Now they don’t talk or look at each other or anything.
I also found out Buzz Cut’s real name is Joe Kelly. And Bangs is Beau Stitch.
All in all, it’s a real fun day. Kick the Can is kind of like tag with a twist. The twist being that there isn’t a can at all. The can is technically a dirty orange Nerf football. But to call it Kick the Dirty Orange Nerf Football sounds kind of lame, I guess.
I’ve never played Kick the Anything before.
And I liked it.
In the city, we roller-skate, play hopscotch on the sidewalk, or jump rope. And in the evening, sometimes the boys on Beacon will let us play baseball with them in the alley. Jimmy Libertine always lets me be catcher, even though I miss the ball more than I catch it. Erika Vass says it’s ’cause he’s in love with me, and maybe he is, because one time he gave me a whole bouquet of Tootsie Pops.
If Tootsie Pops equal love, I guess he loves me a whole bunch, because he gave me a full dozen. And they were all cherry, which everyone knows is the very best flavor of Tootsie Pop there is.
“Where have you been?” Tobin hollers at me from Charlie’s front porch. He’s pacing back and forth with the yellow legal pad tucked under his arm and a pencil stuck behind his ear.
“I, ah…I, um…,” I start.
It didn’t occur to me that I needed to keep my afternoon a secret. I mean, it’s not like I’m not allowed to play with other kids. But for some reason, right this minute, I can’t make my mouth say the words.
“I was, um…out having tea and cookies with Mrs. Dickerson,” I tell him.
Which isn’t exactly a lie.
“Did she report another sighting?” he asks, sitting down on the porch swing.
“No,” I say, making my way up the driveway. “I just wanted to hear some more stories about Mama.”
“I counted on you to be in charge of the Bigfoot Headquarters, and you leave for the day?”
“What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that I trusted you to be in charge for the very first time, and you went and had tea and cookies instead. That’s the big deal. But I guess that doesn’t matter to you. Nothing matters to you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he mumbles.
“Where’s Charlie?” I ask.
“He’s already inside starting dinner,” Tobin says. “Because you weren’t here for that, either.”
“Lemonade,” Charlie calls through the screen door. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Charlie,” I call back.
“Miss Cotton is on the phone for you.”
Tobin’s brow lowers and his eyes stare hard at me.
“What’s with you?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, getting up off the swing and making his way down the porch steps.
“Where are you going?” I ask him.
He doesn’t say one word.
I watch him cross the street, walk up his driveway, and pull open the screen door.
It slams behind him.
That night, after dinner and after my Irish Spring bath, I find Charlie in the living room watching Barnaby Jones.
“Charlie?”
“Yes?” He gets up from the couch with the big leaves on it and turns the volume down.
“I have a question for you,” I say.
He sits back down and pats a leaf next to him, like I’m supposed to sit there.
“Well, let’s hear it,” he says.
I decide to slide one hip down onto a different leaf in the matching chair across the room instead.
“Where’s Tobin’s dad?” I ask.
Charlie breathes out slow and long, then folds his glasses and slips them into his shirt pocket.
“Lem, Scotty was drafted to go to Vietnam. Goodness, it was about five or so years ago now…and, well…he never came back home.”
“Did he die?”
Charlie shakes his head.
“We don’t know. Two military men came to the house about a year after he went in and told Debbie he was MIA. Missing in action. I think at that time, we all held out hope that he was still alive, but it became harder with each passing year.”
“So, you think he did die, then?”
“Well, we feared that was the case, and then Debbie got a call last year from the army letting her know he was found.”
“Then he is alive?”
“He was a prisoner of war for many years. Three total. That’s a very long time to live like that. The prisoners were tortured in horrific ways. Debbie was told that Scotty was found and that he would be transported back to Oakland for a debriefing and then discharged home. They told her he was okay, but she didn’t know exactly what condition he was in after all he had gone through.”
“So he’s still in Oakland?”
“We don’t know.”
I drop my chin in my hand and sigh.
“I guess I don’t understand,” I say.
“Debbie received a letter from Scotty when he made it back to California, letting her know how much he loved her and that he couldn’t wait to get home to see her and Tobin. And then he was gone.”
“What do you mean, gone? Where did he go?”
“What we know is that he was discharged from the army and then given an airline ticket home to Redding. But when Debbie and Tobin went to pick him up at the airport…he wasn’t there. They found out he hadn’t even made it on the plane.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“I don’t know the answer to that,” he says. “But what I do know is that Scotty loved his family more than anything in this world and something very bad must’ve happened to keep him from them.”
I swallow hard.
“But they’re still waiting for him? Tobin and his mom?” I ask.
“Yes, they hold out hope that he’s okay. They love him very much.”
I think about that.
“Do you think he could still come home?”
“I hope so, Lem,” he says. “For their sake, I truly hope he does…but the sad truth is that we may never know what happened to him. There are still many missing soldiers out there even after the war has ended, and we just don’t have the answers.”
“Is that why Tobin is the way he is?”
“How’s that?”
“You know…kind of…well, particular, really.”
Charlie smiles.
“I think it’s all in the way you look at it. I find him particularly…special. With elements of personality that few people share. Sma
rt, funny, and full of questions that he needs answered. I think he’s a very special kid.”
“Oh, me too,” I say. “But it would be nice to know other kids too.”
“Well, of course it would. I certainly don’t see anything wrong with that.” Charlie strokes his beard and looks at me for a long moment. “What’s this about, Lem?”
I take a deep breath and look at the furry pink slippers on my feet. The ones Mama gave me for Christmas last year.
“I played Kick the Can today at Nick French’s house with some other kids,” I say.
“Uh-huh,” Charlie says. “I still don’t see the problem.”
“Well, I guess Tobin doesn’t really fit in here.”
“Ahhhh,” Charlie says.
“Some even make fun of him,” I say.
He pauses for a minute while he thinks about what he wants to say.
“Yes, he’s had some struggles with kids his age.”
“The two boys who came into the store the other day,” I say. “Joe Kelly and Beau Stitch. They give Tobin a pretty hard time, and Joe is the one who invited me to play.”
“I see.”
“At first, I didn’t think there was really anything wrong with it. At least that’s what I told myself, but when I got home, I, ah, well, I lied to Tobin about where I’d been.”
“Mmmm.”
“I guess I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Yes, I see that.” Charlie strokes his beard and thinks hard about my question. “Lem, one of the things that was really unique about your mother was that she got along with everyone. No matter who they were. She never judged anyone for being different or treated anyone unkindly because of who they were or what they’d been through.”
“I’m the same way.” I point to myself. “I mean, I used to be. At home I am. I have lots of friends. Erika is my very best friend. And there’s Melanie, Lisa S., Angela K., and Shelley H.—” I start to list on my fingers.
“I don’t doubt it,” he says. “I don’t doubt it. You are so much like her. Maybe this is an opportunity for you to help Tobin bridge a gap that he hasn’t figured out how to bridge on his own just yet. I would think you’re just the person to do it.”
“So, you’re saying you think I should tell him?”
“I think you should make those decisions on your own. I’m just saying you’re so much like your mother that I forget sometimes that you are you. And one thing I know is that she would find a way to bring everyone together.”
I think about it.
“Thanks, Charlie,” I say.
“You’re welcome, Lem. I hope I helped.”
I smile.
“You did.”
Tobin isn’t at breakfast the next morning.
Charlie and I eat our daily bowls of sticks and seeds and bark without him. After Charlie leaves for the store, I head to the beat-up garage, aka the Bigfoot Headquarters, to report for my daily shift. Tobin is already at the desk.
“Hi,” I say to him.
He’s furiously scribbling in his yellow legal pad.
“Hello?” I say. “Ni hao?”
Mei Cunningham taught me three of the most important phrases to know in the Chinese language:
Hello
Good-bye
Where’s the bathroom?
Tobin looks up at me like he hasn’t heard a thing I’ve said.
“We’ve got a major sighting. Major sighting!”
“I hope she made the gingersnaps today,” I say. “They’re my favorite.”
“It’s not Mrs. Dickerson,” he says.
“Who, then?”
“We’ve got to go right now. One was just spotted. Come on.” He grabs his leather case. “I’ll tell you on the way.”
Tobin pedals furiously while I white-knuckle the handlebars and keep my mouth closed up tight.
“Lester Harold has a ranch on the east side of town. He called to say he saw a Bigfoot crouched in the woods just past the fence around his pasture,” Tobin hollers in my ear as he pumps the pedals. “Not more than ten minutes ago. He swears it was at least nine feet tall!”
He makes a sharp right, and I move left to balance my weight. I’ve gotten pretty good at riding on Tobin’s handlebars, and I’m not quite as scared as I was. I can even keep my eyes open the whole time now.
It’s the words nine feet tall that make me break my own rule, and I open my mouth to holler back at him.
“Nine feet tall? That can’t be right.”
“Oh, it’s right, all right,” Tobin says.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I can feel it in my neck and inside my ears, too.
Nine feet? If Mr. Harold is right about that, it sure is reason to believe it’s no man in a costume putting one over on him. What man is that tall?
Tobin keeps pumping over paved streets and unpaved bumpy roads until he turns at a black iron gate with curly letters on it.
Harold Ranch
Homestead
1924
There’s a mailbox on the side of the dirt drive with the number 45018. Tobin pumps his pedals up the long driveway. There are black cows on both sides, fenced in behind weathered wood and barbed wire.
They stare at us, slowly chewing on the tall grass from the pasture. They stare and chew and chew and stare.
“I wonder what cows think about,” I say.
“They’re steers,” Tobin says.
“What?”
“They’re steers, not cows.”
“They look like cows to me.”
“Well, they’re not. They’re steers.”
“What’s the difference?”
“How should I know the difference? I’m not a rancher.”
“Then how do you know for sure they’re not cows?”
“I just know.”
“That seems pretty unscientific, if you ask me.”
He heaves a good, long sigh, letting me know he’s done answering my questions about cows or steers. At the end of the long dirt drive, there’s a big white farmhouse with a small front porch. Off to the left is a bright red barn with white trim. Chickens squawk at us as Tobin pedals through a pack of five or six of them roaming free. Tobin stops his bike in front of the house next to an old blue Ford pickup with bales of hay loaded in the back.
I start sneezing right away.
“Great!” Tobin rolls his eyes at me while he unties his black case from the back of his bike.
“It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.” I wipe my nose.
I guess I’m allergic to more than just expeditions.
The screen door slams, and a tall man in worn overalls steps onto the porch. He has on a yellowing T-shirt with wet patches on the chest and under the arms. His gray hair is thin enough that you can see his head through the strands, which are slicked flat. He pulls a red handkerchief from the bib pocket of his overalls and wipes it across the back of his neck.
“Mr. Harold!” Tobin calls, walking toward him with an outstretched hand. “Thank you for trusting Bigfoot Detectives Inc. with your Bigfoot needs.”
Mr. Harold grabs Tobin’s hand and gives it a strong shake.
“I’m glad you could make it out so fast. I can’t believe I saw what I saw, you know? It’s just too unbelievable. I mean, I hear all the talk, you know, but I didn’t really believe it…not really, I didn’t.” Then he looks at me. “Until I saw it with my own eyes.”
I swallow hard.
“Yes, sir,” Tobin says. “Mr. Harold, this is my assistant, Lemonade Liberty Witt.”
“Pleasure.” Mr. Harold reaches a hand out to me.
It’s dark and tan and rough with brown spots on top. He wraps his long fingers around mine with a sturdy shake.
“Heard you were staying with Charlie,” he says. “Welcome to Willow Creek. Glad to have you here.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Tell us again exactly what you saw.” Tobin pulls his yellow legal pad and a Bic pen out of his leather case to take notes. “Eve
ry detail you can remember.”
“Please.” Mr. Harold motions for us to sit with him on the porch steps.
Tobin sits on the top step next to Mr. Harold, and I sit two steps below Tobin.
“I still can’t believe it.” Mr. Harold breathes, wiping the back of his neck again, looking far off into the pasture.
“Take your time, Mr. Harold,” Tobin says. “Don’t leave anything out.”
Mr. Harold bobs his head once.
“I was in the field on my horse, Cimarron,” he says. “There’s a forest on the west side of the pasture. Thick, too. Goes on for miles. So, I set to fixing a portion of the fence. That’s when I saw him.”
“What exactly did you see?” I ask.
Mr. Harold looks at me.
“Bigfoot,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Are you sure, Mr. Harold?” I ask.
“I can tell you this, there isn’t a question in my mind that that’s what I saw.”
I swallow hard again.
“What did he look like?” Tobin asks, scribbling on his pad. “Every detail, Mr. Harold, don’t leave anything out.”
“Well, he was big. At least three feet taller than me, and I’m six-five. I got off Cimarron and was gathering up my tools to fix the fence post, and that’s when I felt the first rock hit me.”
“He threw rocks,” Tobin says.
“Yep. I felt the first one hit my arm, and when I looked up, there he was, crouched near a tree. Our eyes met. Then I watched him throw another one. This one nearly got me in the forehead, but I ducked in time. Then he growled this incredible growl that I swear made the ground shake underneath me.”
“And then what happened?” I breathe.
“Then he ran off into the woods. Fast as anything else wild that I’ve seen traverse that ground back in there.”
“The midtarsal break,” I say.
“Exactly,” Tobin says.
Mr. Harold looks confused. “The what?”
“Never mind, Mr. Harold. Nine feet, you think?” Tobin asks.
“I’m sure of it,” Mr. Harold says.
“What color was it?” Tobin asks.
“It had reddish-brown hair. Long, too.”
“Could it have been a bear, Mr. Harold?” I ask him. “A bear on his hind legs?”
I can hear Tobin huff air out, and I feel him giving me a good glare.
Lemons Page 10
