“Oh, right, yeah, that was it. I knew it was a bunch of letters.”
“Actually, Lemonade, I didn’t call to talk about Scotty.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why are you calling, then?”
“I’m calling because…I saw him again.”
“The man?” I ask.
“No, not the man.”
“Who, then?”
He’s quiet for a long while.
“Who, Mr. Harold?” I ask. “Who did you see?”
He clears his throat.
“The Bigfoot,” he says.
“But, Mr. Harold,” I say, after swallowing an icy sip of my RC Cola on the top step of his porch after lunch with Charlie, “the mystery was solved. It wasn’t a Bigfoot at all. It was Tobin’s dad the whole time. He told the doctors he’s been living in the woods for a year.”
Mr. Harold takes a deep breath and wipes the back of his neck with his red bandana.
“I know it,” he says. “But that doesn’t explain what I saw out in the woods before, or what I saw again today.”
“What did you see?”
“Well, I was tending to another part of the fence in the pasture. And there was that smell, you know, that same skunk smell…strong, too. And just when I was thinking maybe it wasn’t a skunk, that’s when the first rock hit me in the back.”
“Just like before?”
“Yep. Then another one.”
“Another one?” I say, and take a long drink.
“That’s when I stood up and turned around,” he tells me. “And I saw them.”
The RC Cola goes down the wrong pipe, and I choke. My eyes fill up, and I cough and sputter and spray cola everywhere. Mr. Harold smacks my back a couple of times until I stop coughing.
“Them?” I gasp for air. “What do you mean, them?”
“I mean there were two of them. A big one and a little one.”
“Just like the footprints we found in Bluff Creek!”
“The two of them were hiding behind tree trunks in the woods just past the fence, so I couldn’t exactly see them clearly. Maybe there were more, but I can tell you I saw two Bigfoot-type shapes.”
“Then what happened?” I ask, kicking myself for not bringing a notepad to write down the details. I’m never going to hear the end of that one.
“The bigger one growled that same growl where the ground shook underneath me, and then threw one more stone that missed me, and then the two of them ran off. I could see that reddish-brown fur for a while, but they dodged through the trees so fast, it wasn’t but a minute until I couldn’t see them anymore.”
“This is unbelievable!” I say.
He nods in agreement.
“I guess I thought the mystery had been solved.”
“I mean, yeah…you’re probably right. Of course you’re right. Maybe it was just a grizzly and a cub,” Mr. Harold says, already talking himself out of it. “Or maybe another war veteran with battle fatigue…or another guy down on his luck living out in the forest here.”
“Or,” I say, “maybe it wasn’t any of those.”
At least I remembered the Polaroid. And a Twinkie, ’cause Bigfoot hunting is hungry work. It was already squished, with the filling smeared on the plastic, but I’ve learned to live with a squished Twinkie now and again.
I catch a ride out to the pasture behind Mr. Harold on Cimarron’s back. Mr. Harold steers the horse right to the part of the fence where he saw the two Bigfoot this morning.
“I talked to Charlie earlier and he said he’d be on his way as soon as he closed up shop. Sure you don’t want to wait?” Mr. Harold asks, helping me down.
“Mr. Harold, I’m a professional,” I assure him, puffing out my chest to show him my official badge with the clumped-up Elmer’s.
“Ah, well, yes, of course. Whatever or whoever it was is gone now. But there must be some evidence left out there somewhere. If you need anything, I’ll be right here working on the fence. You just holler. And don’t go too far, either.”
“Okay,” I say. “I won’t.”
“And how about a whooop now and again, just so I know everything is okay?” he asks.
“Sure.” I smile. “I’ll whooop you every five minutes.”
“Thanks.” He stands up real straight then and salutes me. “Good luck, Bigfoot hunter.”
I salute him back and take another deep breath before I climb over the fence.
Over the fence and on my way to my very first solo Bigfoot investigation. I adjust the neck strap on the camera and then take one more look back at Mr. Harold. He’s watching me.
“It’ll be okay,” I assure him again. “I know what I’m doing.”
He smiles. “Oh…yeah…I know it,” he calls after me. “I’ll give you a shout once Charlie’s here. Just remember the whooop until then.”
“I will,” I say.
Then I begin my journey.
A journey to find a Bigfoot.
“Whooop!”
That was number thirteen. And thirteen whooops times every five minutes is exactly one hour and five minutes that I’ve been searching, with nothing to show for it.
I hear Mr. Harold’s muffled whooop back through the trees. I sigh. I miss Tobin. Tobin and his endless Bigfoot details and his eye-rolling and his aversion to Twinkies. Being a solo expeditioner isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
When I get hot and feel like a rest, I crawl under the shade of a large pine. The trunk is fatter than me with both arms straight out at my sides, and the bottom row of needles is nearly three feet from the ground. I sit down cross-legged and dig the Twinkie out of my pocket.
It’s pancake-squished now, after being in my shorts for so long. I carefully peel the plastic off the cake, listening to the sounds of the forest.
It’s kind of like the city, except not at all. Instead of honking horns, birds sing. Instead of bustling feet, crickets chirp. Instead of Miss Kay practicing for the opera, mosquitoes buzz. And instead of smelling like Mr. Chin’s glorious crispy fried egg rolls, it smells like pine and moss and dirt and grass and…
Skunk.
Actually, wet skunk.
Wait…skunk?
I stop chewing and hold my breath. Birds sing. Crickets chirp. Mosquitoes buzz.
And a twig snaps. And branches swing. And footsteps stomp.
And there’s skunk stink. Strong skunk stink that’s getting worse and worse by the second. I hold my nose and breathe out of my mouth.
Maybe it’s Mr. Harold again, coming to search for me. Maybe I forgot to whooop enough.
That’s it…it’s got to be Mr. Harold. He was so worried about me going alone.
“Whooop!” I call between cupped hands.
“Whooop!” I hear from way back at the fence post.
Uh-oh.
Then I hear that howl. The same one we heard in the tent the night we stayed out in Mr. Harold’s yard.
Whoooooooooooo!
The sound makes me jump so high, I almost drop my Twinkie in the dirt. I sit frozen.
Waiting.
Watching.
Worrying.
Wishing Tobin was sitting here next to me.
And that’s when I see feet. Reddish-brown feet.
Furry feet.
Just past the cover of the bottom bough of the thick pine.
Great big bare feet with actual toes and black crooked toenails.
All ten toes stop in front of me, and the rest of whatever belongs to the feet crouches down and peers at me under the pine branch. This time it’s not Mr. Harold. It’s not a man, either.
It’s not even human.
This can’t be happening. It has to be a dream. Tobin is going to wake me up any minute now, banging on my window to tell me I’m late for work again. That he’s going to have to put the report in my employee file.
But there is no bang, bang, bang on my window telling me Mrs. Dickerson called with a fresh pan of cookies or a new sighting.
I squeeze my eyes shut real tight and then open them again. It’s real. It’s not a dream. I stare at the creature standing in front of me.
A Bigfoot.
My heart isn’t beating.
My eyes aren’t blinking.
And my legs have gone completely numb.
I’m sure it’s a stroke this time.
A real live Bigfoot, peering in at me, ducked under the pine. A reddish-brown creature holding up the bottom bough of the pine tree, sniffing at me. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs me again. I hope I don’t smell like a veggie burger with all the fixings.
He snuffs at me then, like I smell more like boiled Brussels sprouts than a juicy burger, which makes me feel a little better. Then I wonder if the Bigfoot thinks I smell as bad as I think he smells. Even though I took a bath with the blue washcloth and Charlie’s bar of Irish Spring. It may not be Mr. Bubble, but it does the trick.
He snuffs at me again. I’m as still as a statue. Unable to move.
And even if my brain did remember what I’m supposed to holler, my voice wouldn’t remember how to make the sound come out of my throat. And my fingers certainly don’t remember how to aim the Polaroid, or that it’s even around my neck.
I stare at him, and he stares at me. He wrinkles his nose again and then sniffs again, and then sneezes.
“Gesundheit,” I whisper slowly.
He wrinkles his nose again and cocks his head to the right. He’s not nine feet. He’s smaller. About my size. Except it’s hard to tell for sure, since I’m still ducked under the pine and he’s still on his feet and bent down peeking in at me.
I wonder how old he is. Maybe almost eleven, like me, since he’s almost the same size.
He smells me again, leaning a bit closer to get an even better whiff. He’s probably wondering what I’m doing out here. The same thing occurs to me at this very second.
The Bigfoot examines me, looking at every part of me, and I do the same. His hair is scraggly, just like Charlie described. It’s long, too, and hangs down from the arms. The hands are well past his knees, like an ape’s. He’s bipedal and has black fingernails and brown eyes, and when he opens his mouth, I can see a bright red tongue inside.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I slowly reach my hand out toward the creature.
He backs away, letting go of the branch.
“It’s okay,” I say.
He snorts in and snuffs out, then takes a step forward again. I bring my arm up higher, until it’s stretched out as far toward him as it will reach. Just past the very tips of the needles on the lowest branch of the pine.
On my palm, the pancake-flat golden Twinkie.
An offering of peace.
Of friendship.
Of love.
Because the Bigfoot is part of my new family, and my new life, and he’s another reason why Mama led me to this very special place called Willow Creek.
My new home.
I’m here to protect the animals. Just like she would. I’m here to have a family. And to make new memories.
The Bigfoot breathes in and out, snorting and snuffing as he moves closer to my hand.
“It’s good,” I say, smiling hesitantly. “Sweet. With just the perfect cake-to-filling ratio. I know you probably don’t understand that, but believe me, it’s real important. You can try it, if you want to. Tobin says you won’t eat them, but I know you’ll like it.”
A hairy reddish-brown arm slowly reaches toward me. I remember what Charlie said about that time he saw the Bigfoot in his headlights. He told me the creature looked more scared of him than he was of it. I don’t think it’s exactly the same for me, since my heart is beating a million beats a second and the whole stroke thing is happening, but he certainly looks just as scared as me.
“It’s okay,” I tell the creature. “I won’t ever hurt you. Mama sent me here to help you.”
Fingers reach toward me. Real live Bigfoot fingers with wrinkles on the knuckles, and opposable thumbs with dermal ridges on them.
Just when they touch my hand, a loud whooop soars through the air from way back near the fence post. Mr. Harold checking up on me. The Bigfoot jumps and then quickly pulls away like he touched a flame.
“It’s okay,” I say again, taking a deep breath. “It’s okay…really, it is.”
He takes another big snort in my direction and then snuffs out loudly through his mouth this time, spitting at me. Reddish-brown hairy knuckles reach toward me again.
Slower this time.
Reaching gently until they wrap around the Twinkie, his eyes never once leaving mine.
I watch him hold the Twinkie up to his nose and give it a big long sniff.
No snuff.
Then the bright red tongue slips from his mouth and tastes the sweet cream filling. And when I blink again, the Twinkie is gone. In one giant gulp, the entire thing is gone. And the creature stands there staring at me, chewing the golden snack cake.
I knew it!
Chewing.
Staring.
Snuffing.
That’s when I hear more footsteps crunching in the woods. Cracking sticks and swaying branches. I know he hears it too, because he stops chewing. He wrinkles his nose up in the air and sniffs in the direction of the noise. He gives me one last look and then disappears through the trees with silent, lightning-fast grace.
He’s gone.
And from under the pine, I see Mr. Harold’s cowboy boots and Charlie’s hiking boots with knee-high socks walk by me.
“Mr. Harold! Charlie!” I call out to them, scrambling out from under the branch.
They stop, and Mr. Harold bends down to give me his hand.
“Oh, Lemonade.” He breathes a sigh. “I didn’t hear a whooop back. I got worried and called Charlie. Everything okay?”
“You seem to be in one piece,” Charlie says, leaning down to brush the dirt from my knees.
“He took it!” I tell them.
“Who?” Mr. Harold asks.
“He…he took it!” I say again, pointing toward where the creature ran off through the woods. “Right from my hand.” I hold my hand out to show them.
“What are you talking about?” Charlie asks.
“My Twinkie.”
They stare at me and then at my empty hand.
“Who did?” Mr. Harold asks again.
I take a giant swallow and lean toward them.
“The Littlefoot,” I whisper.
“How could you not have taken a picture?” Tobin demands for the zillionth time in a row.
We’re all sitting around Charlie’s kitchen table. Me, Debbie, Charlie, and Tobin, that same night after they come home from visiting Scotty at the hospital.
Debbie told us that Scotty is making great progress already, and the doctors think he’ll be able to go back home soon. Tobin said he beat Scotty in six out of seven games of checkers, but he thought maybe Scotty let him win some of them.
“I told you.” I sigh a loud sigh. “It happened so fast that my brain just stopped working. I—I didn’t know what else to do.”
“How about snap a Polaroid? Remember? Always a picture first. Always a picture—”
“I know it,” I say. “But I already told you, my brain stopped working. It was like I was frozen in my skin.”
“So, let me get this straight.” Tobin holds his head in his hands. “Instead of taking a picture with the camera hanging from your neck so that Bigfoot Detectives Inc. could go down in cryptozoological history and make a discovery that would be in every science book until the end of time, you shared your Hostess snack cake.”
He says the last six words real slow, like he can’t believe his ears.
“And you were wrong, too. He did like it,” I tell him. “He ate the thing in one gulp. And only a few chews.”
Tobin slaps his forehead and shakes his head.
“I can’t believe you didn’t get a picture,” he says again.
“But I was right, right?”
/> “Who cares?”
“I care,” I say.
He slaps his forehead and shakes his head again.
“It’s not like I planned it or anything,” I say. “I—I—I couldn’t think.” I turn to Debbie. “I couldn’t. My brain froze up.”
“Of course, Lemonade.” Debbie touches my arm. “What a frightening experience. I would have been terrified.”
“I was scared for sure,” I say to her, and then turn to Charlie. “But then I remembered what you said about him being more scared of me. And he was, Charlie. He really was.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t someone in a suit?” Tobin glares at me with his arms crossed.
“Very funny,” I say. “But you know what? You can ask me that, and I don’t even care. You want to know why? Because it was real.” I look at Charlie and then at Debbie. “A real live being. With eyes and a nose and even black fingernails.”
“Black fingernails?” Debbie repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “And crooked toenails, too.”
Tobin huffs a loud sigh.
“I can’t believe you saw one.” He looks straight at me. “Before me! I’m the founder and president of Bigfoot Detectives Inc. You’re just the assistant. It isn’t fair.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to change that,” I say.
“Change what?”
“My status.”
I look at Charlie, and he’s giving me a toothy grin. Bigger than any toothy grin I’ve ever seen on him.
“I like it,” Charlie says.
“You do?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? Of course I do!”
Tobin looks back and forth between Charlie and me. Back at me and then at Charlie.
“You’re saying you want to be real half-and-half partners?” Tobin asks.
I think about it.
“Fifty-fifty,” I say, smiling. “Witt-Sky Bigfoot Detectives Inc.”
Tobin studies me.
“That means you’re staying?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“For good?”
“Yep,” I say again.
“Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart,” I say.
“Not going to change your mind?”
“Nope,” I say.
“Not going to blow this taco stand?”
Lemons Page 20
