Mostly the Honest Truth

by Jody J. Little

  “What did you know?”

  “Gerald and Emma Carter are leaving Three Boulders. My parents told me it was just a rumor, but I didn’t believe them.”

  G’s hand flew across the paper as she spoke. I kept staring at the pie.

  “Are you going to eat that?” I asked again.

  She didn’t answer, but she pushed the plate toward me.

  I picked up the fork and shoveled a whopping bite into my mouth. That pie was filled with fruity yumminess, and the crust was nothing but fried butter and flour. I slowed my chewing down, savoring that bite. “This is—”

  Before my words could tumble out, G shushed me again and checked out for another eavesdropping session.

  “No way,” she whispered. “Did you hear that? It sounds like Timmy Spencer and his mom might leave also.”

  “So? People move all the time. I do.”

  “But they love Three Boulders.” G was still whispering.

  “Pop and me loved Walport, but we still moved. We kind of had to, though. We packed only what could fit in Pop’s Datsun.”

  G gave me a long questioning glance but then began writing in her notebook again.

  I scooped another bite of pie between my lips, but this time my taste buds sent me a different memo, maybe more like a warning. I scooped another forkful and held it up to my nostrils. I sniffed. I sniffed again.

  This pie had alcohol in it.

  My brain filled up with a memory of Pop from last night, his yucky breath . . .

  I quickly set the fork on the plate and pulled the stocking cap down my forehead. I didn’t want to think about last night. I was done thinking about it.

  I was done eating this pie too.

  I felt a little stabbing pain in my hand and wrist, and I kind of wanted to go find Officer D right then ’cause she was the only familiar thing around me.

  I looked across the table at G. The adults stood up, gathered their things, and headed toward the dining hall door.

  “Drat.” G tapped her pen on the table, frowning. “I need to figure out what is going on around here, why people are leaving.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to show me around?” I asked.

  Her triangle head shot up, and she flashed a huge smile. “Right!” She slapped the notebook closed and dropped it on the pile. “I’ll investigate this leaving business as we go.” She shoved all the notebooks in a backpack resting on her left side. “Where do you want to start? The softball diamond? The church fire pit? Cabin row?”

  I sat back just a bit. She was bursting as though this place was a great amusement park, and she couldn’t wait to take me on every ride.

  What could she possibly be so excited about?

  The Tour

  “Do you play softball?” We were on the dining hall porch now. The rocking chair where that ancient dude had sat was empty.

  “Softball? Only in PE class,” I said.

  “Oh. That’s too bad.” G glanced at my bandaged hand, and I tucked it inside my hoodie pocket.

  “We have a big game coming up next weekend. You probably know how good Officer Dashell is. If they had professional softball teams, she would be all-American. I’m sure of it.”

  “She’s never mentioned softball to me.”

  G continued. “Officer Dashell holds most of the batting records in Three Boulders and the most consecutive games without an error.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Good? It’s great!” She leaped in the air when she spoke. “She’ll figure out some position for you. Everyone plays. That’s a Three Boulders law.”

  “Law? There’s a law making people play softball?”

  But G didn’t respond. She just marched down the porch steps and turned left. I followed.

  “There’s the softball field.” G pointed.

  I gazed at the rickety bleachers and softball diamond. A bearded man on the pitcher’s mound hurled a ball at a runty kid who swatted it into the grassy field that was neatly mowed in diagonal stripes.

  “That’s Preston Farmer pitching. He’s our garden coordinator. The little kid is Timmy Spencer. Timmy’s the current push-up record holder.”

  “What are you talking about?” My brain was whirling with all G’s information.

  “He set the push-up record three months ago on record night.”

  “Record night?”

  G explained, “We have record night once a month. You can challenge any current record holder to a duel. We have a hot-dog-eating champion, a knitting champion, a Hula-Hoop champ, and tons more.”

  Now I was just plain dizzy. Record night? Push-up champion? Knitting champion?

  I pinched myself just to make sure I wasn’t in some faraway dreamland.

  G led me up the gravel road. We passed a white wooden fence circling a garden and my nose was attacked by a gust of poop smell. I covered my nostrils with my good hand.

  “That’s our community garden. You’ll get used to the smell,” G said. “I’ll show you that later. I want you to come to my cabin.”

  Holding my nose tight, me and G trudged up the gravel road that was now separating the little log houses, the ones I’d noticed when I first arrived. The logs were shiny, like someone had actually polished them, and the roofs were green metal. I bet they made an awesome sound when it rained. Some cabins had flowers growing near the front doors and others had colorful flags swaying in the breeze. As weird as this Three Boulders place was, these people took good care of it.

  G pointed to every cabin as we walked. “That’s where the Steins live, and over there is the Landaus. This one is Mr. Farmer’s, and here’s the Donalds. . . .” She kept rattling off the names in her cheerful tour guide voice.

  “And this is my house.” G stopped at the last cabin in the row, identical to the others except for a chalkboard sign right at the doorway that said Monday: All students meet at the fire pit at 10:00 a.m.

  “Come in. You can meet my mom and dad.”

  I followed her inside. It was like stepping into that gingerbread man storybook house. A black woodstove was running even though it was May. Two comfy chairs and a plush couch with blue fur pillows filled the front room. I looked at the shiny log walls lined with photos of G and her triangle-hair head at different ages. In every photo she wore a long flowered skirt, just like she wore now.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” G beamed.

  It was nice. It made me feel kind of warm inside, but a little sad too. Me and Pop didn’t have photos like that. He said we didn’t need pictures when we were always together. Sometimes Pop forgets that we aren’t always together.

  “Where’s your TV?”

  “We don’t have one. No one does.”

  That stunk.

  No paved roads meant no longboarding, and no TV meant twelve days of nothing but counting and waiting.

  Some of that warm feeling oozed away.

  “We do have movie night once a week. Mr. Landau sets up his DVD player and projector in the dining hall. It’s fun. We all bring in blankets and pillows,” G gushed.

  One of the doors inside the cabin opened and a man stepped in the room. His forehead was tall and kind of shiny red, which made him look friendly to me. “You must be Jane.” He moved toward me. “Doris mentioned that I’d have a new student. I’m Mr. Biggs, Gertrude’s father. I’m the Three Boulders schoolteacher.”

  “Teacher? I have to go to school?” It probably wasn’t the best thing to spew out right after meeting him, but this bit of info was a newly paved speed bump. Officer D never said one thing about school. Now I wasn’t feeling warm at all.

  “School is a requirement for kids in Three Boulders, Jane, just like everywhere else,” he said. “You may find that you like the way we do it here.”

  I doubted that. I was not a fan of school. Pop told me my problem was that I had TBS, twitchy brain syndrome. That meant my brain kept wanting to jump around to different places, but in school they don’t like it when your brain does that. In school, your brain has to stay c
alm. Just like when Pop starts to drink alcohol after months and months of nothing but coffee and milk. My brain has to stay calm then too.

  Right then a woman walked into the front room. “This is my wife, Mrs. Biggs.”

  Mrs. Biggs gave me a smile. She had hair bigger and wider than G’s. She stepped toward me and gathered me in her arms for a hug. Her hair frizz tickled my face. I didn’t much like being hugged by strange people. I only liked Pop hugs.

  “Welcome, dear girl. It’s so nice to have a new face in Three Boulders,” she said, still holding me in her arms, my achy hand and wrist smooshed into her belly.

  A knock on the cabin door freed me from her grasp. Mrs. Biggs opened the door and in stepped the ancient dude from the porch.

  I guess he wasn’t dead.

  He hunched over slightly, his left hand gripping the handle of that shotgun, the gun barrel thumping on the floor. His gray eyeballs pierced me, and I felt another tingle just like I had on the porch.

  “You must be Jane.” He reached his hand toward me.

  I wasn’t too excited about shaking that wrinkly hand, but I knew I had to because it was important to be polite while I stayed here with Officer D. Be polite and don’t cause trouble in your foster home, Jane, Pop always said. Trouble might keep us apart longer.

  So I shook his hand strong and firm just like Pop taught me, and that ancient dude squeezed my good hand in return. Man, he had a wicked grip for being close to two hundred years old.

  When he finally let go, he said slowly, “You’re a skinny thing.”

  I didn’t think that was a real welcoming comment. I couldn’t help that I was skinny. Pop was skinny too. And this ancient dude was not one to talk. His bones weren’t exactly packing a lot of meat.

  “Eleven years old, correct?” His voice was crackly and deep.

  Officer D must have told him my age. What else had she said to him?

  I nodded, and he nodded back, slowly.

  “I look forward to a visit soon, young Jane.” He thumped his shotgun cane on the cabin floor, but then looked past me. “Ernie and Helena, may we speak? I need to share some news with you.”

  “What news?” G said. I could see questions practically written on her face.

  “This is not for the records right now, Gertrude,” Ancient Dude answered firmly. “You and Jane run along. Dinner will be served soon.”

  G’s shoulders slumped forward. She paused for a long second.

  “Go, Gertie,” Mr. Biggs insisted.

  I opened the cabin door, but Ancient Dude called my name and I turned back around.

  “Jane, I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

  Well, I wasn’t so glad.

  The Interview

  “Something is going on around here. I’ve got to figure it out,” G said. She was marching me back down the gravel road. “People are whispering. People are leaving. Old Red is talking to my parents in private. What do you think it could be?”

  “How in the world am I supposed to know? I’ve been here for two hours. All I know is this place is really weird.”

  G gasped. She spun around and faced me. “Maybe it’s you.”

  “What’s me?”

  “What’s going on in Three Boulders. Maybe it has something to do with you.” She was peering at my face like she held one of those scientific magnifying glasses.

  “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. How could I have anything to do with whatever is going on?”

  G let out a big huff. “I need to think about this. Come on.”

  She walked a ways farther to a little side path that ran between two of the cabins. At the end of that path was a big log that someone had shaped into a bench.

  I was glad to sit down. I pulled off Pop’s orange stocking cap and set it on the bench. I needed to let some heat out of my brain and some ache out of my hand. The May breeze felt cool drifting through my hair. On the backrest of the bench, names were carved in capital letters.

  “This is the Three Boulders Kid Bench,” G said. “Every kid who’s ever lived here is listed. You can carve your name. I’ve got a pocketknife in my pack.”

  “I don’t live here. I’m just visiting.”

  I scanned a few names. I found Gertrude right away, carved in perfectly formed letters. I saw William, Hank, Millie, Megan, Timmy, Lenny, and Jerry. I traced Jerry with my pointy finger. That was Pop’s name. Seeing his name made my hand throb harder.

  “Hey, G, what’s the deal with that ancient guy? Is he, like, the king of Three Boulders or something?”

  That question snapped G out of her thinking place. In fact, it seemed to perk her right up. “That’s Old Red Norton, but he’s not a king. Three Boulders is not a monarchy. It’s a democracy.”

  Those big words got lost in my brain, and G must have noticed because she said, “A monarchy is where one person makes all the laws. A democracy is where everyone gets to vote and agree on laws. But Old Red does own all the land, so he’s sort of in charge.” She unzipped her pack and reached inside, pulling out a blue notebook and opening the front cover.

  “Here.” She pointed. “This is Old Red Norton.”

  I took the notebook and read what it said:

  Red Elijah Norton

  Years in Three Boulders: 70

  Age: 91

  Jobs in Three Boulders: founder and mayor

  Family: wife, Eleanor (deceased). Daughter, Florence (deceased). Grandson

  Special skills: hunting, wiring, citizen mediation

  Softball position: umpire

  “Seventy years? How can anyone live in one place that long?” I asked.

  “Because he likes it here.” G looked at me like I was crazy for asking such a question.

  I tried to picture Old Red as a younger man, sitting on the dining hall porch in that chair, rocking back and forth, shotgun on his lap.

  I glanced at the journal entry again.

  “Why don’t you have his grandson’s name?” I pointed to the space right after the word grandson.

  G shrugged. “Old Red didn’t tell me what it was.”

  I turned some pages in her journal and read another entry:

  Officer Doris D. Dashell

  Years in Three Boulders: 7

  Age: 42

  Jobs in Three Boulders: peacekeeper

  Family:

  Special skills: law enforcement, weapons maintenance

  Softball position: first base

  “Why is her family section blank?” I asked.

  “She wouldn’t tell me anything about them.”

  That made me a little sad. Officer D was a solo sock. Her match was swallowed into the clothes dryer’s stomach.

  Well, I could be her foster kid for twelve days—a white sock paired with a navy sock.

  But that’s all.

  I flipped through the journal a bit more. “Why do you have this?”

  “It’s my notebook of the People of Three Boulders. I interview everyone who lives here. I should add you.”

  It was real clear to me that this frizzy-headed girl was not letting go of me living in Three Boulders. Maybe if I had bigger words to use, she would get it.

  G took the blue notebook from me. She shuffled through the pages until she found a blank section. “Okay, name and age?”

  I didn’t actually want to be interviewed for her journal, but I also needed to be polite like Pop always said. Besides, I could always make stuff up. I was good at that. “Jane Pengilly, age eleven.”

  Truth.

  “Jobs in Three Boulders . . . well, we’ll have to leave that blank for now,” G said. “I’m sure Old Red has something in mind for you.”

  G moved on. “Family?”

  “My pop, Jeremiah Pengilly,” I said. “Most people call him Jerry. You can write that down. I just call him Pop.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Don’t have one. Write deceased.”

  Truth again.

  G shifted on the bench and looked at me. It was
the same look I got from everyone, especially foster people, when I told them I didn’t have a mom, like they were doing everything in their power not to lean over and hug me, and tell me how much I must miss her. But I don’t miss her.

  Truth. Mostly.

  “It’s okay,” I explained. “She died when I was born, so I don’t remember her at all, and that’s just fine ’cause I got Pop, and he’s the best pop in the world for me.”

  Honest truth.

  But inside my brain I thought about how I had Pop most of the time. There were some times when Pop was next to me, but he wasn’t with me. There was a brown paper bag between us on the couch, and inside the bag was a bottle of disgusting, smelly alcohol. Those were bad me-and-Pop times, and those times led me to my foster families, but foster families don’t count. They were temporary, like twelve-days temporary. Blood relatives were real family. That was what Pop always said.

  G looked down at the journal. “Brothers and sisters? Grandparents?”

  “Nope and nope. I’m an only kid, and my grandparents are dead. I mean deceased. Make sure you write deceased. That looks very official.” I tapped on her journal.

  G wrote the words down. “Special skills?”

  “Longboarding, for sure. I’m real good at talking too and playing solitaire and old maid. I’m a good counter and adder, but not a good minuser and divider. Don’t write that down. I make good grilled cheese sandwiches. I know the entire menu at McDonald’s. Should I keep going?”

  “No, that’s probably good.” G filled two lines with her special wooden pen, and then she asked, “Why did Officer Dashell bring you to Three Boulders?”

  This was where I figured the interview should end. I didn’t want to tell G about last night and why I was here with Officer D. I would maintain confidentiality.

  I changed the subject. “Is your job in Three Boulders the town spy?”

  G’s mouth flopped open. “I’m not a spy. My job is town record keeper.”

  “So more like an eavesdropper?”

  “I don’t . . .” She tapped her pen on the journal. “Okay, when the need arises, I do have to use my keen hearing ability to decipher dialogue, perhaps not meant for me to hear.”

  More big words. This girl was smart.