Mostly the Honest Truth

by Jody J. Little

  “Be careful, Jane!” G bent down and swept the cereal into a pile with her hands.

  “Sorry. I’ll take care of it.” I pushed the pile of flakes into one of the dark corners with my skate shoe. “You keep looking.”

  G sighed, but she tiptoed to a shelf and pushed aside a clear jar filled to the rim with homemade cookies.

  “Don’t look there.”

  “Why not?” she whispered back.

  “She wouldn’t hide alcohol behind cookies. Cookies are something people want. Something they would pull off the shelf to eat.”

  “How do you know where Noreen would hide something? You don’t even know her.”

  “Trust me. I know things like this.” I moved aside cans of water chestnuts and artichoke hearts. “She would hide it where people wouldn’t notice it.” I stepped back and scanned the little room. “Like on those top shelves.”

  Setting my foot on a low shelf and my good hand on a higher shelf, I pulled myself up so I could see what was stored way up high.

  “Jane! Be careful. I don’t think these boards—”

  Crrrrraaaack!

  Oops. That didn’t sound good.

  I jumped down and peered at the shelf I had stepped on. It sagged like a wide V.

  “You broke Noreen’s shelf.”

  “It’s not broken,” I answered quickly, pushing up the shelf from underneath. “It’s just cracked a bit. I think I can fix it.”

  But each time I pushed up and let go, the shelf fell back into that V shape. If Pop was here, he could fix this in a jiffy.

  “I need to find something to prop it up,” I said.

  I squatted. Maybe there was something on the floor I could use. I saw a wire basket filled with red and yellow onions, and I scooted it out of my way. I got down on my knees and leaned over. It was dark below those shelves, but I noticed something glimmer, deep in the back. I reached in and felt a glass bottle. I stretched to grab it with my good hand and pulled it out.

  “Hey. Look what I found.” I held the green bottle up toward G.

  “What?” She moved away from the cracked shelf and grabbed the bottle from my hand. She shook it, listening to the liquid slosh around. “It’s probably a special syrup.”

  “Open it.”

  G untwisted the cap and stuck the open bottle under her nose. “Ugh!” She spun the cap back on and thrust the bottle back into my hand. “That’s not syrup.”

  I managed to take off the cap with my good hand, and sniffed for myself. I was all set to say I told you so, but then I saw G staring at the bottle. Her pale face looked like she was watching a ten-car pileup on the freeway.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I stammered. “I bet she just uses it for special things . . . like pie.”

  “What do we do?” G panicked. “Noreen’s not supposed to have that!”

  “We could throw it out,” I suggested. I did that once when I found one of Pop’s bottles. I dumped it all into the toilet and flushed five times to be sure it was gone. It didn’t work though. He had a different bottle the next night. He never even mentioned the other one.

  “Noreen will be kicked out of Three Boulders, like Marty Muldoon.” G gasped.

  “Let’s just put it back.”

  “But . . . I know it’s here. I have to document the broken laws. I’m the town—”

  But G stopped, because just then we heard the whoosh of those swinging metal doors. G spun and moved out of the light from the doorway.

  Someone was coming.

  I still held the bottle of alcohol in my hand. There was no time to put it back where it belonged, so I stuck it in the first hiding place I saw: G’s backpack. I unzipped the top, shoved the bottle in, and zipped it back up.

  I wasn’t sure G even noticed. She waved her hand, furiously motioning me to stand against the wall, in the shadowy part of the room. If someone walked in and turned a one-eighty, we would be spotted, but there was nowhere else to hide. We hunched down. G put her hands over her mouth. I was quiet. Sometimes I really did know how to keep my mouth shut.

  I heard a deep, crackly man’s voice. Old Red Norton.

  My hand and wrist began to throb.

  Eavesdropping

  “I’ll make my official announcement tomorrow,” Old Red said.

  “Good,” another voice responded. I knew this voice too. Officer D.

  “I’ve already spoken to Gerald, Preston, Amelia, Ernie, and Helena.”

  G pulled her hands away from her mouth. Her brow wrinkled and she leaned closer to the open doorway, assuming her professional eavesdropping posture.

  “It’s the right decision, Red,” Officer D said. “But I know this is all happening sooner than you thought it would.”

  I could see G’s lips asking “What?”

  “I just want it all to be okay,” Old Red said.

  “So do I,” Officer D answered.

  There was a tiny pause and then Old Red asked, “How is she, really?”

  “Remarkable. Resilient,” Officer D answered.

  “And her injury?”

  Wait. Were they talking about me? There was a big long sigh from Officer D, a sigh that said Well, let me tell you about that.

  G turned and looked at my bandaged hand. I could see a big question mark plastered on her face, even in all these shadows.

  Officer D spoke for real. “I think it’s hurting more than she’s letting on.”

  How would she know that? Besides, I just told her this morning it was fine.

  Old Red didn’t respond, but I heard a big thump that made both me and G flinch.

  Officer D said, “I’m meeting up with a few folks from social services tomorrow morning regarding Saturday’s incident.”

  Wait.

  I did not like hearing that news. Every time Pop went to rehab, ladies from the social services would come talk to me. Social services people were nosy. They asked too many questions. I would tell the ladies about me and Pop being matching socks, but they would just smile at me and start asking more questions, and then suggesting I stay with my foster people longer. They never understood how much I needed Pop. How much he needed me. Being away from Pop for twelve days was enough. I swallowed a bit, trying to push away all the worries sloshing around my insides.

  “Have you learned more about what really happened?” Old Red asked.

  “No.”

  There was another pause. I pictured Officer D in her crisp cop uniform, arms across her burly chest, rocking back and forth on her feet.

  “Has he spoken?”

  “Just a bit.”

  “And?” Old Red asked.

  I felt my jaw drop like an egg splatting in a fry pan. They were talking about Pop now. Officer D should be talking to me about Pop, not this ancient dude. This was none of his business. My insides were simmering now. A part of my brain was telling me to march out of this pantry and tell them to stop talking about me and Pop. G must have heard my brain too because she put her hand on my knee, bracing me down.

  “I don’t think he remembers much right now,” Officer D said.

  A picture from that night leaped into my brain: Pop, flat on his stomach, his face smashed into the couch cushions.

  I hugged my burning hand into my belly and pushed my back hard into the wall behind me.

  “Well, Doris, I think being in Three Boulders for a spell will be good for her. There’s nothing like this place: fresh air, good food, community, and a change of pace.”

  G bobbed her head.

  Change of pace is not how I’d describe this place. It was more like a change of planet.

  “I need to get in to work now,” Officer D said. “I’ll update you this evening on this business, and as for your other situation, I think folks will understand.”

  “I hope so. Three Boulders means a lot to everyone here.”

  And then the conversation ended. I heard the whooshing doors again, and the thump, thump, thump of Old Red’s shotgun cane.

  G sat like a boulder. Her mo
uth was a gaping black hole.

  So was my brain.

  Saturday. Pop on the couch. My hand. Those social services people. Officer D and Old Red talking about me.

  Something felt real bad about all this.

  School in Three Boulders

  Me and G waited in the dim pantry. We just sat, side by side, each of us puzzling over what we just heard.

  G spoke first. “They were talking about you and your pop, weren’t they?”

  I nodded, wondering what Pop had said, or what he hadn’t said.

  “Is your pop in trouble?”

  “He’ll be fine,” I said. But on my insides I was crossing my bones, hoping for that to be true.

  G stared at my bandaged hand. I could tell she wanted to ask me about it. I spoke quickly before she could. “What do you think Old Red’s announcement is?”

  “I don’t know, but something is changing around here.” She let out a long exhale and gazed at my face like she still wondered if weird things were happening because of me.

  Whatever Old Red’s announcement was, it couldn’t have anything to do with me.

  G looked at her watch. “We’re late for school. We have to go.”

  I was hoping she might forget about school.

  We left the kitchen and passed through the empty dining hall, where all the tables had been cleared of dishes and wiped clean. G picked up the pace when we got outside, leading me across the gravel road and down a narrow path that led to some sort of fire pit encircled with logs. I hadn’t seen this place yet.

  The Three Boulders kids in their sunshine shirts sat in a row on one log, all eight of them, clipboards in their laps. Mr. Biggs stood in front of the fire pit, talking. He raised one eyebrow when he saw us, giving us that teacher-knows-all look. I got that a lot. “Nice of you both to show up. You’re tardy.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” G said.

  But I didn’t apologize. I didn’t even want to be here. My brain was too full of worries to squish in extra words and numbers.

  Mr. Biggs continued. “We’ll collect bark samples of each tree and determine . . .”

  G picked up two clipboards, handed me one, and then we sat on the log behind the row of sunshine kids. G set her backpack between her legs, unzipped it, and gasped.

  “Gertrude?” Mr. Biggs asked.

  G zipped up her pack, lightning-bolt quick, and she glared at me. Her look pierced me down to my pinkie toenails.

  “What’s wrong? Did a bee sting you?” asked Timmy Spencer. He bounced on top of the log. I figured he had TBS too, only his was twitchy body syndrome.

  “I’m fine,” G said, exhaling. But my toenails were still feeling her eyeball glare. “I just scratched my hand on something. Sorry, Dad.”

  That was a pitiful explanation. She could have come up with something way better, like maybe she nicked herself with her pocketknife, or maybe there was a rat making a home in her pack.

  I, of course, knew exactly what had happened. She had seen that bottle of alcohol I had shoved in her backpack. I avoided G’s face.

  Mr. Biggs continued his teaching. “We’ll investigate the medicinal benefits of the foliage . . .”

  I scratched a note on the paper held down by my clipboard: Sorry, G. I pushed it toward her.

  She scribbled back: You’re not supposed to write notes during school.

  I wrote: I always write notes. Notes are better than doing school stuff.

  She wrote: What am I supposed to do with you-know-what?

  I wrote: I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.

  “We’ll also do some photography,” Mr. Biggs continued. “Mr. Landau has brought two macro lenses for our use. . . .”

  G glanced at her pop and then grabbed my clipboard and wrote another note: I can’t stop thinking about Old Red’s announcement.

  I couldn’t stop thinking of different things, but I wrote back: Maybe he’s bringing in cable TV. I added a happy face.

  G didn’t respond with a note, but I could see her eyes rolling circles.

  Mr. Biggs was still talking. “You may work alone or with a partner. Your choice, but I expect quality befitting your abilities.”

  The sunshine kids began unclipping papers and shoving pencils in their packs. They rose from the log.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “It’s time to start the project,” G said. “You can be my partner.”

  “School is over?” I folded up our note and stuffed it in the side pocket of my cargo shorts. “No spelling tests? No division? No silent reading?”

  Mr. Biggs must have heard me because he said, “You can read anywhere, Jane. You don’t have to be in school to do that. I’ll check all your spelling on the paper you’ll write for this project. Gertie will help you too.”

  “So, that’s all?”

  Mr. Biggs smiled. “I can give you some long division to work on if you’d like.”

  I shook my head firmly. “No thank you.”

  “Mr. Biggs only meets with us for a little bit each day,” a blondie girl said.

  “The rest of the day you work at your own pace,” another blondie chirped.

  G pointed at the blondies. “Jane, meet Millie and Megan Donald.”

  Twins. I would never be able to keep them straight, but I liked what they told me.

  It felt like my twitchy brain was getting a long restful nap. School in Three Boulders would be a breeze.

  Contraband

  G and I left the fire pit area and returned to the kid bench where we had sat yesterday. I yanked a prickly leaf off the bush right behind the bench. “I’ll keep this for our first flauna sample, G.”

  “It’s flora, Jane. Flora and fauna, not flauna. That is Oregon grape. It’s everywhere in Three Boulders.”

  “Can you eat these berries?” I asked, holding them in front of G’s face.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t focus on this project right now, Jane. There’s contraband in my backpack. Old Red has some major announcement, and now my dad is acting weird.”

  “He is?”

  “He usually gives us month-long projects. This nature project feels short, like it will only take us a few days. I don’t get it.” G rubbed her hands on her thighs, smoothing her flora skirt.

  I wasn’t going to try to figure out Mr. Biggs. Short project. Long project. I didn’t really care. All I knew was that I didn’t have to be seated at a little desk all day in a dusty classroom with those number-two pencils that never have erasers and stacks of math worksheets in my unfinished work folder. I liked this Three Boulders school. I couldn’t wait to tell Pop about it.

  “Why did you put that bottle in my backpack, Jane?”

  “I had to put it somewhere. I didn’t have time to put it back where it belonged.”

  That was the honest truth.

  “What am I supposed to do with it?” G asked, a tiny screech in her voice.

  Before I could answer, my ears heard the crunchy sound of footsteps on gravel. Coming toward us were two sunshine kids, a shaggy-haired boy and a small girl with a crooked walk.

  “Gertie,” the boy said, “are you okay? You were acting weird back at the fire pit.”

  G pressed her triangle hair behind her ears, but it just sprang back out. “I’m fine. So is Jane.” She elbowed me, which I figured meant to keep my mouth shut.

  “Hi,” the boy said to me. “I’m Loam Moonbeam.”

  “Loam means ‘soil,’” G explained.

  I gazed long and hard at that boy. “Your name means dirt?” I blurted out, shaking my head.

  That was just plain wrong. You don’t name a kid after dirt.

  G gave me a stink eye, but the shaggy-haired boy didn’t seem bothered.

  “I like to think of loam as rich, earthy soil,” he said. “This is my sister, Dandelion. We call her Dandy. She doesn’t talk.” He put an arm around her shoulder.

  Great. Dirt and a weed.

  The poor girl even looked like a weed, tilted and kind of wilty on the edg
es, sort of like God didn’t get something quite right with her.

  Weed girl smiled. She held up both hands, spreading her ten fingers out stiff and wide. Then she lifted one bare foot, wobbling side to side, showing me her dirty toes.

  “She’s telling you that she’s fifteen,” Loam said. “She’s small for her age. Probably won’t get much bigger.”

  Then, carefully, weed girl began moving her piggy toes, first the big one, then the pinkie toe.

  “Now she’s telling you that I’m twelve,” Loam translated.

  That made me like this weed girl, bad name and all. Pop showed me that same trick on my eleventh birthday. He said I had grown out of fingers to show my age and now I had to add my toes.

  Weed girl sat down on the bench right next to me. She touched my orange stocking cap and then clapped her hands together. Maybe that was her way of telling me she liked my cap. Sometimes it might be real convenient not to be able to talk like this girl. Social services people could ask me questions all day, but they wouldn’t get one single answer.

  That would be convenient for sure.

  Loam asked, “What are you guys up to? You’re never late for school, Gertie.”

  “We’re not up to anything,” G answered, quicker than necessary. She was clinging on to her backpack so tightly her arms were quivering.

  “What’s really in your backpack? A dead squirrel?”

  Dandy scrunched up her nose.

  “Journals,” G answered.

  “I know that, but you have something else in there too. You can tell me. I’m your friend, Gertie.”

  G went mute, so I blurted out, “Actually, you could help us out, Loam. You see, we found a bit of contraband.”

  “Jane!”

  “Really?” he said, his face turning pinkish. I couldn’t tell if he looked excited or guilty.

  “Show him, G.”

  “No! Are you completely crazy?” she snarled.

  Maybe sometimes I was, but I didn’t really want to be saddled with this bottle of alcohol either. If anyone found out we had it, it might be serious trouble for me. I needed someone else to deal with it. I knew Dandy wouldn’t say anything, and something about this dirt boy made me think that he wouldn’t say anything either. Maybe it was his shaggy hair that he didn’t bother combing. Like my straight hair. Or how his sunshine shirt was dingy. Like my gray hoodie. Or maybe it was how he took care of his sister. Like I helped take care of Pop. My brain didn’t really know, but I felt like this kid could keep a secret. Like me.