by Joan Bauer
RAVES FOR NEWBERY HONOR AUTHOR AND NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER JOAN BAUER!
“Via vivid characterizations, crisp, believable dialogue and some exciting scenarios, Bauer keeps her fans hooked for an entertaining ride.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Best Foot Forward
“[Full of] fabulous and somewhat flamboyant characters, witty dialogue, and memorable scenes…Bauer’s best yet.”
—SLJ, starred review, on Rules of the Road
“Jubilant, strong, and funny, this is a road trip to remember.”
—BCCB, starred review, on Rules of the Road
“An eloquent story of ordinary heroes.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Stand Tall
“Rich with engaging characters, a light love interest, and dramatic tension in a well-paced plot, this is another great read from Bauer.”
—SLJ on Backwater
“As always from Bauer, this novel is full of humor, starring a strong and idealistic protagonist, packed with funny lines, and peopled with interesting and quirky characters.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Hope Was Here
“When it comes to creating strong, independent, and funny teenaged female characters, Bauer is in a class by herself.”
—SLJ, starred review, Newbery Honor winner Hope Was Here
“This laugh-out-loud story is a delight.”
—SLJ, starred review, on Squashed
“Fast-paced and engrossing entertainment that startles the reader with its underlying strength.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Squashed
“Bauer’s forcefully funny writing remains stylish from start to finish.”
—BCCB on Thwonk
“Mickey’s authentic voice draws readers right into the story.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Sticks
BOOKS BY JOAN BAUER
Backwater
Best Foot Forward
Hope Was Here
Peeled
Rules of the Road
Squashed
Stand Tall
Sticks
Thwonk
Stay true to the story.…
It was Baker Polton!
“Are you all right?” I asked him.
“Depends on your definition of all right.” He ripped up more of the newspaper, The Albany Register. “This used to be a great newspaper. I used to work at this paper. You know what it is now?” Tanisha picked up a shred. “Puff and puke.” He sat back like he had a headache. He looked at me. “Why do you want to be a reporter?”
I thought for a second. “I care about the news and getting it right.”
“Do something else. The field’s changing too much. Don’t get sucked in.”
“But—”
“They’re going to ask you to believe that entertainment is news. They’re going to put things that don’t matter on the front page and the ones that do on page twenty. They’re going to tell you that flash and sex sell papers and that’s all people are looking for these days. They’re going to reduce your copy to sound bites and slogans and if they can figure out how to make a scratch-and-sniff midsized daily, believe me, they’ll do it.
Home.
In my room. Laptop ready.
I sent the e-mail, short and sweet.
Mr. Polton,
How do you stand up for truth?
Peeled
JOAN BAUER
speak
An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
This book is for my mother,
Marjorie Good,
whose hope, faith, and grace inspire me every day.
SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2008
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2009
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Joan Bauer, 2008
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Bauer, Joan, date.
Peeled/Joan Bauer. p. cm.
Summary: In an upstate New York farming community, high school reporter Hildy Biddle investigates a series of strange occurrences at a house rumored to be haunted.
[1. Reporters and reporting—Fiction. 2. Journalism—Fiction. 3. Farm life—New York (State)—Fiction.
4. Haunted houses—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.
7. New York (States)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B32615Pee 2008 [Fic]—dc22
2007042835
ISBN: 978-1-101-65226-8
Printed in the United States of America
Design by Marikka Tamura
Text set in Janson
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that
it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise
circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
“In the age of information overload, newspapers must
be the medium that people believe. They don’t have to
be first. They can even be last. But they must be right.”
—Pete Hamill, News Is a Verb
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 1
DATELINE: Banesville, New York. May 3.
Bonnie Sue Bomgartner, Banesville’s soon-to-be 67th Apple Blossom Queen, let loose a stream of projectile vomiting in the high school cafeteria.
“It was the tuna fish,” she gasped miserably, and proceeded to upchuck again.
I wrote that down on my notepad as Darrell Jennings and I took a big step back.
The crowning of
the queen was tomorrow at 10:00 A.M. in the Happy Apple Tent—a major moment in my small town of Banesville, an orchard-growing community in Upstate New York where apples are our livelihood and the core of our existence.
The nurse rushed in. Darrell, the editor of The Core, the high school paper where I worked as a reporter, said, “It’s a cliffhanger, Hildy. The festival law says if the queen is sick and can’t appear, the runner-up gets crowned.”
“I didn’t know that.”
He pushed his glasses onto his head and grinned. “That’s why I’m the editor.”
I jabbed him in the arm for that comment. Darrell has been editing my copy for close to forever.
Bonnie Sue heaved again and the nurse mentioned something about food poisoning.
“My brother had food poisoning and it kept coming up all weekend,” Darrell whispered ominously. “Stay on this, Hildy. This could be big. Bigger than big. I want the story behind the story.”
He always says that.
Mrs. Perth, the festival coordinator, who also worked in the school office, ran in. “She’ll be fine, everyone.”
Bonnie Sue looked close to apple green. I felt for her, honestly, even though she was the kind of gorgeous girl who acted like she was personally responsible for her looks.
Mrs. Perth handed Bonnie Sue a tub of lip gloss. Bonnie Sue glossed and stuck her head back in the bucket.
“Everything,” Mrs. Perth said fiercely, “will be fine.”
She shooed us out of the cafeteria, but not before she said to me, “Hildy, of course we don’t want to mention this incident in our paper.”
I looked at my notes. “Why not?”
“Hildy, the Apple Blossom Festival is about the hope of the harvest yet to come.”
Banesville needed a good harvest. We were still reeling from two bad harvests in a row. This was a make-or-break year for the orchards.
“I understand about the hope, Mrs. Perth, but a queen with food poisoning is kind of interesting and—”
Mrs. Perth forced out a smile. “The Apple Blossom Queen is the symbol of unbridled joy and farm-fresh produce.” Her plump hand covered mine. “And we wouldn’t want that symbol to be tarnished in any way. Would we?”
“But Bonnie Sue has food poisoning. That’s the truth.”
“The truth,” she snarled, “is that we’ve had quite enough problems in Banesville! This festival is committed to being happy and positive from beginning to end!” Her eyes turned to slits. “You’re just like your father, Hildy Biddle.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly. She shut the cafeteria door in my face.
From behind the door, I heard Bonnie Sue bellow, “I’m not giving up my crown! I earned it! It’s mine!”
I wrote that down, too.
I was standing in front of Frankie’s Funny Fun Mirrors, watching them stretch my legs and elongate my neck and head as the Apple Blossom Festival pulsated around me.
Two little boys ran up, snickering.
“What’s worse than finding a worm in an apple you’re eating?” the bigger one asked me.
“What?”
“Finding half a worm!”
They grabbed their throats, shrieked, “Eeeewwww!” and ran off.
I made a face in the mirror, stuck out my tongue.
Hildy Biddle, reporter at large.
I headed across the midway that was actually Banesville High’s football field. I walked under the great arch of blossoms, passing men dressed like Johnny Appleseed. I turned left at the storytelling tent where Granny Smith, our local storyteller, was holding forth; did a twirl and a two-step past Bad Apple Bob and the Orchard Boys playing their foot-stomping regional hit, “You Dropped Me Like an Apple Peel on the Ground.”
“Oh, baby,” I sang along with them, “why’d you have to go?”
You’re just like your father, Hildy Biddle.
I guess that meant obstinate, unbending, always searching for truth.
I can live with that.
I remembered being with Dad at the festival when I was little, riding the Haunted Cider Mill roller coaster, hiding behind him when the wicked queen from Snow White walked by with her poisoned apple. We’d eat fat caramel apples, drink cider till our stomachs would groan. Everywhere I looked, there seemed to be a memory of him.
He died three years ago from a heart attack.
I still can’t imagine what God was thinking when he let that happen.
I looked up in the sky and saw Luss Lustrom’s two-seater prop plane flying overhead. I waved even though he couldn’t see me. Luss gave air tours of the apple valley. I rode with him last year. I’ll never forget the experience—flying low over the apple trees that were in full blossom. The sky seemed bluer than it did when I was standing on the ground; the valley seemed sweeter; the promise of good soil that people would fight for and cry over seemed real to me.
Luss did his best cackling ghost laugh as we flew over the old Ludlow property, a place some people in town thought was haunted.
“The ghost of old man Ludlow,” Luss shouted darkly. “Will we see him?”
I hoped not.
I had wanted to keep flying in the sky with Luss and not come down, but when your family owns an orchard, coming down to earth isn’t optional.
I headed to the Happy Apple Tent, where the queen would be crowned. Bonnie Sue Bomgartner wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She had missed the filling of the giant grinning apple balloon. She’d missed Mayor Frank T. Fudd’s annual declaration: “I can feel it in my bones; this is going to be the best festival ever!” The tent was crammed with people. Tanisha Bass, my best friend and The Core’s photographer, was stationed by the entrance. A group of small children dressed like honeybees held hands and wove through the crowd.
My cousin Elizabeth, The Core’s graphic artist, who wrote for the paper only when we were desperate for copy, whispered, “I heard Bonnie Sue is still at home.”
Darrell, our editor, shook his head. “She made it to the convertible in her pink dress.”
“And puked on the dress, I heard.” That was Lev Radner, my second former boyfriend and The Core’s marketing manager.
I looked at Lev’s thick, curly dark hair, his blue eyes, his chiseled jaw. He was seriously cute, but I’m sorry, when a guy cheats on me—and this does happen with disturbing regularity—I’m gone.
T. R. Dobbs, our sportswriter, marched up. “This just in—the convertible turned back.”
“How do you know this?” I demanded.
“I never divulge my sources,” T.R. said, smiling.
“Big woman approaching.” Tanisha pointed to Mrs. Perth, who was chugging toward the tent, apple blossoms bouncing on her straw hat, not a happy camper.
I stepped into her path. “Mrs. Perth, could you—”
She almost ran me over! “Are you coming?” she barked, looking behind her.
I looked to see Lacey Horton, the Apple Blossom Queen runner-up, walking hesitantly toward the tent, not in the traditional pink dress with pink heels, but in jeans, boots, and a work shirt. Lacey was president of the Horticulture Club and, like me, the child of family orchard owners.
She caught up with Mrs. Perth, who snapped, “How you think you can represent the growers of Banesville dressed like that, Miss Horton, I will never know.”
Lacey smiled sweetly. “All I know how to be is myself.”
Mrs. Perth harrumphed and handed Lacey a tub of lip gloss. Lacey handed it back.
I took notes like mad. Tanisha snapped shots. Suddenly another photographer elbowed his way past Tanisha and started photographing Lacey.
Tanisha tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
The guy ignored her. His cap read Catch the buzz in Banesville…Read THE BEE. The Bee is our local newspaper.
Mrs. Perth hissed, “Let’s get this over with.”
Lacey looked down. She wasn’t gorgeous like Bonnie Sue, but she was pretty enough, with dark brown hair and green eyes.
“Congratulations, Lac
ey,” I said, grinning. “How’s it feel to be queen?”
“Weird,” she whispered.
“We’ve had so many challenges in town,” I continued. “What’s it mean to you to be queen of this year’s festival?”
Mrs. Perth interrupted, “We don’t have time for—”
“I’d like to answer Hildy’s question, Mrs. Perth.” Lacey smiled at me. “It means that maybe I can help people understand what it’s like to be a small farmer.”
I felt like cheering.
Lacey wasted no time redefining her role. She stood on the stage, one hand steadying her crown, the other holding the microphone.
“We all know in Banesville how things can change suddenly, like the weather,” she began.
People chuckled. That was for sure.
“I know that lots of you have come from out of town—we welcome you to Banesville and hope you have a wonderful time at our festival. I’d like to say something to all the people who are growers in this area.” She looked around the packed tent. “It’s been a hard two years; my family and I know that firsthand. Lots of us have suffered, the bad weather has hurt our crops. But I know how much every grower loves their land. That’s why we’re still here, still able to celebrate the hope of a new harvest. I’m so proud to be a part of this!” She turned grinning to her parents, who were beaming in the front row.
“We can’t give up,” Lacey continued. “We need to stand together. So today, let’s celebrate the hard work, the good land, and the wonderful produce that come from it.”
The crowd burst into applause. Tanisha’s little white dog, Pookie, ran across the stage in a sequined pink sweatshirt and jumped into Lacey’s arms. Pookie is the unofficial mascot of Banesville.
A huge roar of approval went up.
A little girl tugged at my shirt. “Is she a farmer or a queen?”
“Both,” I said, smiling.
“Cool!”
Yes. Very cool.
I titled my article on Lacey “Long Live the Queen!” I included the behind-the-scenes vomiting drama, written sensitively, of course. I tried to interview Bonnie Sue Bomgartner to see how she was doing, having lost the crown and all, but she told me to take a walk in dog poop and mind my own business. It was one of the best pieces I’d written for the paper.
