Moon Spun

by Marilee Brothers

  After another cruise around the perimeter, the crow closed in on the target. He set his wings, banked to the left and made his approach.

  All right, Big Bird, you’re in the zone. Come on, do it!

  Splat!

  Yes!

  Tiffany screamed shrilly as bird poop dripped off her forehead, ran down her cheeks and dripped onto her Little Princess Maraschino Cherry dress. I think some of it dropped into the clam dip too. Mr. Crow must have had a power surge, because it looked like somebody had dumped a Super-Sized cup of the stuff on Tiffany’s head.

  “Arrrrgh!” she wailed, dancing up and down, her hands flapping helplessly. I heard more than a few chuckles mixed in with shrieks of dismay, as Aunt Sandra grabbed a handful of napkins off the table and began swiping at Tiffany’s face. My work here was almost done. When Tiffany’s face was poop-free, I winked at her. “Like I said, Tiffany, stuff happens.”

  I turned to leave and stole a glance at Matt. He was leaning against the door frame, laughing his butt off. Aware that everyone in the crowd was watching me, I put my shoes back on, and walked to the trailer with as much dignity as I could manage.

  Faye was inside, drinking a beer and eating cheese and crackers. She handed me an envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “It was on the steps.”

  I ripped it open and found a signed photo, a professional head shot of Junior Martinez and a set 269

  of car keys fastened onto a giant letter “A” keychain. I flipped the picture over. On the back, he’d scrawled, “Go look in the barn.”

  “No way,” I breathed.

  I handed the photo to my mother. She grinned. “You’d better hurry and get out of that dress.”

  I changed quickly and ran to the barn, Faye on my heels. The barn’s big double doors usually stood wide open. But, tonight, they were closed tight. We each took a door and yanked. I fumbled for the light.

  Both of us shrieked when we saw Junior’s low rider parked next to a wall of hay bales. The last time I’d seen the car, it was covered in gray primer. But now, the 1976

  Chevy Caprice had a shiny new coat of blue paint. Instead of a racing stripe, an intricately designed rainbow swirled down the side panels of the long, low car. The ginormous pink bow on its roof left no doubt as to Junior’s intent.

  “Oh my God, Allie!” Faye said, walking around the car and peering into the windows. “I can’t believe he gave you his car.”

  Unable to speak, I just stood and stared. I’ve never been good at accepting gifts. In the past, my mother and I had been the recipients of so-called “charity.” You know, stuff like Christmas baskets put together for poor unfortunates like Faye and me. In a town the size of Peacock Flats, there are no secrets. Personally, I’d rather eat Cup-O-Noodles for Christmas dinner, than wonder how many people chipped in to buy us a turkey.

  Okay, turkey . . . car . . . not quite the same. So, why wasn’t I jumping up and down with joy? It takes money to buy gas and insurance. Money we didn’t have.

  But, on second thought, it was a truly hot ride, so maybe I should take a moment to savor the experience of car ownership. I walked around the Chevy, trailing my fingers down its satiny surface, and wondered if it would be hypocritical to take it out for a spin. Just one. Faye opened the driver side door and peered inside. “There’s something on the driver’s seat,” she said. “Another envelope with your name on it.”

  I ripped the envelope open and pulled out a single piece of paper.

  Hey, Emerson,

  I know what you’re thinking. No way are you going to accept a gift from Junior (almost said “your ex boyfriend”

  but who knows what will happen in the future.). It’s not my car anymore so don’t argue. The title says, Alfrieda Carlotta Emerson. The insurance is paid up – check the glove box for proof. The gas tank is full. Look under the driver’s seat and you’ll find a wallet with a gas card. Use it. The bill will be sent to me. If you don’t follow these instructions, I’ll fly up there and kick your cute little butt!

  Oh yeah, about the rainbow. It reminds me of the moonstone. You’re a special girl, Emerson. You need a special ride.

  Love ya, kid.

  Junior.

  I blinked back tears, and handed the letter to Faye. While she read it, my mind sifted through the facts. Maybe, just maybe, it might work out. I’d let Junior pay for the insurance, even though it bugged me, but no way was I using the credit card. I had a job working at Uncle Sid’s fruit stand. I could buy my own gas, at least for a while.

  And when I ran out of money, I’d park it. Faye looked up at me and smiled. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a car.”

  Mind made up, it was time to party! I launched into a happy dance of joy. I raised both hands in the air. I spun, I whirled, I stomped and screeched “Yes!” at the top of my lungs. Alfrieda Carlotta Emerson. Car owner. Faye grabbed my hand and joined in the celebration. After whirling and twirling ourselves into exhaustion, we hopped in my new car and took her for a spin. Since the driveway was still blocked, our joy ride consisted of backing out of the barn and 270

  driving twenty-five yards to the trailer where I parked next to our battered old pick-up truck. Faye went inside. Grinning like a lunatic, I pumped the gas pedal, and listened to the motor purr. I ran my hands over the new leather seats, turned on the sound system, and rocked out to the music. Totally absorbed in my new toy, I yelped in surprise when Mr. Hostetler rapped on the window. Embarrassed, I fumbled with the power buttons, opening and closing all the windows, until I found the right one.

  He crouched low, and peered inside. “Some car! Completely restored, huh?”

  “It was Junior’s,” I said. “But, now it’s mine. Wanna see the registration?”

  With a bark of laughter, Mr. Hostetler waved a dismissive hand. “Nope, I believe you.”

  He walked around the car, examining it carefully, before climbing into the front seat. Nodding his approval, he checked out the interior. “Beautiful. Just beautiful.”

  “I’d take you for a ride but the driveway’s blocked,” I said.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “Actually, I need a favor.”

  Reality bit me in the butt, and I floated back to earth. With an audible gulp, I looked at my feet.

  “If this is about the . . . er . . . incident at the rodeo grounds, I’m really sorry. Do you want me to turn in my crown?”

  I looked up in time to see Mr. Hostetler’s mouth drop open.

  “If you do,” I continued. “I totally understand. It’s okay.”

  Mr. Hostetler’s face turned deep red. His lips twitched, and he tugged on his mustache. Was he trying not to laugh?

  “No way, Allie. You’re our queen, and we’re sticking with you.”

  He lapsed into some sort of coughing fit. In between spasms, I heard the words, “Dust devil . . . not your fault . . . act of God.”

  Giddy with relief, I said, “So, what’s the favor?”

  “I need a babysitter for the rest of the summer. For my son, Chad.”

  Chad was Mr. Hostetler’s ten-year-old adopted son. The previous fall, he’d walked up to me, and slipped a note into my hand. The note said, “They are all around you.

  ”

  Weird. Extremely weird. I’d never followed up, because I had enough weirdness in my life already.

  “What about your daughter?”

  “She’s away at camp. My wife’s going to summer school and I’m back at work now.”

  Mr. Hostetler and his wife had split up a few years ago. The rumor was, they couldn’t agree on how to handle Chad who was, well, a little different.

  “I’d like to help you out, but I’m working at my uncle’s fruit stand.”

  Mr. Hostetler shifted in the seat, and cleared his throat. “I’m not sure why, but Chad insists it has to be you. Maybe we could work something out with your uncle. Why don’t we go talk to him?”

  By the time the three of us hammered out an agreement, the crowd had t
hinned out, and the sun was setting. Uncle Sid decided Mercedes’ little brother, Gilbert, could fill in for me at the fruit stand during the slack times. I would show up (with Chad) to help during the busy times. The place was always mobbed at 11 a.m. when fresh corn arrived from the truck farm down the road. Traffic picked up again late in the afternoon, when people stopped to pick up fresh produce for dinner. Speaking of dinner, I still hadn’t had any.

  Thinking only of my rumbling tummy, I excused myself, and headed for the trailer.

  “Hey, Allie.”

  I sighed. Now what? I turned to see Chad Hostetler a few steps behind me.

  “Hi, Chad. How are you?”

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  His eyes were pale blue and huge in his pinched face. I couldn’t believe how pale he was. Did the kid ever go outside?

  “I’m okay,” he said, with a shy smile. “I’m glad you’re babysitting me.”

  “Yeah?” I lifted an eyebrow. “Me too.”

  Suddenly, he looked over the top of my head, nodded and smiled.

  I scanned the sky, half expecting to see my crow friend hovering overhead. Nothing.

  “Something funny?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Real funny. I’ll tell you all about it Monday.”

  Before I could say another word, he turned and scampered away. Hmmm. Maybe spending the week with a ten-year-old boy wouldn’t be as boring as I thought.

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  Chapter Five

  There must be an unwritten rule. When a good thing happens, something bad must follow immediately. The story of my life. When I stepped into the trailer, Faye was in her bedroom watching TV.

  She said, “Your dad called. Said call him collect.”

  Yeah, I actually have a dad. His name is Mike Purdy and he split before I was born. Faye hated him, of course. I didn’t know him all that well because Faye flatly refused to talk about him until a year ago. By then, I was old enough and sneaky enough to figure out a way to get at the truth. Let’s just say, Faye and I traded information.

  Once we connected, I found out Mike Purdy and I have more in common than our DNA. We’re both Star Seekers. All Star Seekers have a star on their palms. Mine is smack dab in the middle of the lunar mound (that’s the mound below the little finger and above the wrist) and, according to Star Seeker lore, the placement of my star is extremely rare. Lucky me. I found this out on my fifteenth birthday when I suddenly developed the ability to move things with my mind, starting with Blaster the bull.

  The moonstone entered my life about the same time. The moonstone prophecy, handed down from generation to generation, ended with my friend Kizzy Lovell, the Keeper. Her job was to hang on to the moonstone until the maid with the star on her palm showed up. That would be me. When my father called, it wasn’t to chat about my health, my grades or my current boyfriend. No, it usually had something to do with Trimarks wanting to kill me. Trimarks are the baddest of the bad asses and have a special mark on their palms too. An inverted triangle. And they would do anything to get their hands on the moonstone. I’d found out the hard way.

  Bottom line: I wasn’t exactly giddy with excitement when I punched Mike’s number into the phone. He answered on the first ring.

  “Allie?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Sorry I didn’t make it over for your big day.”

  His voice sounded funny. Like he had a head cold and couldn’t breathe through his nose.

  “No problem,” I said, thankful he hadn’t witnessed my humiliation.

  I relaxed and plopped down on the couch. Maybe this was a simple apology, not a laundry list of people who wanted to do me harm.

  “I was on my way over when I got a call on my cell phone,” Mike said. He paused and sucked in a long, shuddering breath. Alarmed, I waited for him to speak, but all I heard was a series of hiccoughing gasps. Oh my God, was Mike crying?

  I clutched the phone tighter. “What’s wrong? Did something happen to your family?”

  When he was able to speak, his voice was choked with emotion. “My parents. Your grandparents . . . ” His voice trailed off.

  “What about them?”

  “Car wreck. Both killed.”

  Even though I had no connection to my grandparents—we’d never met, because they’d never wanted to meet me—the news of their horrible death took my breath away.

  “Gee, Mike, I’m really sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

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  I heard him blowing his nose.

  “No, no,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know why I didn’t show up. I’ve got funeral arrangements to make and I’ll have to pack up their things and put their house on the market and . . . ”

  “Well, don’t worry about me,” I said. “Faye and I are doing fine.”

  When I told my mother the news, she bit her lip and stared out the window. I was proud of her. She could have said a lot of awful things. Way back when I was a little goldfish swimming around inside Faye’s belly, my so-called grandparents convinced Mike that Faye wasn’t good enough for him. She was all of seventeen at the time.

  Instead of demanding child support, she’d tried to make a life for the two of us.

  Okay, I know we live in a crappy travel trailer and don’t have a lot of worldly possessions but so what? We’re semi-happy, disgustingly healthy and have survived a serious Trimark effort to wipe us out. I’d say we’re doing okay.

  Message delivered, I opened the fridge to see what I could find for dinner. Faye was a waitress at Bea’s Honeypot Diner and brought home leftovers. After congealing in fat, they were usually disgusting and inedible. But, as hungry as I was, I would have settled for leftover anything. Fortunately, Friday’s special was Bea’s roasted chicken. I’d just popped a couple of drumsticks in the microwave when the phone rang. Damn! I wanted to eat, not talk, and not think about my dead grandparents. No problem. I could do both.

  “Hullo,” I mumbled through a mouth full of chicken leg.

  “Hi, what’s up?”

  Beck.

  “Not much,” I said. “Oh, yeah, I’ve got a new job and a new car.”

  “New car?”

  I got a sudden flashback of Junior and Beck sizing each other up, trying to crush each other’s hand.

  “It’s a long story.”

  Even if I took the scenic route, the destination remained the same. There was no other way to say it.

  “Junior gave me his car.”

  I paused for breath. Beck didn’t say a word. During the long silence, I realized I’d failed to mention my deceased grandparents. Now, no matter what I said, I would come across as a selfcentered jerk who put a car and a babysitting job ahead of family. Gee, Allie, why don’t you dig a deeper hole and crawl in?

  When Beck spoke, his voice was tight. “Are you keeping the car?”

  In an effort to lighten the mood, I gave a fake chuckle. “You’ve seen our pickup. Right? Death on wheels.”

  “So, it’s a safety issue,” Beck said.

  His tone sounded judgmental. It ticked me off. Since I’d already dealt with the receiving-of-gifts thing, I wasn’t going to let Beck Bradford make me feel guilty. Besides, I was sick of the whole macho, “Allie is mine” scenario. Guys. Who needs ‘em?

  “Beck,” I said. “I’m keeping the car. End of story.”

  Silently, I mouthed the words, And if you don’t like it . . .too bad!

  It took some chatting, but Beck finally got over his snit.

  “I want to see you before I go back to Seattle. Can I come over?”

  Numero uno on my list tonight was making sure I rinsed out some undies for tomorrow, but Beck 274

  didn’t need to know that. I said, “Sure, I’m not going anywhere.”

  I decided to withhold the news about my grandparents until later. I’d had enough drama today to last a lifetime.

  By the time Beck arrived, the driveway was clear. Despite what Faye called “the green-eyed monster”—her term for jealous
y—he fell in love with my new car, even though the giver was Junior. I practically had to arm wrestle him for the opportunity to drive to Tom’s Corner Market for milk and bread.

  “Allie,” he said with the superior expression he gets when he thinks he knows more than me. The one that pushes all my buttons. “This baby has a 453 cubic inch V-8

  engine. Do you realize how powerful that is?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said. “Now, gimme the keys.”

  When I turned the key in the ignition, the engine roared to life. I shifted into drive, tapped the gas pedal and we shot down the driveway.

  “Take it easy!” Beck yelled.

  I slammed on the brakes. Beck braced himself against the dashboard.

  “Get off my case!” I said. “I’m just learning her quirks. Okay?”

  We glared at each other a while.

  “Maybe you better let me drive,” Beck said.

  “Maybe you’d better walk if you don’t like the way I drive,” I shot back. I stopped at the end of the driveway and carefully looked both ways before pulling out. We zipped down Peacock Road in silence. I heard a strangled sound that told me Beck was trying not to laugh out loud.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I love it when you get all bent out of shape. You’re so cute I can’t stand it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  We arrived at our destination crash-free despite Beck’s dire predictions. When we finished our shopping and walked to the parking lot, I saw the lustful look on Beck’s face—for the car, not me—

  and handed him the keys.

  He grinned and pulled me into a bear hug. “Thanks, baby.” He nuzzled my cheek.

  “Don’t call me baby or I’ll take the keys back,” I warned.

  We took the long way home because Beck wanted to hit the freeway and “let the horses run.” By the time we pulled into the driveway, Uncle Sid’s house was dark. Beck parked the car next to the pickup and turned the motor off.