The Mighty Quinn

by Robyn Parnell

  “It’s like feathers.” AnnaClaire ran her slim fingers over the picture Mr. Standers pointed to.

  “Yes,” Mr. Standers said, “it’s quite distinctive. Giant Reed Grass provides a good winter habitat for deer and rabbits. But it’s invading the wetlands and meadows here, and crowding out the native ferns and grasses. Does everyone think they can recognize it?”

  The students nodded enthusiastically and followed Mr. Standers up the southwest trail.

  “Another assignment is to pick up trash along the way, and do a concentrated trash-sweep by the boardwalk and bridge. Remember, don’t pick up anything unless you’re wearing gloves, and even then, don’t touch broken glass, sharp objects, or anything you can’t identify.”

  “Like Josh’s brain?” Matt piped up from the end of the group. “I don’t think any of us could identify that from a road kill blob if we saw it, so watch your step.”

  Josh stuck out his tongue and slapped his palms to his head. “Anybody seen my brain? It looks like a squashed possum.” Josh spoke as if his mouth was filled with soggy spaghetti.

  The rest of the group joined in with Matt’s laughter. Even Quinn had to admit that it was a funny remark. He forced himself to produce a few feeble chuckles as he worked his way to the front of the group and followed Mr. Standers into the woods.

  21

  VERY SMALL GUMWRAPPERS COULD BE HIDING

  Mr. Standers divided his students into four working pairs: two pairs were assigned reed grass-pulling duties, and the other two pairs were to be the main trash patrol. Quinn was pleased to see that Mr. Standers had separated Matt and Josh. Quinn was partnered with Kristen, who acted as if their assignment, patrolling the left side of the trail, was vital to national security. She trailed behind Quinn, overturning twigs and leaves with the tip of her shoe and ignoring his occasional attempts at conversation. “Very small gum wrappers could be hiding” were the only words Quinn got out of her, even after he’d groused that she was checking the same spots he’d already gone over.

  When they reached the boardwalk, Mr. Standers reminded the trash patrols to stay close to the sides and not trample the underbrush. He took the reed grass removers to the end of the boardwalk and helped them pull up the unwanted plants.

  Quinn scrutinized the woods on either side of him. How little he’d noticed during his previous visits to the Noble Woods, when he’d tramped over the boardwalk as if it were just another part of the trail. Now he saw that it was a carefully constructed section of wooden two-by-fours spanning a grassy area that, Mr. Standers said, was often flooded during the early winter months. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to build it, Quinn thought. He began to search the surrounding grasses and underbrush with renewed spirit, silently rejoicing when he found a stash of mud-encrusted bottle caps at the base of a large sword fern.

  Quinn took a break, and set his bag atop a mossy stump. Matt and his partner AnnaClaire, and Josh and Lily pulled up tufts of reed grass that poked up between the planks of the boardwalk. Mr. Standers was clearing a large patch of reed grass to the right of the boardwalk. Arturo and James were on trash patrol behind Mr. Standers. Quinn noted with a mixture of pride and disgust the size of the trash bags the boys dragged behind them. It was satisfying to see how much they’d done, but how did all the junk get here in the first place? he wondered. Fast food wrappers, crumpled cigarette packs—what kind of people dump trash in the woods?

  Quinn looked up at the sky, no longer needing to shield his eyes against the sun. Billowy white and gray clouds were invading the rapidly shrinking patches of blue. Invading; no, that was the wrong term. Clouds might be invasive, but they were definitely a native species in Oregon. Quinn wished Sam and Neally, even Tay, were with him to hear and appreciate his clever thought. The air had that musty, it’s-gonna-rain smell. Perhaps Tay’s prediction was on track. What was it Neally had said last week, when Sam asked her how she felt about living in Hillsboro? If you don’t like the weather, don’t worry. It’ll change in five minutes.

  Quinn held his breath for a moment, and found the lack of noise unsettling. He slowly exhaled, closed his eyes, and realized that it wasn’t so silent after all. The absence of human chatter was what had caught his attention. If he listened closely he could detect the distant, rapid tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker, the twitterings of squirrels, and the calls of songbirds. But except for the rustle of plastic sacks there was almost no sound from Quinn’s fellow humans.

  Mr. Standers’ group worked in diligent silence. They were friendly and focused; Quinn even caught Matt giving Lily an admiring glance when she helped Josh pull up a stubborn shaft of reed grass that had wrapped itself around a slender aspen. The pairs worked side by side, separately and yet together. Quinn began to appreciate the idea of teamwork, a word he’d always thought had to do with sports, and he thought again about what Mr. Standers had said.

  Quinn stepped off the boardwalk into damp grasses to retrieve an aluminum can that gleamed from beneath a bush. He inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to identify the aromas that surrounded him. Some scents were predictable: wet earth, moss-covered wood, and stagnant water. Others seemed familiar but out of place. What was it—a plant? An animal?—that smelled like the minty ointment Quinn’s father used when he pulled a muscle in his back?

  Mr. Standers strode to the middle of the boardwalk. He checked his watch, placed his hands on his hips, pursed his lips, and let out a low whistle. “Magnificent! And I’m not only talking about the scenery. Before we move on to the bridge, take a good look at what you’ve done.”

  The students beamed with satisfaction. Not one scrap of paper littered the grasses or bushes, and the boardwalk and the surrounding grounds were free of the feathery reed grass.

  Kristen held up a piece of faded orange paper the size of a pinkie-finger Band-Aid. She dropped it into her sack, which appeared to be empty except for that one piece of debris. “Yes!” she hissed triumphantly. “Is it time for lunch yet?”

  22

  THE THREE TRASHKETEERS

  “The skies are beautiful in Hillsboro; they change so often! Do you native Oregonians appreciate that?” Neally let herself fall back onto the thick green grass in the North Meadow. She rolled over onto her stomach, reached for her lunch sack, and grinned at Quinn and Sam. “If you grew up here you might take it for granted.”

  After everyone met up at the North Meadow, Ms. Blakeman announced that the groups could temporarily disband for lunch. Although they’d need to rejoin their groups for the return to the bus, the students could eat lunch with whomever they chose. Quinn, Neally, and Sam used their parkas to improvise a picnic blanket on the grass under an oak tree in the middle of the meadow. Quinn checked his lunch bag. The short, squatty thermos meant his mom had packed his favorite lunch: leftover pasta.

  “Macaroni and cheese for Master Andrews-Lee!” Sam sang out. He frowned at his own baloney sandwich, which had gotten squashed by his apple. “Welcome to our destination, sanitized for your protection by those Master Trash Collectors, Ms. Blakeman’s Rakemen.”

  “You worked here, in the North Meadow?” Neally gave Sam an admiring grin. “Nice job.”

  “You wouldn’t believe how much trash there was before your groups got here,” Sam said.

  “Oh, yes, I would,” Quinn replied.

  “I was a Master Trash Locator,” Sam said.

  “Me too,” Neally said.

  “Me three!” Quinn added.

  “The Three Trashketeers!” Neally raised her hand and exchanged high-fives with the boys. “Hey, Lily!” Neally jumped to her feet and waved to Lily, who stood by her mother at the far end of the meadow. “Do you think Lily will want to eat with us?”

  “Too late.” Sam pointed to Arturo and Janos, who had joined Lily’s mother.

  “She was a weed-puller in our group,” Quinn said.

  “We Trashketeers must stick together,” Sam said. “We are noble, but underappreciated. No sharing our hard-earned meal break with weed-pullers.”


  “Oh, spare me,” Neally groaned. “We didn’t have any weed-pullers, just Trash Masters and Trail Clearers. I don’t think the Trail Clearers worked as hard as us Trash Masters.”

  “Ditto that,” Sam said.

  “I chose Janos for a partner, which was a superb choice if I do say so myself. And I just did.” Neally took a swig from her water bottle. “He has Superman X-ray vision when it comes to spotting candy wrappers. I bet we picked up twice as much as Tay and Brandon.”

  “We work together; the many are one.” Sam spoke in his robot voice. “This is not a competition, Ms. Standwell.”

  “I know that. But we see who works hard and who doesn’t, no matter what the adults say.”

  “How come your group got to choose partners?” Quinn asked.

  “We didn’t,” Neally said. “When Ms. Blakeman said she’d randomly assign partners—like we’d believe anything assigned is random—a few kids made faces. I could tell someone was going to say something mean if they were paired with Janos, so I asked to be his partner.”

  “Matt … HEE-ACK!” Quinn choked on a mouthful of macaroni. He shook his head and waved away Sam, who had raised his hand above Quinn’s shoulder blades as if he were going to slap him on the back. “I’m okay,” Quinn gasped. He took a sip of water.

  “Mac-ahack-aroni? An honorable Trashketeer must not talk about food and eat food at the same time,” Sam said.

  “He wasn’t talking about food.” The jungle-cat look crept into Neally’s eyes, which had darkened to the color of the meadow grass. “He was going to say something about Matt.” She rolled over onto her back and shaded her eyes with her hand.

  Even though they were in the middle of the meadow, at least thirty feet away from anyone else, Quinn lowered his voice. “Your dad put Lily and Matt together. But Matt didn’t want to be with her, so he put Lily and Josh together.”

  “What—no way!” Neally abruptly sat up stiff and tall. “My dad would never let anyone say a mean thing about …”

  “Would you let me finish?” Quinn snapped.

  Neally’s mouth opened and closed without making a sound. She looked at Quinn as if she’d forgotten who he was, and seemed both embarrassed and impressed.

  “Your dad didn’t let anyone do anything, okay?”

  “Righty-o.” Sam’s eyes blinked rapidly. He’d never heard that strong of a tone come from Quinn. He picked pieces from his sandwich and tossed them to a blackbird that hopped around the base of the oak tree. “How did Neally’s dad know Matt didn’t want to be with Lily?”

  “When your dad started naming the partners, Matt was right next to him. Your dad called out me and Kristen for trash, then Matt and Lily. But he didn’t get ‘Lily’ out; it was like, ‘Matt and Li—’ and Matt got this weird look. His eyes got all big, and he jerked his chin, like he was nodding ‘No’ to Mr. Standers but didn’t want the rest of us to see it.” Quinn looked around the meadow. “Lily was putting her gloves on. She didn’t notice; I don’t think anyone else did.”

  “You did,” Sam said.

  “And your dad.” Quinn nodded at Neally, who still looked defensive. “He just went right on. He said, ‘Matt and Lily will be reed pullers, teamed with AnnaClaire and Josh.’ Real smooth, like it was his first choice.”

  “Can anyone join this crew, or is it invitation only?”

  Neally’s father shaded his eyes as he walked toward the oak tree. “Make up your mind,” Mr. Standers pleaded to the sky in mock exasperation. “Will we be tanning or dripping?”

  “Tanning?” Sam rolled up his sleeve and tapped his fingers against the freckles on his pale skin. “Does not compute.”

  Quinn held his arm out and compared it with his friend’s. “I’m way darker than you.”

  “Way?” Sam smirked. “Lily is way. You are barely way.”

  “Hi, Dad. We just finished eating.” Neally stood up and pulled her parka out from underneath Quinn’s thermos, and Quinn looked longingly at the rest of his lunch. “We’re going to check out a stream over there,” Neally said, pointing to the southeast corner of the meadow, “before we have to head back.”

  Quinn and Sam exchanged what-is-she-talking-about? glances. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Quinn said. Neally stuck out her tongue at Quinn, but her eyes were merry.

  “Care for some company?” Mr. Standers looked at his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes before the clicker tolls.”

  “Most certainly.” Sam grabbed his pack and tied his parka around his waist.

  The three students and one adult headed for the stream. Sam rolled his sleeves back down, and Mr. Standers pointed at Sam’s forearm. “I had an aunt who said freckles came from angel kisses.” Sam’s face reddened, and Mr. Standers quickly added, “But she was a crazy old bat.”

  Neally ran up the footbridge that crossed over the small stream. “This is more like a pond,” she said, leaning over the handrail. “The water’s barely moving. I can see my reflection.”

  Sam tossed a pebble over the handrail. Quinn looked into the water. “It’s like her skin.” He felt three pairs of eyes upon him, and realized he’d spoken his thought aloud. “Lily’s mom,” he explained. “She’s got the sparkliest skin.” He rolled up his sleeve and rested his forearm on the handrail. One by one Neally, Sam, and Mr. Standers did the same.

  “Cool!” Neally said. “You move down there.” She directed her father to trade places with Quinn so that the four arms were lined up in order of increasing brownness, from Sam to Quinn to Neally to her father. “We could do the whole class. Kelsey would be there,” she pointed at the spot in front of Sam.

  “And Arturo there,” Quinn said as he pointed to the spot between Neally and her father, “and Teena …” He closed his eyes and tried to picture his classmates.

  “And Brandon there!” Sam pointed toward a port-o-potty at the far corner of the meadow. He looked thoughtfully at Mr. Standers. “Why is Lily’s skin so much lighter than her mom’s?”

  Quinn felt uneasy, but wasn’t sure why. He had wondered the same thing himself. For all the talk of how wonderful people were because of their differences, it seemed to Quinn that adults often pretended not to notice the differences, and then acted annoyed or embarrassed when the kids did. But Mr. Standers wasn’t the least bit troubled by Sam’s question.

  “Lily’s family is multi-ethnic. That means …”

  “We didn’t just fall off the diversity truck,” Neally huffed. “We know what that means.”

  “Daughter, must I invoke the dreaded Peanut Gallery Rule?”

  Quinn and Neally giggled. Sam looked confused. Mr. Standers spoke to Sam, using an accent Quinn had heard in an old vampire movie. “Ve shall ignore des peasants.” He nodded at Neally and Quinn. He continued in his regular voice. “Lily’s mom is from Namibia, in Africa. Lily’s dad was born in the United States, and his parents were from Northern Africa and France.”

  “That’s way more interesting than being from Spokane,” Neally sighed.

  “Think of the frequent flyer miles they could earn, going to family reunions,” Sam noted.

  “I’ve never been to another country,” Quinn said, “but I was named after my Dad’s friend, who lives in Ireland.”

  Click click, click click.

  Ms. Blakeman stood in the center of the meadow. She turned slowly in a circle with her hands held above her head, her frog clicker inside a piece of paper that she had folded into a cone shape, like a megaphone.

  “That’s our five minute warning. Remember where we regroup?” Mr. Standers looked around the meadow, his gaze stopping at the oak tree. “Whose bottles are those?”

  Neally and Sam scampered to fetch their water bottles. Mr. Standers leaned back against the handrail. “You look ready to go,” he said to Quinn. Quinn nodded, picked up a handful of pebbles, and dropped them one by one into the water.

  “So tell me, Quinn, what do you like to do?”

  Quinn froze for a moment, but just a moment. “
I like dropping rocks into water.”

  Mr. Standers sounds like Neally when he laughs. Quinn was pleased to have sparked that laugh from Mr. Standers. Everything Quinn knew about Neally’s father made Quinn think that Mr. Standers didn’t expect the usual answers to the usual questions. Quinn hated it when adults asked him the what-do-you-do question because he knew what they really were after. They wanted you to talk about what distinguished you from other kids. They wanted you to spew your list of hobbies, your many accomplishments in sports, your baseball or game card collections—things kids get known for.

  Mickey could at least talk about her swimming. Quinn was looking for something to call his own; something to make him special. He had confided that to Neally, on the way home from school, just last week. Your name goes on the certificate if your class wins the community service project, he’d said. Your own, individual name, not just your class. And the names are carved into a plaque, which goes up at city hall, and stays there forever, for everyone to see.

  Quinn wondered if Neally had said anything to her father. No, she wouldn’t do that. Quinn handed some pebbles to Mr. Standers, and they stood in comfortable silence for a minute, dropping the small rocks over the handrail into the water.

  “Time to join up,” Mr. Standers said. He and Quinn headed for the drinking fountain at the southwest corner of the meadow, where the rest of their group gathered around their equipment. Mr. Standers began counting tools and gloves.

  “The rest of the groups have already left.” James glanced anxiously toward the trail.

  “We can catch up,” Mr. Standers said. “I just want to make sure we’ve got everything.”

  “Aren’t we done?” Josh asked.

  “We’ll double check for trash on the way back, but yes, we’re finished.” Mr. Standers looked around the meadow. “We’re missing seven gloves. Three of the smaller pairs, and one of the larger ones. Who used the smaller pairs?”

  Lily smiled shyly. “It was mine, the big one. I ate there, with my mother.” She pointed toward a grassy knoll on the other side of the stream.