A slow smile warmed Quinn’s face. “That is a most excellent law.”
“Can you stop at my house? You have to see this: Yin and Yang got a hold of some newspapers from our recycling bin. They built a nest in the living room and they sit in it, like a pair of hawks. My mother says they’re having an identity crisis.”
“Sure—ah, foof, I can’t. I told Mickey I’d help her with her mouse.”
“You got a new pet and didn’t tell me?”
“It’s not a pet, it’s dead. Mickey found it, and she wants to give it a funeral.”
“That’s considerate of her. But you could still stop and see the nest. Oh, I almost forgot!” Neally flapped her arms in excitement. “My dad wants to ask you if …”
“Quinny Quinny Quinny, Neally Neally Neally!”
Neally whirled around and looked at the small figure that was rapidly catching up with them. “Who is that?”
“Guess I forgot to tell you about Mickey’s new haircut.”
“I believe the proper term is clear cut,” Neally said dryly. “Haircuts usually leave some hair on the head.”
Mickey doubled over when she reached Quinn and Neally. She put her hands on her knees and took deep, exaggerated breaths.
“Hey, Mickey, what’s with your new do?”
Mickey beamed at Neally. “I got it yesterday. Mom took me to the snippin’ shop after dinner.” Mickey lowered her head. “Go on, pet it. I know you want to.”
Neally ran her fingers over the short stubble. What was left of Mickey’s hair was both soft and bristly, and streaked with red, blue, green, and gold hair paint. “Mickey, this is unbelievably cool! You look like a tropical macaw.”
“Thanks. But the teacher called my mom after recess and told her I can’t use hair paint anymore. It’s too distincting to the rest of the class.”
“You mean, distracting,” Quinn said.
“That too,” Mickey said. “It’ll be great for swimming. And I can run even faster, without all that hair to catch up in gravity.”
“Let’s get going,” Neally said. “Quinn said he’s going to help with your mouse funeral.”
“He’s brother of the year! But I’ve changed my mind. No funeral.” Mickey spun in a circle, holding tight to the straps of her book pack. “Do you ever wonder, how does the world work?” She staggered, struggling to get her balance. “How does the world spin without air?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Quinn said. “Try asking it a different way.”
“I don’t think so,” Mickey said. “That could get confusing.”
“Hey, parrot-head.” Neally placed her hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “Would you like to see my cats’ idea of a bird’s nest?”
“Yes and yes again!” Mickey hugged Neally. She pulled away from the hug and pointed behind Neally. “Could Tay come too?”
“Why are they walking this way?” Neally griped. “Matt lives on the other side of school.”
“There’s a Scout meeting at Tay’s house,” Quinn whispered as the boys approached.
“Hey, cancer cabeza!” Tay ran his hand over Mickey’s colorful head. “Lookin’ cool.”
Mickey had always liked Tay and was obviously pleased with his attention. She giggled and batted at Tay’s hand. Quinn winced, then told himself that Tay wasn’t teasing her in a mean way, even if the cancer remark was strange.
“Cancer cabeza?” Neally said suspiciously.
“Cabeza means head in Spanish,” Tay said.
“Ask Arturo, if you don’t believe him,” Matt added.
“Mickey kinda looks like my Aunt Jenny,” Tay continued. “She got cancer, and her medicine made her hair fall out, so one day she just shaved her head.”
“My, what a pleasant association.” Neally used her puffed-up, Queen of England voice.
“I bet you’ll cut a few seconds off your swim time,” Tay said to Mickey.
“Or you could just wear a boy’s swimsuit,” Matt said.
“No, I can’t,” Mickey objected. “I’m a girl.”
“A girl parrot,” Quinn said solemnly.
“Oh, so you’re a girl?” Matt persisted. “Then how come you cut your hair like a boy?”
“I’m not wearing hair like a boy. I’m a girl, so it’s a girl haircut.”
“Girls’ hair is supposed to be long. Guys have short hair.”
“Hair is hair, Matt,” Neally said. “If you let it grow, it gets long, whether you’re a boy or a girl. If you cut it short, then it’s short.”
“There’s this picture of my dad in college with a ponytail—whoa!” Tay hooted. “Now he doesn’t even have enough hair on his head to …”
Matt glowered at Tay.
“Not this again,” Quinn groaned.
“I smell a sermon coming.” Neally wrinkled her nose and crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me guess, Matt: they preach about hair in your church? That must be so interesting.”
“That’s not the point. Mickey’s trying to be something she’s not. Boys need to be boys and girls should have to be girls. Maybe you don’t like it, but it’s God’s law. What makes you a good person is being what you’re supposed to be. But then,” Matt added haughtily, “I don’t expect people like you would understand.”
“Mickey is a good person,” Quinn said calmly.
“Why are you even bothering?” Neally spoke to Quinn as if they were alone. “It’s like talking back to an answering machine. It’s mechanical; it can’t understand what you’re saying.”
“We got a new answering machine,” Mickey said. “The message voice sounds like an old man with flappy gums.”
“Nobody said Mickey’s not a good person.” Tay lightly cuffed Mickey’s ear. “Let’s get going,” he pleaded to Matt.
Matt ignored Tay. “To be a truly good person, you can’t think you can know things on your own. That’s like making it up. You’d understand if you went to the right church.”
“So, if I want to be a good person I’ll go to your church? And if I want to be an elephant,” Neally snorted, “I’ll go to the zoo.”
“I’d love to be an elephant.” Mickey’s eyes widened. “You could suck up water with your nose and squirt people with your elephant booger water!”
“Like any of you could even understand.” Matt sneered. “Tay, we gotta go. The Scout meeting needs to start on time, ’cause I have to leave on time. We’re packing for the trip tonight.”
“Are you going on a Scout campout?” Mickey asked Tay. “Do sisters ever get to go along?”
“There’s no Scout trip.” Tay looked perplexed.
“It’s just me, my family.” Matt puffed out his chest. “Our family goes on a retreat. We do it every year, and I get to miss a day of school for it.”
“Oh, that trip,” Tay said.
“Is that what your dad was talking about with Ms. Blakeman?” Neally asked. “He brought her a note this morning, before the field trip,” she explained to Quinn.
“It wasn’t a note, it was an advance excused absence form,” Matt said proudly. “You can only get those from the principal’s office. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, I get out of school tomorrow.”
“Why do you have to leave Scouts early?” Tay asked. “We’re gonna make popcorn balls after the meeting. Besides, it’s not like there’s a lot to pack.” Tay looked at Neally and Quinn. “They just stay in a motel for a weekend and read religious stuff.”
“We do other things too,” Matt insisted. “We can stay up as late as we want and play games. I hold the family record for most Go Fish games won in a row. Last year I almost beat my dad at Battleship. No one beats my dad at anything.”
“And no one else can come along, and they can’t go outside or listen to music or watch any shows. Man.” Tay frowned and shook his head. “Cooped up with your family, and no TV.”
Tay chortled and ducked as Matt faked a punch at his nose.
“No wonder it’s called a retreat—it sounds like something to run away from,” Neally said.
<
br /> Matt turned his back to Neally and squatted until his face was even with Mickey’s. “I don’t expect these heathens to understand.” He stood up and looked at Quinn and Neally as if they were something mushy stuck between his soccer cleats. “But there’s still hope for you, Mickey.”
Tay took a small step away from Matt and toward Mickey. “There’s nothing wrong with Mickey.” Tay’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Hey, when I get back, I’ll get my dad to take us miniature golfing,” Matt said to Tay. “Three full rounds, and pizza afterward. Dad’s always in a good mood after the retreat.”
“Miniature golf?” Tay’s face lit up. “Dude! Maybe it could be a trip for the whole Scout troop. I wonder if you can earn a service badge for golfing?”
“I like miniature golfing,” Mickey said wistfully.
Neally’s lip curled as she watched Tay and Matt set off down the sidewalk, toward Tay’s house. “I wish I was in a 747,” she said.
Quinn threw his hands up in the air. “A 747?”
“Uh huh.” Neally’s voice was dry as sawdust. “One of those airplane barf bags would come in handy right now.”
26
WHAT LIFE SMELLS LIKE
Neally helped herself to a hunk of pineapple from the platter of fruits and cheeses her father set on the kitchen table. She handed a slice of cantaloupe to Quinn, who stood in the doorway to the living room, observing his sister. Mickey sat on Neally’s living room floor, crumpling newspapers into small round wads. Yin and Yang eyed Mickey intently but did not budge from their newsprint nest as the paper balls sailed past their heads.
“Your sister is nothing if not persistent,” Mr. Standers said.
“If that means she forgot that I promised to help her bury a dead mouse, then I like her being persistent,” Quinn said.
“I think it actually means ‘stubborn.’” Neally licked her fingers. “Yummers, this is so positively tropical! Tell me again why we can’t grow just one little pineapple plant?”
“Again, because we are so not living in a tropical zone.” Mr. Standers mimicked his daughter. “Lucky for us, your mom’s boss vacations in Hawaii every year and brings back a crate of fruit for all of her mainland minions.” He bent forward and stretched his fingers toward his toes, and although he groaned with the effort, Quinn saw that Mr. Standers’ fingers easily reached the floor.
“I pulled a muscle yesterday. I sure could use some help in the garden.”
Quinn and Neally followed Mr. Standers out to the backyard, past the raised planting beds in the southwest corner, to a shed that was attached to the back of the garage. The shed had glass panels on its roof and sides, was as wide as an adult, and stood just a few inches taller than Neally. Quinn had never seen a greenhouse that small. Greenshack would be a more accurate description.
Mr. Standers opened the shack’s door. On the floor was a box of gardening tools, and trays of seedlings were stacked on the shelves. “They’re coming along just fine.” He ran his fingers through his beard. “It’s been a mild winter, but we could still get some frost. It’s too early to take them out. We’ll just give them a bigger nursery.”
“My mom grows vegetables in her garden,” Quinn said. “She gets tomato plants from the store, and string beans and zucchini, but not until the summer.”
Mr. Standers nodded. “We’ll sow beans, squash, lettuce, and other greens directly in the soil when it’s warmer.”
“Are these the jalapeños?” Neally fingered the delicate, shiny-leafed plants that sprouted in cups made from cardboard egg cartons.
“Those are red bell peppers.” Mr. Standers pointed to another egg carton on a higher shelf. “Jalapeños are up here.”
“We start them from seeds in the winter,” Neally said to Quinn.
“I figure if I grew tomatoes and peppers in Washington I can grow ’em in Oregon,” Mr. Standers said. “But alas, no pineapple for my pining Polynesian princess.”
Neally ducked when her father tried to ruffle her hair. “Dad, what about this weekend? Is it a food prep or park patrol Sunday? Or is it a service Saturday instead?”
“We’ll do it Sunday this week. You see, Quinn,” Mr. Standers said, “Neally thought you might like to help at one of our service days.”
“It’s every weekend, on either a Saturday or Sunday morning,” Neally said. “Two times a month we go to the County Food Bank to pack bag lunches.”
“I could do that,” Quinn said. “What are they for?”
“They’re for the downtown shelter, for homeless families.”
“That’s cool. You do this every weekend?”
“Every other weekend. On the alternate weekends we pick up trash.” Mr. Standers gave Neally a knowing look. “That must be why you got your particular assignment at the Noble Woods. Mrs. L’Sotho sensed that you were an experienced Garbage Retrieval Engineer.”
“Yes, Dad, that’s exactly why.”
“We try to go to different parks every other weekend,” Mr. Standers said. “It’s a fun way to get to know them all.”
“Hillsboro has so many parks, and it’s not even half as big a city as Spokane,” Neally said. “My favorite park is the one by Gales Creek.”
“I know that place!” Quinn said. “I saw a beaver there, and an actual beaver dam.”
“But we don’t go to have fun. We go there,” Neally cleared her throat and used her serious voice, “to do good things for all humankind.” She put her hand to her mouth as if to tell a secret, but did not whisper. “Good things, schmood things: I refuse to pick up dog poop, no matter what.” She leaned closer to Quinn and whispered for real. “Speaking of dog poop, have you ever seen Mr. Barker’s hair?”
Quinn clapped his hand over his mouth, a second too late to stifle his guffaw. Mr. Standers looked quizzically at Neally and Quinn.
“Young lady, would you care to share that with the entire class?” Quinn intoned.
“We know you don’t want us to talk mean about certain people, Dad. And we’re not, we’re just trying to figure things out.”
“Certain people?”
“Do you know Mr. Barker, Matt’s father?” Quinn asked.
“Ms. Blakeman has given me some background info. And I’ve done my own research about the families of the kids in class,” Mr. Standers added, a little too quickly, Quinn thought.
“But you don’t actually know him, do you, Dad?”
“No. I’ve seen him many times, but have never met him.”
“Same here. This morning I got to see him up close, when he brought Matt to school. He came to class to give a note to Ms. Blakeman, and …” Neally wiped her hand across the top of her head. “I got a good look at his hair. Absolutely mesmerizing; it was National Geographic: Wild Apes of Sumatra hair.”
Mr. Standers chuckled. “I’m going to regret this, I know.”
“Then it came to me, Dad, and now I understand: if he didn’t slick his hair so tight, he’d be nicer. It pulls on his brain, that’s why he’s so mean.”
“How do you know he’s mean? I thought you’d never met him.”
Neally raised her chin defiantly. “I’ve met his son.”
Quinn came to Neally’s defense. “You would think a pastor would raise his kid to be nice.”
To Quinn’s surprise, Mr. Standers did not contradict his daughter. “Reverend Barker keeps Matt on a short leash, from what your teacher tells me.” Mr. Standers picked up a gardening trowel. “All that energy Matt has … just think, if it were put to good use.” He picked at a clump of mud stuck to the trowel. “I looked up their church on the web. The information is quite specific.”
“Matt’s church has a website? No way,” Neally sniffed.
“Yes way,” her father insisted.
“I didn’t know computers were mentioned in their holy book,” Neally said.
“Matt’s dad has a special edition,” Quinn said. “One with computers in it, and cars, and …”
“And sports,” Neally added. �
��You can find out what teams God wants you to root for. ‘Thy ducks, they ruleth, and thy beavers drooleth.’” Neally was silenced by the look her father gave her, but Quinn howled with laughter.
“Their website goes into great detail about the church’s beliefs.” Mr. Standers looked down at the grass. “I was curious, so I drove by the church the other day. It’s a shabby building, no bigger than your classroom, behind the QuickMart on Lincoln Avenue. Broken roof gutters and a sagging, rotting wooden entry ramp.”
Mr. Standers’ voice was low and cheerless. When he looked up, Quinn knew he was telling them something confidential, even if he did not swear them to secrecy. “There’s an old saying: ‘To understand all is to forgive all.’ Let’s try to keep that in mind.”
Neally and Quinn donned gardening gloves and moved the seedling trays to a bench in the garage. The junior gardeners followed Mr. Standers’ instructions while he went inside the house to check on Mickey. Quinn transferred buckets of compost from the compost pile into a large basin. Neally added scoops of moist, dark dirt from a barrel under the workbench, plus a smelly, murky brown liquid from a green bottle on the shelf. They used their hands to work the mixture together into what Neally said was her dad’s world famous potting soil.
“Guess you two didn’t get your fill of playing in the dirt today.” Mr. Standers leaned against the garage’s side doorway.
“We Trash Patrollers didn’t get to play in the dirt,” Quinn said.
“The Trail Fixers were the ones who got their hands dirty,” Neally said. “Where’s Mickey?”
“Can you believe she’d pass up a chance to play with fish emulsion?” Mr. Standers inhaled deeply. “Ah, the sweet smell of success.”
“Fish emulsion?” Quinn warily eyed the green bottle.
Mr. Standers nodded. “It’s my secret sauce.”
“It’s the best plant food, and it’s totally organic, right, Dad? I looked it up. It’s ground up fish guts. Maybe if you tell Mickey that …”
“No, Mickey’s on a mission. She’s got Yin fetching newspaper balls, but Yang’s still playing hard to get. Okay, once more.” Mr. Standers bent forward at the waist and grabbed his ankles. “I might have to skip the run tomorrow if these old muscles don’t get any looser.”
The Mighty Quinn Page 12
