The rolling truck came to a sudden stop when it hit the large oak tree in the corner of Walter’s yard.
Chickens squawked and scurried out of the way.
Cats leaped onto the porch.
Mama raced out the front door yelling, “What in tarnation?”
Banjo dropped his head back against the seat and said, “Well, if this ain’t the icing on the cake of my hard-luck life.”
SIXTEEN
While Banjo worked on the truck, Walter and Posey trudged through the woods, pushing aside low-hanging branches and stepping over moss-covered logs. Walter knew this way led to the river, but he had forgotten how dense and overgrown it was. Even Porkchop struggled to get around prickly shrubs and through tangled vines.
Walter swiped at the gnats swarming in front of his face. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” he said. “We probably should’ve stayed on the path.”
Posey swiped at gnats, too. “But you said the river is just up ahead, right?”
“Right. But this is probably a waste of time. I don’t see how we’re ever going to find that balloon, especially with Banjo’s truck broken down again.”
Posey stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Walter Tipple!” she said. “Remember what I told you was rule number one in Caesar Romanoff’s Rules for Making Friends?”
“I know, I know. Think positive,” Walter said, “But this is gonna take forever.”
They continued making their way through the dense woods, stepping over pricker bushes and swatting gnats. When they got to a small clearing, Posey sat in a patch of feathery ferns. “Let’s take a break,” she said. She pulled a floppy piece of cheese wrapped in plastic from her shirt pocket, unwrapped the cheese and tore it in half. “Want some?” she asked.
Walter shook his head.
Posey tore off a piece of cheese and tossed it to Porkchop, who caught it in midair.
“Sometimes I can’t believe he only has three legs!” she said. “I wish I knew how he lost that leg. Evalina says he probably got it caught in a bear trap.” She rolled some of the cheese into a ball and popped it into her mouth. Then she held up two fingers. “Now, here’s rule number two for making friends,” she said. “When you’re talking to someone, always look ’em in the eye.” She ducked her head toward Walter and stared into his eyes. “And say their name,” she said. “Everybody loves to hear their own name.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s practice. Tell me something and say my name.”
“Um, well, um, nice weather we’re having today, Posey.”
Posey shook her head. “You left out one part of the rule.”
“What part?”
“You gotta look me in the eye. Do it again.”
Walter widened his eyes and stared straight into Posey’s face. “Nice weather we’re having, Posey,” he said.
“That’s better. Remember, look ’em in the eye and say their name.”
She tossed another piece of cheese to Porkchop, then rolled the rest into a ball with her palms. “Okay, here’s rule number three.”
“I think we should keep going to the river,” Walter said. “We’re almost there.”
“Look,” Posey said. “If you want me to help you make friends, you gotta practice this stuff. Only a few more weeks till school starts.”
Walter’s stomach squeezed up at the thought of school. “Okay,” he said.
“Rule number three is smile,” Posey continued. “A lot. Now try it.”
Walter felt silly but he smiled at Posey.
“No, not a little weeny smile!” Posey said. “A big, true smile. Like this.”
She demonstrated a big, toothy grin.
Walter tried again, feeling even sillier.
“Perfect,” Posey said. “Now let’s combine rules two and three.”
Walter sighed.
“Nice weather we’re having today, Posey,” he said, looking her in the eye and grinning.
“Very good.”
Then she popped the ball of cheese into her mouth and said, “Let’s go.”
* * *
That night at supper, Walter stared glumly down at his plate. He poked his fork into the bright orange macaroni and cheese Mama had made from a box. She used to make the best homemade macaroni and cheese. It had been Tank’s favorite.
But it didn’t matter anyway because Walter didn’t feel much like eating. He couldn’t seem to get his niggling anger and pesky worries and swirling thoughts to settle down.
First, why had Mama cleared out Tank’s bedroom? Did she expect Walter to just forget that his brother had ever lived here? He couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat every time he walked past that room. He wanted to open the door and see Tank’s football trophies and the jumble of sheets on the bed and the blanket nailed over the window instead of the empty shelves and the perfectly made bed and the lacy curtains.
For another thing, school would be starting soon and no matter how many rules from Posey’s book he learned, he wasn’t convinced they would help him make friends. He could smile and call people by their names, but he’d still have that lazy eye and those pigeon toes. He’d still be puny and shy. And he’d never be like Tank.
Then there was that dream. The one about his birthday.
What did it mean?
But then, maybe it didn’t mean anything.
His birthday was in just about two weeks. And even though Tank was there in that dream, in real life, he wouldn’t be.
For the first time ever.
A birthday without Tank.
Walter stabbed at a piece of cold orange macaroni. At least his father would be home. He had called from somewhere in Texas and said there was no way he would miss Walter’s birthday.
Deep down inside, a little seed of an idea was beginning to grow. What if he told Posey about his dream? She always seemed to have an answer for everything. Maybe she would know what his dream meant.
That night, Walter had the dream again. When he woke up, he sat on the side of the bed in his dark bedroom and, with the sweet smell of honeysuckle drifting through the open window, decided he would tell Posey about his dream.
SEVENTEEN
The next day, Walter sat out by the garden and listened to Banjo’s angry mumbles drifting out of his truck. The part he needed to fix it had had to be ordered and no one seemed to know how long it would take. Banjo’s friend Kudzu was supposed to be coming to take him home to Pine Mountain, but still hadn’t shown up.
Posey was on the back porch, hunched over a piece of paper. She had drawn a map showing where the hot-air balloon started its flight from Pine Mountain, where Banjo had landed in the woods in Harmony, and several locations where the balloon might have come down by the Chattahoochee River. Her eyebrows squeezed together as she scribbled numbers.
“How fast did you say that balloon was going?” she called over to Banjo.
“I’ve told you three times,” Banjo yelled from the truck. “By my calculations, which are most assuredly correct, I’d say six miles an hour.”
Posey looked at Walter. “Okay, so I’m thinking that balloon probably landed about fifteen minutes after Banjo jumped.” She did some more scribbling on her map. “So it must’ve gone about a mile and a half.”
“But which direction?” Walter said.
She held up her map and pointed. “Probably this direction.”
She walked over to Banjo’s truck and gave it a pat. “Is this thing gonna be fixed today?” she asked.
“I am a lot of fine and noble things,” Banjo said. “But I am not a magician.”
“I thought you were the best mechanic in the world,” Posey said.
Banjo swatted at flies hovering near his bad foot. He was no longer using crutches. Instead, he was hobbling around on the dirty blue cast. “Even the world’s best mechanic can’t rebuild a master cylinder in a day if they have to wait on the gol-dern parts.”
He wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief. Then he went on a tangent
about the auto parts store.
“Hire a bunch of babies and that’s what you get. Baby help, which is basically useless,” Banjo grumbled. “That little ol’ baby helper was a dang fool. His corn bread ain’t cooked in the middle, I can tell you that.”
Walter sighed.
It was clear that Banjo wasn’t going to have his truck running today.
“Let’s take your map down to the river,” he called to Posey.
* * *
“Okay, here’s Caesar Romanoff’s rule number four,” Posey said as she and Walter made their way toward the river, with Porkchop trotting along behind them. “Ask people lots of questions about themselves. Then when they tell you the answers, say things like ‘Wow!’ and ‘No way!’” She pushed aside a thorny stem and held it for Walter. “That makes people feel special and they think you’re interested in them. So, even if you’re not, just fake it.”
“Okay.”
“Now try it,” Posey said. “Pretend like you want to be friends with me but we’re just meeting for the first time.”
“Um, well, um, good afternoon, Posey,” Walter said, stopping to look Posey in the eye like he was supposed to from rule number two.
Posey nodded approvingly. “Very good!”
“Do you have any hobbies?” Walter asked.
“Why, yes, I do,” Posey said. “I collect coins and I’m really good at Rubik’s Cube.” She smiled at Walter. “That’s the truth, by the way.”
“Um, oh, that’s nice.”
“No!” Posey said. “You’re supposed to say ‘Wow!’ or ‘No way!’ to make me feel special.”
“Oh, okay. Um, wow!”
“That was lame,” Posey said. “Try again.”
Walter’s mind raced. Here was his chance. He was just going to go for it. “Have you ever had the same dream a bunch of times?” he asked.
Posey stopped and cocked her head. “You mean, like, a recurring dream?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Really?”
Walter nodded.
“Wow!” Posey said. “And I’m not just saying that to make you feel special. What’s the dream about?”
“Um, Tank,” Walter said. All of a sudden he felt like he was going to cry. His chin began to quiver. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on not crying. When he felt like he had things under control, he told Posey about the dream.
“How long have you been dreaming that?” she asked.
“Ever since Tank left.”
“Wow,” Posey said again. “And you never get to the part where you actually blow out the candles?”
Walter shook his head. “Never. I wake up at the same place every time.”
“Hmmm.” Posey scratched her chin. “When’s your birthday?”
“August 5.”
“Hmmm.” Posey looked up at the sky. “I used to have a book about dreams but I had to take it back to the Goodwill when we left Tennessee.” She looked at Walter. “Dang,” she said. “I bet dreaming about your birthday and your dead brother means something, for sure.”
Dead brother?
Those words stabbed Walter.
Deep and sharp.
Posey widened her eyes. “Oh, sorry!” she said.
“That’s okay.”
But Walter still felt the sting of those words.
“Maybe it means you’re going to become just like Tank,” Posey said. “You know, cool and confident.”
“Ha!” Walter said. “That’ll be the day.”
“Or maybe you’re going to win a trip around the world!” Posey said.
Walter shook his head. “Not very likely.”
“Maybe Tank is a ghost and will come to visit you on your birthday.”
Walter felt the blood drain from his face and his hands began to tremble at the thought of Tank being a ghost.
Posey shook her head. “Naw. That’s crazy. That won’t happen,” she said.
“Maybe that dream doesn’t mean anything,” Walter said.
Posey clapped him on the back. “You know, one time I dreamed that I looked in the mirror and I looked like a movie star. Perfect skin and perfect hair like those girls in magazines. I even had a crown. But guess what happened when I woke up?”
“What?”
“I looked in the mirror and it was just me. Same ol’ face. Same ol’ hair. No crown, that’s for sure.”
Walter wasn’t sure why Posey was telling him this.
“My point,” she went on, “is that sometimes maybe dreams are supposed to make you feel good for just one little blip in your life. One little blip of feel-good you might be needing in your otherwise sorry existence.”
Walter thought about that for a minute.
A blip of feel-good?
Maybe.
But then again, maybe not.
EIGHTEEN
Walter sat by his bedroom window and stared out at the starry summer sky. Banjo’s snores drifted from the back of the broken-down truck, resting against the oak tree in the yard. His friend Kudzu still hadn’t shown up like he was supposed to. Evalina said she would give him a ride back to Pine Mountain but Banjo had proclaimed himself far too much of a gentleman to take advantage of the goodness of an angel.
“Oh, my dear, dear Evalina,” he had said. “I could never live another day with myself if I imposed upon you like that. All that dern construction over on Highway 14 has caused a detour that would inconvenience you far more than this gentleman could endure.” He glanced over at his truck, resting against the oak tree in Walter’s yard. “I would walk over hot coals barefoot for you, so one more night under the stars means nary a thing to Jubilation T. Fairweather.”
Posey, of course, kept saying, “Oh, brother.”
Then Banjo had mumbled under his breath about what a lousy friend Kudzu was before climbing into the back of his truck for the night.
* * *
“Hurry up!” Posey called from out by the mailbox the next morning. “I got a good feeling about today!”
Walter gulped down the last of his orange juice and dashed out the door, letting the screen slam with a bang and making Mama holler something after him.
“I got a good feeling about today!” Posey said again. Her face was sunburned and freckled, that heart-shaped birthmark deep purple. She wore a Save the Bees T-shirt that came down to her knees. She turned and marched briskly toward the woods with Porkchop hop-trotting behind her.
“Hurry up!” she called over her shoulder.
Walter scurried after her, tossing the last piece of his toast to Porkchop. “Why are we going this way?” he asked.
Posey took a wrinkled piece of paper from the pocket of her shorts and unfolded it. She pointed to the map on the paper. “I’m thinking that the wind could’ve carried the balloon in this direction,” she said.
Walter shook his head. “That doesn’t seem right to me. Besides, if it landed in the river, the current would have carried it in that direction.” He pointed in the opposite direction from where they were headed.
“Trust me,” Posey said.
The path got narrower and narrower until it disappeared completely. Now they had to trudge through prickly holly bushes and weave around chokeberry trees and scraggly dogwoods.
Every now and then, Porkchop disappeared into the thick brush. Walter worried he might get lost and not come back but Posey didn’t seem the least bit concerned. And, luckily, Porkchop always showed up again, his scruffy fur full of burrs.
Finally, Walter stopped. “This is crazy,” he said. “It’s too hot to be doing this.”
Posey held up five fingers. “Rule number five according to Caesar Romanoff is quit your griping.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It is!”
Walter raised his eyebrows. “Quit your griping?”
“Well, not those exact words, but that’s what he meant,” Posey said. “No one wants to be friends with a griper.”
&n
bsp; “This doesn’t seem like the best way to get to the river,” Walter said.
“Okay, then, how would you get there. Helicopter?”
Walter shrugged.
“Then let’s just keep going,” Posey said. “It’s not much farther.”
Sure enough, after a few more minutes in the dense woods, they came to the river. The air was cooler and the gently flowing water made soft gurgling noises.
They continued on, following the bank of the river, until a most surprising and wondrous thing happened.
They rounded a bend and there, stuck in a cluster of pickerelweed and cattails, was Banjo’s hot-air balloon.
NINETEEN
Walter and Posey stopped walking at the same time.
They said, “Whoa!” at the same time.
They scrambled down the bank to the river at the same time.
“That’s it!” Walter hollered. “That’s Banjo’s balloon!”
Posey pumped her fist and let out a “Whoo-hoo” that echoed across the water. “Starcatcher!” she yelled.
Porkchop waded into the shallow water at the edge of the river, sniffing at the balloon and wagging his tail.
The silky fabric was exactly as Banjo had described it.
Every color of the rainbow with silver stars and golden moons.
But now it was torn and muddy, part of it swirling among the cattails and part of it under the murky water.
Beyond the weedy shallow water, attached to the fabric by cables, was a very large wicker basket, partially submerged in the deeper part of the river.
On top of the wicker basket was a metal frame. At the top of the frame were two round cylinders.
“Those are burners!” Posey said, pointing at the cylinders. “Wanna know how I know that?”
“How?”
“From my book Land, Sea, and Air: A Child’s Book About Transportation,” Posey said. “Evalina made me leave it in Tennessee. There was a chapter about hot-air balloons. The burners heat the air inside the balloon. That’s what makes the balloon rise. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because hot air rises.”
Halfway to Harmony Page 5
