Trevor Lee and the Big Uh Oh!

by Wiley Blevins

  Sally Fay took one look at it and started to spin. Like she was going to faint. But she held on this time.

  Then we had to write color poems. Don’t ask me why. It was on the list.

  Walter wrote:

  Summer is… red.

  Blazing sun, beach-burned shoulders and cheeks, the lifeguard’s trunks.

  Wild strawberry, Mars red, scarlet, and razzmatazz.

  That kid is a show-off.

  Sally May and Sally Fay wrote:

  Orange.

  Orange is like pumpkins, squash, and Bobby Sue’s hair.

  Orange dresses, orange shoes, and orange crayons.

  Those two aren’t very creative.

  I chose the color white. I wrote:

  White.

  White is like chicken poop.

  The Boog read it and said it was “short and sweet.” I think she really liked it. Sally May looked jealous. I don’t care cause she’s still my enemy #1.

  Then The Boog gave each of us a slip of paper. It had instructions on it for our field trip. Instructions is just a fancy word teachers use to mean “lots of stupid rules.”

  Luckily, there were only three. And she read them aloud to us.

  1. No throwing, biting, or smashing apples.

  How were we going to have fun?

  2. No climbing ladders. Only pick up apples from the ground.

  Sally Fay the fake fainter would be good at that. She liked being on the floor.

  3. Stay with your field trip partner at all times.

  This was an easy one. Pinky was stuck to me like a tongue on a flagpole in the middle of winter. Pinky knew a lot about that. Principal Harris wouldn’t let him anywhere near a flag from October through May.

  Maybe this field trip would turn out okay after all.

  Some days end almost right. Almost.

  Chapter 73⁄4

  M amaw lay sleeping on the couch when I got home. She sometimes falls asleep watching her afternoon shows. Especially if they’re reruns. She says watching the same show twice is like washing your hair, then running out in a rainstorm without a hat.

  I grabbed a snack from the kitchen. Then sat and waited for her to come back to life. The worse thing you can do is wake a sleeping grandma. They tend to swing their arms.

  Barks-a-Lot curled up next to Mamaw. And started whining for a little of my snack. I don’t know if it was Barks-a-Lot whining and licking Mamaw’s face or me laughing that woke her up.

  “Sleeping your life away, Mamaw? I asked.

  “Oh dear,” she mumbled. “Is it that time already? I have far too much to do before your Mother and Daddy get home. I can’t be glued to this couch all day.” With that Mamaw rolled on her side. And swung her legs onto the floor. This caused her to spin and flip upright. Then she pushed with all her might to stand. I grabbed her shoulders and pulled.

  “That’ll about do it,” she said. Now standing. And swayed a bit from side to side as she caught her balance. “So,” she went on, “good day or bad day?”

  “I’m sitting on the fence with this one,” I said.

  “Speaking of fences, I need to pick some fruit from the back of the field. Wanna join me?”

  I loved walking to the edge of our farm. Hugging the fence was a line of fruit trees. Apples. Peaches. Pears. And Plums. There were even a few grape vines weaving in and out of the fence. It was like our very own fruit stand.

  It took us a while to get there. We had to pass the chicken coop without the chickens seeing us and squawking for food. We also had to pass the barn, unlatch the fence gate without any cows escaping, and watch our step as we made our way to the back of the field. We didn’t want to get anything unexpected on our shoes. The cows graze and run in the field. But it’s also their bathroom.

  Once under the trees, we filled one large bag with apples and two smaller bags with peaches. We didn’t have enough grapes to fill a bag so we just plucked a few handfuls.

  “So, why are you sitting on the fence about school?” asked Mamaw. As we sat for a spell under one of the apple trees. Mamaw pulled out a chocolate bar hidden in her dress pocket. Split it in ½. Almost. And gave me the slightly bigger piece.

  I told Mamaw all about word problems, the Family Night reading, and how I didn’t want to go back to 2nd Grade.

  Mamaw pulled me in close. And wrapped her arm around me.

  “Let me tell you a secret,” she said. “When your Daddy was about your age, he and school had a terrible battle, too. He came home every day with his chin dragging on the floor. One day he announced, ‘I ain’t goin’ back.’ Me and your Papaw marched down to the school to see what was the matter.”

  “What was wrong?” I asked.

  “Turns out, your Daddy was having a devil of a time with multiplication.”

  “Really?” I asked. “But math is so easy! At least the kind with numbers is.”

  “Not for your Daddy,” said Mamaw.

  “What happened next?”

  “Your Papaw worked with him on his homework. The teacher gave him extra lessons before and after school. I said a prayer or two. And after a while, a long while, he did better. He was able to make it through. But he never did take a real liking to it. Always said math was like a relative you hated to see come visit. You had to sit through it, but you didn’t have to enjoy it.”

  “Do you think the same thing can happen to me?” I asked. “With reading?”

  “I’m as sure as the sun rising in the morning,” Mamaw said with a smile. And I knew she believed it.

  “You never do talk about when you were in school. Why Mamaw?”

  “Ain’t much to tell,” she answered softly. Then got quiet.

  “Well, look at the time. We best be getting a move on. We need to feed those chickens or they’ll refuse to lay us eggs,” she finally said.

  With that we gathered our bags of fruit. And headed back.

  “I’ll race you to the chicken coop,” I laughed. And took off running. I ran all the way to the edge of the field, near the gate. I was about to unlatch it when I spotted Hippie. And Hippie spotted me. Luckily, when he saw Mamaw puffing and panting behind me, he high-tailed it in the opposite direction. He ran as scared as a pig at a pork roast.

  I swung open the coop door. The chickens greeted us with a squawk fest. And Mamaw greeted the chickens by name.

  “Hello, Mabel. Hello, Ethel. Hello Edith-Ann. Yes, I see you too Veronica.”

  “Veronica?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Mamaw. “She’s the one that flirts with the rooster. See how the other hens keep their eye on her?”

  Veronica strutted in front of the nests. Then poked her head out the coop door. Like she was looking for Hippie.

  “Get back in here girl,” Mamaw said as she swatted her tail. Then poured the chickens some fresh water from the hose. While I scooped out some chicken feed from the barrel. Something tasty for them to munch on. We were almost finished when we heard the car doors.

  Mother and Daddy were home.

  “Now don’t go telling your Daddy that story I told you,” Mamaw reminded me.

  “My lips are sealed with super-glue. And duct tape on top of that,” I said.

  Mamaw put her arm around me as we walked back to the house.

  We took off our dirty shoes at the door. Also by the door rested my bookbag. The crumpled field trip permission slip poking out.

  I was so happy about Mamaw’s secret, I decided to deal with that later.

  Some days end just fine. Unless you forget to do something important.

  Chapter 8

  N ow everyone knows you can’t go on a field trip unless you have one important thing. A signed permission slip.

  Mother and Daddy flat-out failed to sign my slip. Well, maybe they didn’t hear me ask them. Before they went to bed. Or left for work.

  Or, maybe I just plain forgot. The details aren’t that important now. Since it clearly is not, and I repeat “not,” my fault.

  So, it was up to Ma
maw.

  “Can you read this and sign it?” I asked. “It’s kinda important.”

  Mamaw picked up the paper. Upside-down. Stared at it for a second, then handed it back to me.

  “Trevor Lee,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “You know my old eyes don’t work before noon. Read it to me, honey.”

  Mamaw does that a lot. Tricks me into reading. Like when the mail comes or we’re at the grocery store.

  Maybe Mamaw needs glasses.

  “Well, it says ‘Today our class is going on a boring trip to pick some wormy apples and you need to sign this or, like, Trevor Lee can’t go.’” I pretended to point to each word as I read.

  “That’s exactly what it says?” asked Mamaw.

  “Egg… zactly.”

  “Mercy. Then who am I to stand in your way of picking some wormy apples. Hand me a pen.”

  Mamaw wrote her name. Real slow like. It looked like a big ole scribble.

  I didn’t care.

  At least we wouldn’t be in school today. Lucky for us 3rd Graders. The kindergarten kids used to go on the Apple Picking trip. That is, until the great Apple Picking Disaster of ’02. Just as the kids were gathered under the apple trees, a big wind blew by. Falling apples knocked out over a dozen kids. At least half of the class had concussions.

  A concussion is when you get hit on the head and your head spins. And you think you’re a cucumber or something. For a little while anyway. And you can’t go to sleep or you’ll never wake up. Not even if you smell bacon frying in the kitchen. Not even for your birthday. It’s like serious.

  With my permission slip in hand, I boarded the bus. Pinky was already saving me a seat. In the back. Those are the seats that send you rocketing into the air.

  “To the moon!” Pinky likes to yell with each bump. He thinks he’s an astronaut. That’s why he’s my best friend.

  “Look,” Pinky said. “I wore my pants with extra pockets. Pockets in the front. Pockets in the back. And lots of pockets on the side. He pointed to each pocket as he introduced it.

  “We can stuff apples in every one of them. And no one will see.”

  “Smart thinking,” I added. “I’ll probably eat like seventeen. How many you gonna eat?” I asked.

  “Mother gave me such a big breakfast, as if I was going away for a week. So, I’ll probably only be able to eat like a hundred,” Pinky answered.

  He was serious.

  He might be small, but Mamaw—who knows a lot about such things—says he can eat his weight in biscuits.

  The Boog collected our permission slips. Gave us a speech about how to behave in public. How we represented her. Ourselves. Our families. Our school. Our state. Our street. And our country. Jeez-Louise.

  Then off we went.

  To keep us from fooling around, The Boog started rattling off math word problems. Instead of singing a roadtrip song or something fun like that. I mean, really? Bus time means “teacher zip-it” time. Everyone knows that.

  “If we have 20 students,” The Boog said. Even though we were ALL giving her the stink eye. “And each student fills one basket of apples today. How many baskets will we fill up?” Then she smiled like she was excited to know the answer. Cause she didn’t really know it. Or, she thought she was doing a good teacher job. By bugging us during our bus trip.

  “18,” shouted Pinky.

  Everyone giggled. Sally May and Sally Fay giggled the loudest.

  “How did you arrive at your answer?” asked The Boog. In her official “I’m being a good teacher” voice.

  “Cause me and Trevor Lee will eat all the apples in our baskets,” he announced.

  The Boog’s face melted from friendly to fierce. “Let me remind you all of something,” she announced. Then she reviewed the three rules for the trip. The ones about throwing apples, picking them up from the ground, and not using ladders. And she added a fourth: NO Eating Apples.

  “I encourage you to remember these rules throughout the day,” she said. And stared right at Pinky. Her left eyeball twitching.

  We both knew what “encourage” means. It is when someone wants you to do something because that’s what they would do. But you really don’t have to do it.

  Mother encourages me to not cut my own hair. Daddy encourages me to stop baptizing the cat. But I think “no, no way, never gonna happen.”

  Encourage makes adults feel like they’re doing their job. Without being too bossy.

  “I feel very encouraged ma’am,” said Pinky. And smiled.

  That shut The Boog up. She plopped down in her seat. Quiet like a good teacher should be on a bus trip. And stared at the road.

  I knew these roads like a cow knows how to moo. It only took a few minutes before the first bump.

  “Here it comes,” I warned Pinky.

  “To the moon!” he yelled as we flew into the air.

  Sally May and Sally Fay turned and gave us a look.

  I waved on the way down.

  “Here comes another one,” I warned again.

  “Wheeeeeee!” That was a big one. My hair practically touched the bus ceiling.

  “You boys need to settle down,” sneered Sally May.

  “Yeah. Or we’re gonna tell Miss Burger,” added Sally Fay.

  “Well, if you had your brooms you could fly with us,” laughed Pinky, grabbing his belly.

  “Hey Buddy,” I said. “You look a little funny. Do you feel okay?”

  “I just think my breakfast is swimming around in my stomach. That’s all,” he said.

  “Okay, buddy. Cause here comes the biggest bump of all.”

  We both pretended to put on our helmets. Hands in air. Ready to fly.

  Maybe the bus was going a bit too fast. Or maybe Pinky should have eaten a smaller breakfast. Cause, on the way up everything seemed fine.

  But on the way down.

  Pinky’s biscuits, eggs, sausage, pancakes, fried potatoes, muffins, toaster treats, and gravy found a new plate. On top of Sally May and Sally Fay.

  We were thirty minutes late to the apple farm. Miss Burger had to hose down the twins.

  And, Pinky had to sit in the front seat for the rest of the trip.

  Next to The Boog!

  Some days a boy just shouldn't get out of bed.

  Chapter 81⁄8

  S itting in the back of the bus alone gave me time to think. Going over all these hills reminded me of another trip I had taken. In the 2nd Grade. Me, Pinky, and our parents went by bus to a nearby amusement park. Dollywood. Created by the famous country singer Dolly Parton.

  A giant billboard with her picture on it welcomed us to the park.

  “Now that’s a singer with a big voice,” said Daddy. He couldn’t stop staring at her. Said he really, really liked her big voice. The biggest voice he ever did see. Mother smacked him on the arm. I’m not sure why. It was just a friendly compliment.

  After buying our tickets, we raced to the Rivertown Junction. And hopped on the Smoky Mountain River Rampage. Sure to get you soaked by the end. Our parents put on raincoats, but me and Pinky went for the full drench. “Drowned rats” Daddy called us.

  After that we rode the Tennessee Tornado and the Thunderbird roller coasters. Pinky waved his hands above his head as we dipped and spun and twisted and turned. I held on to the little bar so tight my fingers were curled for the rest of the day. And only opened my eyes once or twice. But it was real fun.

  It was lunchtime when we finally took a break.

  “My feet are killing me,” said Mother. Everyone agreed it was time to sit for a spell. But where?

  We narrowed it down to the Sit and Sip or Miss Lillian’s Chicken House. The chickens won.

  An older lady dressed in a flowered dress and straw hat and carrying a banjo danced around out front. She made up a song about Pinky’s hair. And waved a rubber chicken around. I liked this crazy chicken lady. The food here must be great, I thought.

  Posted at the entrance was an over-sized menu. Pinky began reading it. I just looked a
t the pictures at the bottom. The drinks.

  “What’ll you have boys?” asked Daddy.

  “Oh look,” said Pinky. “They have brown sugar cinnamon apples!”

  “What else?” I asked. “I wasn’t in an apple mood.”

  “Now read the menu on your own, Trevor Lee,” said Mother. “Decide which meat you want. There are several listed that you like.”

  I pointed above the drinks and pretended like I was reading.

  “Not there,” said Daddy. “Can’t you find it?”

  Pinky leaned in and put his finger at the top. Where the meats were listed. “Baked chicken. Fried chicken. Chicken fried steak. And Miss Lillian’s special of the day,” he read. “I hope the special is a hot dog!”

  It was then that Mother and Daddy heard how well Pinky read.

  And saw that I couldn’t.

  They looked sad. Like when your favorite singer doesn’t win the talent show. And you called twenty times to vote for him.

  I was relieved Pinky stepped in to help me that day. And he’s been stepping in ever since. It never bothers him one bit. That’s why he’s my best friend.

  And that’s why I still haven’t been able to tell him that I might get sent back to 2nd Grade. Sitting in the half-empty seat. Without Pinky. That must be what it would feel like. Or worse.

  Some days are as bad as an amusement park with broken-down rides.

  Chapter 9

  I got to team up with Pinky once we got off the bus at the apple farm. The farm was owned by the Saw family and was the biggest apple orchard in the county.

  Instead of calling it Saw’s Apples or Saw’s Really Big Apple Orchard That’s the Biggest You’ll Ever Ever See, they named it Apple Saw’s.

  The Boog thought that was funny.

  Old people have weird jokes.