The Battle of Junk Mountain

by Lauren Abbey Greenberg

  I hold it up for her to see. “Cute or lame?”

  Instead of answering, Poppy grabs my elbow and yanks me toward the exit. “We need to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Now,” she says through her teeth.

  Outside, Poppy slips her arms through the strings of her backpack, eyeing the entrance to the gift shop. I cross my arms. “What was that all about?”

  She won’t look at me. “Nothing. I’m just bored. I don’t like the food, and the gift shop is stupid. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to do something that’s fun and not horrible.”

  She hops on her bike and fastens her helmet. “Let’s go.”

  As we pedal back to her house, my stomach begins to hurt. Since when did the Cod Café become the world’s most awful place? What began as a totally yummy lunch has left me with the worst taste in my mouth.

  • CHAPTER 25 •

  IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED… RUN

  THOMAS COVE YARD SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO! The large cardboard sign sits at the entrance to Thomas Cove with an arrow pointing toward Bea’s house. With less than forty-eight hours to make it happen, I can’t believe my secret yard sale might actually work.

  As soon as Bea left for work this morning and Cranky had headed out for a day of fishing, Linc and I hustled all the boxes and bags of stuff intended for the Cedar Island Flea Market to the end of Bea’s driveway. We helped ourselves to Cranky’s fold-up card table and brought along Linc’s tartan blanket from his tent. I lined up all the goods with their price tags facing outward for easy access and transparency. No switching prices or other sneaky moves here. This stuff has to go fast.

  I wish I didn’t have to hide the yard sale from Bea, but it’s really for the best. Out of sight, out of mind, like Linc said.

  Once I set up the sign on the side of the road, it didn’t take long before customers appeared. The candlesticks were snapped up first, followed quickly by a stack of old dishes, a couple comic books, and some unused hand lotions. Linc worked the cashbox while I greeted customers and showed off the merchandise. I wondered if all this traffic meant that Poppy had posted my sign. I hoped she had. That would mean the world to me.

  “Do you have any dress-up clothes?” asks a large woman with ruddy cheeks. “My daughter works at the preschool and they’re always in need of these things.”

  I skip over to the clothing section and hand the woman a plastic diamond tiara. “Would something like this work?”

  “Perfect,” she says. “How much?”

  “One dollar.” I motion to Linc. “The cashier will check you out.”

  As soon as he holds out his hand to receive the money, the screeching sound of slammed brakes makes us all flinch. Bea hurls herself out of the driver’s seat with her Cod Café apron still tied around her waist.

  My heart practically arrests on the spot. “What are you doing here?” I ask in a shaky voice.

  Linc bolts out of his seat and takes off in the opposite direction, cutting across Cranky’s lawn until he disappears into the folds of his tent. “Traitor,” I mutter as Bea staggers toward me.

  She breathes noisily out of her nose like an angry bull; a beaded necklace dangles from her clutched fist. “How could you?”

  “Let me explain,” I say.

  “How do you think I felt when one of my customers came in wearing my necklace? I asked her where she got it and she says she picked it up at a yard sale on Thomas Cove!”

  The woman who bought the tiara tiptoes between us. “Bea, your granddaughter is doing such a great job.”

  “Stay out of it, Martha,” Bea snaps. “And give that back.”

  A bewildered look clouds Martha’s face, but she doesn’t hand it over. “Diane could really use this in her classroom. Twenty preschoolers, and of course there’s barely any money for supplies.”

  Martha’s calm voice only inflames Bea more. She grips the tiara so hard that her knuckles turn ghostly white. “It’s. Mine!”

  “Bea, let go!” I scream as the ladies tug at it.

  Martha finally relinquishes the fake crown with disgust. “Honestly! What has gotten into you?”

  Bea yells at Martha’s back as she walks away. “It’s not for sale! There’s nothing to buy here!” She points at a man hovering by a worn lampshade. “That goes for you, too.”

  He holds up his hands like he’s under arrest. “I didn’t touch anything.”

  Bea swivels her head at the sound of a car’s engine turning, and she dashes after it. “Don’t leave! What do you have?”

  The friendly air that surrounded my yard sale has curdled like sour milk. Parents grab their children’s hands and hurry them off the property. Bea darts from car to car like an anxious chicken loose from its pen. Some customers manage to escape, their tires spitting gravel as they peel out.

  Bea’s apron unties and falls to the ground. Coins roll out from one of the pockets. I hurry beside her to help recover the scattered change as she drops to her knees and buries her face in her hands.

  Hot, embarrassed tears slide down my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

  Bea picks herself off the ground. Grass stains and bits of dirt cover her khaki pants. “I never said you could do this.”

  I want to be brave and look Bea in the eye, but her steely voice makes my gaze slip.

  She reties the apron and smooths her hands over the front pockets. “If you really want to help, really and truly, then you’ll put everything back where you found it.”

  My shoulders droop as we silently pack up everything. Again.

  Bea picks up a worn cardboard box filled with clothes. An unwashed smell rises out of it like steam. “I’m not something to tidy up like a closet, for heaven’s sake. I don’t understand you. These are your grandpa’s things. What if you want them someday?”

  A chill tickles my spine. What on earth would I do with his old clothes?

  “I won’t.” I brush the wetness off my face. “I don’t understand. You said you were going to get rid of it all. That was the plan. That’s why I’m here!”

  Bea steps toward her house with the box weighing heavily in her arms. “You can’t rush me. It’s a slow process going through everything. What if I find something valuable?”

  “But we’re running out of time! What if you have to move?”

  A sudden coughing fit erupts from her chest. She doubles over, causing the box to tip. Wrinkled shirts, ripped pants, and scuffed shoes spill onto the ground. Her hand flutters to her chest. “I’m not moving,” she says in a raspy voice. “What did your mother say, exactly?”

  “Nothing,” I lie, “but you’re buying so much stuff, and it’s piling up, and it scares me.”

  Bea pokes a finger in my face. “You sound like her. Sticking your nose somewhere it shouldn’t be. From now on, new rules: you’re not allowed to touch any of my treasures.”

  She moves to Linc’s tartan blanket and grabs each end. The contents clink and clank and crash as she gathers up the corners to create one humongous hobo sack. “Do you hear me, Shayne Whittaker? Any of it!”

  I follow her into the house, leaving the litter of Grandpa’s strewn clothes behind. The sack thuds behind her as she clomps up the stairs. “That’s Linc’s blanket. I need to give it back.” I bound up the steps two at a time to catch her. When I reach the top, I freeze.

  Bea’s bedroom door is left wide open, and, for the first time in years, I see inside. Wall-to-wall piles of stuff, waist-high, with only a narrow path carved out to her unmade bed. Everything’s jumbled together, an unopened package of toilet paper mixed in with a sweater and an umbrella and a lampshade. Toaster ovens on top of newspapers on top of high-heeled shoes—it’s like a dump truck overturned and left the scene for good.

  I gape at the sheer amount of it all—so much that it makes Junk Mountain look like a speed bump. I want to throw up. I want to go home. A couple of the mounds are as tall as me. Everything is packed in tight. I bet I could climb to the top and not
fall through.

  Bea stands near the bed, her back to me. Then she turns slowly like she knows she’s being watched. Our eyes meet and her expression changes rapidly: from mad, to sad, to embarrassed.

  “Leave me alone!”

  The door slams shut in my face.

  • CHAPTER 26 •

  IF YOU MET MY FAMILY YOU’D UNDERSTAND

  We’re supposed to go to Little Moose Cove today, but sitting patiently in the Knot for Sale falls under the category of wishful thinking. Bea hasn’t said a word to me since yesterday’s debacle, but I’m hoping she’ll show up anyway, and we can pretend that none of this ever happened.

  Bea has never been this furious with me. Ever. Even when she gets annoyed, she always bounces back quickly. It appears that now we’ve reached a new level. What happened to her “impossibly half full” glass? Am I the one who emptied it?

  I barely slept last night. Images of Bea’s bedroom kept floating into my dreams. I can’t believe she would rather hang on to other people’s junk and smelly clothes than keep her house. Than take care of me. Mom said Bea has an addiction, and she’s right: it’s called hoarding. I’ve seen those TV shows about hoarders who can never throw anything out until they’re practically buried in moldy garbage piled to the ceiling. It creeps me out. Is that where Bea is headed?

  Linc lumbers down the ramp with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Even though Poppy couldn’t come (more like never asked her dad and I got tired of reminding her), I’m glad Linc agreed to join me. He’s become like a favorite pair of pajamas: completely comfy. Besides, I don’t want to be alone with Bea. I wouldn’t know what to say to her.

  “Filled up with seasickness meds and good to go,” he says, all eager beaver.

  I glance up at the house. “Don’t hold your breath. She hasn’t come out of her room since yesterday.”

  He winces. “That bad, huh.”

  “Worse.”

  Linc hops in the boat and sits next to me. White smears of sunblock on his cheeks beg to be rubbed in.

  I really want to tell him what I saw, how sick it made me feel, how scared, too. But what will he think of me living in a house like that? I can’t believe I used to think he was weird. We’re the real freaks around here.

  “So… what should we do now?” he asks.

  “Keep waiting, I guess.” I prop my elbows on the hard ledge, cross my feet, and inspect the chipped blue polish on my toes.

  A sense comes over me that I’m being watched. I lift my head to find Linc’s eyes resting on my turquoise bikini top. I feel my cheeks turning pink.

  He smacks my shoulder.

  “Hey!”

  “Got it.” He flips his palm to show me the smashed mosquito.

  I switch to the captain’s chair to reclaim some personal space. Linc pulls a thick book out of his backpack.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I read while we wait,” he says, holding it up for me to see the cover: Chancellorsville 1863: The Souls of the Brave.

  I snort. “Is that your idea of a beach read?”

  “It’s actually one of the best accounts I’ve ever read. Do you want me to tell you what it’s about?”

  “Sure,” I say, closing my eyes. “I could use a good nap.”

  “Very funny.”

  I keep my eyes shut. It feels too good. Lapping waves and the boat’s rhythmic bobbing soothe me like a lullaby. Next thing I know, Linc shakes my shoulder.

  “Shayne, wake up. She’s coming.”

  I wipe off a thread of drool with the back of my hand as Bea sweeps down the ramp, beach-ready in a flowing cover- up, floppy hat, and dark sunglasses. How she can find anything in that room is beyond me. She’d actually look completely normal if it weren’t for the multiple bags she carries in each hand. Is she bringing all her junk with her to the beach? Wonderful.

  Linc rushes to his feet. “Let me help you with those.” He grabs the bags and sticks them next to me, a cruel reminder of my colossal failure yesterday.

  Bea places her hand over her heart and looks at him with admiration. “Such a nice young man, so polite. I bet you don’t give your grandfather any grief.”

  “Okayyyy, let’s go,” I say, trying to ignore that remark. No way I’m getting into another fight in front of Linc.

  Her eyebrows knit into a frown behind her sunglasses. “Wait a minute, I’d like to give a present to our guest.”

  I slump back in my seat with a groan.

  She clears her throat and turns her attention to Linc. “Shayne tells me you’re some kind of Civil War expert.”

  He blushes. “I don’t know about that.”

  Bea rummages through a canvas tote. “Now, I don’t know if you already have one of these but… here.”

  Linc examines his gift: a coffee mug with a picture of the Union army general William Tecumseh Sherman on the front. Underneath there’s a caption that says WAR IS HELL.

  I roll my eyes.

  Linc’s face lights up. “Awesome, thanks!”

  “You’re welcome.” Bea lifts her sunglasses and peers at me with triumph in her eyes. “See, I don’t have a problem relinquishing my things. At least somebody appreciates my treasures even if you think it’s all trash.”

  • CHAPTER 27 •

  A WALK ON THE BEACH IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL

  A salty spray cools me as the Knot for Sale cuts through the water. It feels refreshing, like a power wash of all the yuck I’ve felt and seen. Bea chats up Linc the whole ride, telling him how the property that surrounds Little Moose Cove belongs to Mr. Utterback, one of her old regulars at the Cod Café. I’ve met him once or twice before, but he travels a lot so there’s a good chance we’ll have the cove all to ourselves.

  Ten minutes later, Bea steers into a quiet sandy alcove framed by rows of thick pine trees. She pulls alongside a lone floating dock, and I hop out to help moor the boat. She throws me a line with a big loop tied at the end, which I slip over a thick post. Wooden planks, many blackened with rot, creak under my feet.

  We grab our gear and set up camp on the coffee-colored sand. Bea spreads out towels while I help Linc with the beach umbrella. The sky is a swatch of blue, so clear and bright it’s as if it were scrubbed and polished to a shine. I bask in the sun’s warmth on my bare shoulders.

  “Nice spot,” Linc says as he surveys the scenery.

  “You should see the backyard. It butts right up to the Atlantic Ocean.” I pull on Linc’s arm. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  “Will Mr. Utterback mind?” he asks Bea.

  She waves him off. “I doubt he’s even home, but he won’t, I promise.”

  “Do you want to come with us?” I ask.

  “No, thanks, I’ll stay here and swim.” She stretches a bright green rubber bathing cap over her head, and I have to look away. She reminds me of a turtle.

  Linc and I cut up the short hill, which leads to a stone path. I cast a quick glance at the white clapboard cottage we pass on our right. With its drawn blinds, tall, uncut grass, and empty driveway, it looks like no one has been home in a long time.

  We walk down a small slope to a wall of boulders that act as giant steps to the sea. Spreading our arms to keep our balance, we hop from one rock to the next. When we reach the water’s edge, I sit on a flat ledge and enjoy the splash from the ocean’s crashing waves.

  “Shayne, check this out.”

  Linc points to a hermit crab a couple feet away. We lie side by side on our stomachs and watch its spindly legs grasp an empty speckled shell. The hermit crab pulls the new shell close, and, in a blink, hoists itself out of its old shell. Now, I’ve never seen a naked hermit crab before, and let me tell you, it is not pretty. Its body is an icky gray color and looks soft and slug-like. Thankfully, for everybody, it’s only a quick second before the hermit crab drops itself into its new protective home.

  As I rest my head on my hands, my thoughts drift to Bea. If only it were that simple, moving from house to house with nothing but a plunk. Truth is, I’m scare
d for her. What’s going to happen when I leave? She shouldn’t live by herself anymore. It’s not safe. Would moving in with us really be so terrible?

  I absentmindedly pick at the tiny pebbles that fill a crevice in the rock. Out tumbles a teeny orange shell, the color of a creamsicle. “It’s so crazy the way Bea keeps everything. Even something like a ripped sock is off-limits. She’s so obsessed with her stuff. I don’t get it.”

  Linc props himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, I know. But look at me—you could say I’m obsessed about the Civil War. Maybe my reenactor gear is too much for some people, and I’d have more friends if I toned it down a bit. But you know what? I don’t care. I like wearing the clothes, and studying battles, and thinking about my great-great-great-grandfather, keeping his memory alive. That’s what makes me happy.”

  Something about what he says hits me. Keeping memories alive. Is that what Bea’s doing? Living in the past? Is that why she hoards?

  “Your obsession isn’t hurting anybody, but Bea’s isn’t healthy and she could lose her house over it,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Maybe having all those things around her makes her feel good.”

  “I can understand why she would want to hold on to chicken-bird and other special things like that, but a box of moldy old clothes? Ew.”

  Linc sits up and crosses his legs. “It’s funny how certain things can make you feel, though. Like, to you the Medal of Honor is just an antique, but to me it means so much more. When I hold it in my hand and close my eyes, it takes me to another time and place. I can be alongside Ogden Badger at Devil’s Den, or I can be six years old again, when my dad took me to Virginia for my very first reenactment. The medal helps me remember. We used to visit my grandparents a lot in their old house in Belfast, and my grandma would take it out of this glass case and let me play with it all the time. No sneaking around or anything.”

  He jiggles a rock in his hand before chucking it into the sea. “Then she died, and then my parents got divorced, and we stopped visiting my grandpa for whatever reason, so… yeah. We used to be more together, not so broken into pieces like we are now.”