by Jaime Berry
Abby’s nerves were shot. She didn’t even feel like fishing. We’d decided to paint one of her mom’s step stools as a distraction; Abby’s mom was so short, she carried around a lightweight collapsible stool to all major events. We’d chosen blue and were stenciling white stars all over it.
“Your mom is going to love this,” I said.
“Speaking of. I can’t believe I’m going to meet Brent Chisholm and your mom. What’s she like?” Abby asked.
I inspected our work, and my stomach filled with flutters again. Every thought of Momma reminded me of my plan and what lay in store for me if it didn’t work. Besides that, what was Momma like? I didn’t even know how to answer.
“Busy,” I said. This was the perfect time to tell Abby the whole truth, tell her that Momma was pressing me to move, and tell her that I didn’t want to. But instead, I pointed to one of the stars. “Will you hand me the stencil? This one needs a touch-up.”
Abby’s mom walked out as I dabbed a second coat onto a star that really didn’t need it to begin with. “Wow! I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Every mayor needs a patriotic step stool.” She knelt down and joined us on the grass. “I’ve been thinking, it might be nice for you kids to say a few words before the concert tomorrow night. I can’t tell you how proud it makes me to see you all so invested in your community.” Her voice wobbled, tears welling in her eyes.
“Mom, come on. No more crying.” Abby stood and gave her a quick hug before gently pushing her back in the direction of the house.
“She’s been going on and on like that since she first found out about our idea. Don’t freak out, but she wants us to start a youth action community service committee when school starts.”
“YACS. We might need to rethink the name,” I joked.
“We don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.” She shrugged. “I mean, I’ll be pretty busy with Junior Bassmasters.”
I didn’t even know if I’d be in Hope Springs when school started. But saying it out loud made moving feel more likely, so instead I said, “Sure. That’d be fun.” She smiled, and I could barely look her in the eye.
“I have something to show you.” She led me to their back porch. Stacked on a bench were boxes and boxes of baby food jars packed full of a brownish paste. “I got the idea from you—making something myself. I’m going to sell them at the Bassmasters booth tomorrow. What do you think?”
I picked up a jar and read the label: ABBY’S FAMOUS DIP BAIT: FRESHNESS NOT GUARANTEED.
“I almost went with ‘Buy It—Hook, Line, and Stinker.’ You’re the expert. What do you think?”
“They’re perfect,” I said.
“I thought I’d sell some of the lures too.” She held up a jar again. “I don’t mean to brag, but this stuff could be a game changer.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’ll tell you because you’re my best friend: It’s mostly blended hot dog wiener and some really stinky cheese. The stinkier, the better.”
I laughed. “You’ll sell out for sure.”
Best friend. Those two words dropped right into my heart.
I left before sunset and walked my bike back rather than ride it—anything to stretch out the trip. With Nan and Wynn at home, there wasn’t much alone time to think. The scratchy chirp of katydids filled the evening air. I kicked at the gravel, letting the dust cover my legs.
Best friend. The words repeated in my head over and over, a courage-chant for the rest of the evening. I hoped more than anything that I had the chance to go to school with Abby, to keep her as a best friend, to stay. But hoping so didn’t make it so. I had to tell her the whole truth right away—or first thing in the morning at the latest.
Ready, Set, Rally
The morning of the rally, everybody met at our house, mostly because Brent Chisholm was expected to show up and no one could resist the chance to get an early, in-person peek at him. Miss Esther arrived with donuts and a new digital camera at six thirty in the morning. Wynn made pot after pot of coffee and tried hard to act as excited as everyone else.
Brent Chisholm’s black tour bus rolled up just before nine. The bus stretched out over the whole length of our driveway. I stood in front of the window and watched, stiff with nerves, as most everyone else rushed out to the yard. Momma stepped out, a perfectly timed breeze gently tossing her curls, and I swear, Miss Esther clapped. Wynn stood next to me and said, “Well, I guess it’s time we faced the music.” He bumped my arm with his. “Get it?”
I rolled my eyes but gave him a quick hug. “Want to come out with me?”
“Nah. Go on,” he said. “I’ll come out in a minute.”
Brent Chisholm strode off the bus looking like he’d stepped straight out of a country music video, pearl snaps and all. He was tanned and muscled, wore a black Stetson cowboy hat, and his chest made a guest appearance through a shirt with a few too many unfastened buttons. All the ladies seemed impressed beyond words. I noticed right away how he held Momma’s hand for a split second before our guests mobbed him.
Wynn sneaked out the front door; he must have noticed the hand-holding too. Holly fanned herself, mouthy Miss Esther had nothing to say for once, and even Nan blushed like a schoolgirl when Brent shook her hand.
Brent sauntered up to me and said, “Jubilee, I’ve heard so much about you. I think what you and your friends have done here is awesome, and I’m happy to be a part of it.” He pumped my hand like he expected to draw water, and then put his arm around Momma. Wynn shuffled around, hardly lifting his eyes from his freshly shined boots.
Brent Chisholm’s big smile, put-together outfit, and ease with strangers didn’t fool me for a hot minute—those were all sure signs of someone with a well-practiced set of Relocation Rules. But Momma smiled at him like he caused the sun to shine.
After all the introductions, Momma pulled me inside while Brent chatted and soaked up compliments. The parade started in a few hours, and the rally was scheduled to begin at three. One thing I knew was that, when people wanted to talk alone, it was usually something big.
She sat at our kitchen table and motioned for me to sit beside her.
“I’ve got some great news, Jubi. Brent’s bought us a house in Dallas. When I say us, I mean you and me. And it’s pretty as a dollhouse, sugar. Wait until you see it.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My mouth opened, closed, and opened again like a fish pulled from the pond and thrown on the bank.
Just like that? She expected me to move in with her without even talking to me about it first!
“Did Nan talk to you?” I asked.
“We talked the other night. But I thought I’d tell you the news myself. What do you think?” she asked. She twisted her hands into a bundle, bit her bottom lip, and shook her crossed legs. Momma was nervous. What I’d planned to say slipped away as soon as I saw she meant it. She really did want me.
“Momma, I don’t know.” I stared at Nan’s kissing squirrel salt and pepper shakers. “What about Nan? What about Wynn?”
“Oh, I love Wynn like an older brother. He knows that.” She didn’t mention Nan and waited for my answer. Seemed to me Wynn and I had the same problem: Momma always thinking of us more as siblings, ready to take us in or wave us away at the drop of a hat—a black Stetson hat in Wynn’s case.
“I already looked into private schools. Can you believe it? Private. Schools. You wouldn’t have to worry about your outfit every day. And since the tour is still going, we could get someone to stay with us, someone young and fun, an au pair. Sounds fancy, right?” She laughed, but when I didn’t, she turned serious. “Look, I’m great on stage, and I write great songs. I know I’m not as great in real life. But I’m your momma.”
Again, I stayed silent, and Momma’s smile faded even more. “Well, you think it over. Nan admitted all this moving had to stop and mentioned maybe moving closer to Dallas. We can talk about it more. I know you’re not sold on the idea, but if you’re going to start over, why not start over w
ith me?” She clasped her hand over mine.
She hadn’t listened to Nan at all. Or maybe she had but only heard what she wanted to.
I took a deep breath, readying myself to tell Momma the whole truth, when someone cleared their throat. Momma and I were so wrapped up in each other that neither of us noticed Abby standing in the doorway. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, her face blank.
“Abby, I was going to tell you—” I started, but she didn’t let me finish before turning and racing out the door.
I ran right after her. By the time I caught up, she was already on her bike, about to take off.
“Abby, let me explain. I just couldn’t find the right time,” I said. “Besides, nothing’s been decided yet.”
“What were you going to do? Make me another stupid fish out of a toilet paper roll the day you left?” She rode off and yelled over her shoulder, “See you at the rally—if you don’t up and move before then!”
The Right Thing
Nan, Wynn, and I went to the parade while Momma, Brent, and his crew went to do a sound check and set up. On the drive to town, I kept replaying my conversation with Momma. I hadn’t given her the answer I meant to. In fact, I’d said I didn’t know, which wasn’t a bit right.
We pulled into a parking spot and got out. Nan hooked her arm through mine, and Wynn did the exact same thing on the other side. It was dorky, but just what I needed. I knew exactly where I wanted to be and who I wanted to be with. We walked like that all the way to the front of the Fabric Barn.
Kids ran toward Main Street, shrieking with laughter while their parents chased after them. Wynn carried three folded lawn chairs with his free arm and set them up on the sidewalk in front of the Fabric Barn. Abby’s family would settle in front of the One Stop, and I made myself not look over.
Holly came out to say hi. Wynn stood. “Have a seat,” he said, offering his chair.
“I wish I could,” she said. “Believe it or not, I’ve got a few customers. I’ll help them, lock the door, and then join you.”
When she returned, she gave me quick kiss on the head. The shock of her greetings and farewells had worn off. I’d gotten used to hugs and pecks.
As the parade music began, I hardly talked and no one seemed to notice. Over the past few days, I’d been growing this small bit of hope, letting it build up little by little like yarn wrapped from a skein. Now with Abby mad at me, I felt it unraveling. I’d made such a mess of the whole living with Momma situation. How could I possibly fix things?
A few families lined the street in front of us with a herd of children who attacked thrown candy like a pack of wolves. The floats were mostly flatbeds full of metal folding chairs holding people from different clubs—except the Springer Swingers, square dancers who used their flatbed to put on a show, and the Kiwanis club, whose members dressed like clowns and rode around on four-wheelers. A clown zoomed by and waved right at me, his big rainbow wig blowing in the wind, and then he reached into a fanny pack, pulled out a handful of candy, and threw it.
“Look.” I nudged Wynn and Nan. “They’re actually wearing clown wigs and fanny packs.”
They laughed, but I couldn’t bring myself back to happy. I went ahead and looked over at the One Stop. Harrison and Garfield both waved. Abby didn’t. But I remembered what she’d said on our first trip to the pond, about the people of Hope Springs being what made the place special. As I waved back to her little brothers, I had an idea that would take all the courage I could muster.
When I got back home, I collected my supplies for the rally. Wynn knocked on my doorframe and stuck his head in. “I think your momma will come around. But you’re going to have to put all your cards on the table,” he said. “If you don’t come right out and say it, she’ll be able to tell herself she didn’t know how you really felt.” He gave me a sad smile. “Believe me, I know.”
I nodded. If he never told Momma how he felt, she could move on like it didn’t matter, like he didn’t matter. I guess Momma was pretty good at moving on too. If ever there was a time for working up the courage to tell the whole truth, it was now.
So much hovered over me that, by the time we got to Griggs’ Rigs Racing, I was almost sorry I’d ever thought up the rally to begin with. But then I saw the tracks all decorated with colorful pennant banners and a motor revved, nearly matching the speed of my heartbeat. We’d done it.
The booths Colton and his brothers built lined the fairway, already drawing a crowd. And things weren’t supposed to start for another half hour. Even the Springer Swingers were there, still in their dancing outfits.
I left Wynn and Nan and searched for Abby’s mom. I found her shaking hands by Miss Esther’s homemade jams and jellies booth.
“Mrs. Standridge, can I talk to you for a second?” I asked.
“Call me Myrna.” She stepped to the back of the booth and I followed. “Listen, honey, I know you and Abby had some kind of argument. You two will work it out. I don’t want to get in the middle.”
“I’ll try to talk to Abby, but I wanted to ask you something else. I want to talk before the concert, right before Arletta, but I want to make sure what I have to say is okay with you.” I outlined my speech, she listened, nodded, and rubbed her chin in true mayoral style.
“Let me think about it for a bit, and I’ll come find you at your craft table,” she said when I’d finished explaining.
The kids’ craft table had been a good idea for three reasons: It kept me busy and distracted, I got to spend some time with Garfield and Harrison, and Holly was at the Fabric Barn booth right next to me. My pint-sized group made monster faces on tennis balls. I cut the balls halfway across the middle for the mouth, and then with a squeeze, they opened up to hold coins. All the kids hoped they’d win the wishing penny raffle after making their very own monster coin purses. When Abby’s mom came to pick up the twins she said, “Go ahead. It’s worth it.”
Abby’s booth was across the fairway from mine. She didn’t have to try to avoid me; she was too busy. The line for her lures and dip bait was never fewer than twenty people deep. Even though we were both swamped, I caught her looking my way a few times.
As I packed away my supplies before the concert started, Colton walked over with a boy about a foot taller. Most people had cleared out, drifting to the stage. The tall boy gave Colton a push in my direction, while I tried to act like I wasn’t watching.
“That’s one of my brothers. Truitt, the tall one,” Colton said.
I smiled, but all I could think of was what I planned to say in front of a crowd of people and if Abby would ever forgive me. Asking Arletta Paisley a question on her show was big, like jumping over a deep ravine to get to the other side, but what I was about to do was like leaping off a cliff with no other side in sight.
“So, your mom and Brent are setting up,” he said. “She said my stage was ‘cute as a bug’s ear,’ but they needed a ‘smidgen’ more space.” He used finger quotes. “Also said you might be moving soon.”
How could she tell Colton? I slammed my boxes on the table. Beads and sequins scattered, and tennis balls bounced in all directions. A hot, tight feeling crept up my throat. I knelt down and crawled under my table, pretending to pick up supplies, just in time to hide the first tears that sneaked down my cheeks. As I wiped at my face, Colton’s head leaned down and then he crouched beside me, quietly picking googly eyes out of the dirt.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should’ve told Abby and you too. But it’s not for sure. My mom… she doesn’t even really know me. But I’m about to do something that might help, if it doesn’t scare me to death first.” I started to stand but stopped when I noticed Colton smiling at me.
“What are you smiling at?” I picked up a few tennis balls and stuffed them into my bag.
“Not knowing you—it’s her loss.” He handed me a tennis ball. Colton might be stingy with words sometimes, but he sure chose the right ones when it counted. We walked over to the stage together, his hand holdi
ng mine.
“I’m nervous,” I admitted.
“You can do it,” he said without even knowing my plan. “Whatever it is. You can do it.” He smiled so big that I believed him—for three of the five steps up to the stage, I totally believed him.
There were hundreds of people by now, a sea of hats and hairdos. Momma and Brent were to the side of the stage, and Arletta Paisley stood right next to my mom. Abby’s mom shook each of their hands before walking out to the mic stand, and instead of adjusting the microphone to a lower setting, she used the step stool Abby and I painted.
“I know Brent Chisholm and Lexie Kirk are about to play, but let’s be honest, the real reason we’re all here is to see who wins this quilt contest. Am I right?” A few laughs and hoots answered her. “Despite the short notice, we had more than fifty entries. And the winner is… owner of the Fabric Barn, Holly Paine!”
Holly took the stage with Rayburn trotting close behind wearing a red bandanna, and my hands burned from clapping so hard. The quilt was rolled out on a display rack used for hanging clothes. Stitched in the center was the well from the town’s square; above it, Holly had embroidered the words Hope Springs Eternal and below, A treasure worth more than gold. Around the edge were the squares we’d made together from scraps left by the people of Hope Springs—every print and color imaginable, a real mismatched jumble that together looked perfect.
Holly accepted an envelope from Abby’s mom and handed it right back.
“Thank you, Mayor. Now I’d like to take my winnings and donate them to the Downtown Revitalization Fund. And I’d like to thank my business partner, Jubilee Johnson, for all her help and inspiring ideas.” The applause and yelling went on for a few minutes, and I smiled as my cheeks warmed from the unexpected attention.
“The judges felt that Holly’s quilt embodied the spirit of Hope Springs. And I personally think this gesture”—Abby’s mom held up the envelope—“does as well. We are a community that rallies together, that supports each other. All of you being here shows we can do a lot more than hope, when we work together.” The crowd erupted, and my voice joined the shouts. “Before we start, we have a special guest who would like to say a few words.”
