Swear to Howdy

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY

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  WHEN MULES FLEW ON MAGNOLIA STREET, Angela Johnso

  THE VARIOUS, Steve Augarde

  MAGGIE'S DOOR, Patricia Reilly Giff

  THE QUILT, Gary Paulsen

  CHIG AND THE SECOND SPREAD, Gwenyth Swain

  GIFTS FROM THE SEA, Natalie Kinsey-Warnock

  INSIDE GRANDAD, Peter Dickinson

  THE LEGACY OF GLORIA RUSSELL, Sheri Gilbert

  OVER THE RIVER, Sharelle Byars Moranville

  Also by Wendelin Van Draanen

  How I Survived Being a Girl

  Flipped

  1. Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief

  2. Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man

  3. Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy

  4. Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf

  5. Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary

  6. Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy

  7. Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes

  8. Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception

  9. Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen

  10. Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway

  1. Shredderman: Secret Identity

  2. Shredderman: Attack of the Tagger

  3. Shredderman: Meet the Gecko

  4. Shredderman: Enemy Spy

  To Arlen, with love

  I'd like to thank:

  my Southern belles,

  Susan Huffman, Mary Marshall Jones, and Becky Young,

  for their help with this book

  as well as

  Ann Scott, Marquita Self, and Cindy Cason,

  for showing me what Southern hospitality is all about;

  my sons'scoutmaster Rodney McGuire, who joined the “Lord's

  bouquet” much too early but who will be remembered for his

  generous heart and warm Southern spirit;

  my editor, Nancy Siscoe, for not thinking I'm crazy;

  my husband, Mark Parsons, who knows that I am

  but loves me anyway.

  CONTENTS

  1. Crappies Bite

  2. Diamond Doll Revenge

  3. Swappin'to Avoid a Switchin'

  4. Gaggy Goldfish

  5. Plinking

  6. Say “Aaaah …”

  7. Squishin' Out Green Tomatoes

  8. Tank Goes to School

  9. Sissy Cooks Her Own Goose

  10. The Ghost of Lost River

  11. Blackberry Mud

  12. Breaking Point

  13. Sentenced

  1

  CRAPPIES BITE

  Joey's blood got mixed up in mine the same way mine got mixed up in his. Drop by drop. Pact by pact. And there's times that makes me feel good, but there's times it creeps me out. Reminds me.

  Seems like Joey and me were always making pacts. Lots of pacts, leading up to that last one. “Rusty,” he'd say to me. “I swear to howdy, if you tell a soul …”

  “I won't!” I'd tell him. “I swear!” Then he'd put out his fist and we'd go through the ritual, hammering fists and punching knuckles. And after we'd nicked fingers and mixed blood he'd heave a sigh and say, “You're a true friend, Rusty-boy,” and that'd be that. Another secret, sealed for life.

  Joey's family moved to Lost River two years before we did, so Pickett Lane was his turf, and that was just fine by me. Especially since he was so cool about it the summer we came to live next door. “Russell Cooper?” he'd asked me, and I'd thought, Oh man. Here we go again. Cooper-pooper. Pooper-scooper. I get the same old thing, every where I go.

  But then he grinned at me the way only Joey Banks could grin, with one side of his face looped way up, and teeth showing everywhere. He nodded. “Rusty. That's what we'll call ya.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don't stand there looking at me like a load of bricks, boy. You ain't never gonna survive around here with a name like Russell.”

  I must have been blinking but good, 'cause he slapped me across the face, whap-whap. Not hard or anything. Just playful-like. Then he waved me along, saying, “C'mon, Rusty. I'll show you around.”

  He tore down to the river, and I tore right after him. “This here's my hole,” he said when we got to a side pool with tree branches hanging over it and rocks nearly clear around. “And nobody else better get caught swimmin' in it.” He gave me that loopy grin again. “Nobody but me and you.”

  I almost said, “Me?” 'cause I couldn't believe my ears. It was the coolest pool I'd ever seen. There was a thick rope for swinging, and the rocks were flat and great for sunning. Not the kind of place that's easy to share. 'Specially with a stranger.

  But I bit my tongue and filled my pocket with rocks like he was doing, then scrambled up the tree behind him. And when we were perched nice and steady, he started skipping rocks across the river, saying, “Let's see your arm, Rusty. How far can you hurl?”

  Not as far as him, that's for sure. Especially since I had the wobbles, way up in that tree. But I chucked them as good as I could, and every time one plopped in the water, Joey'd say, “Nice one, Rusty! You're gettin' it!” Then he'd chuck one of his own nearly clear to the other shore.

  When we were out of rocks, he started snapping off sticks. “Here, Rusty. Do like this,” he told me, peeling leaves off. “Then shoot it in like …” He let it fly like a dart. “Watch it now … crappies pop up and snag 'em sometimes.”

  “Crappies do? You get 'em out here?”

  He laughed. “Yep. Dad says they're lost, and I don't doubt it. Dumbest fish known to man. You can catch 'em with your thumb—if you got the nerve.”

  “You done that?” I asked him.

  Snap went another twig, and he shot it in. “More'n once.” He eyed me. “Hurts like hell.” We watched the twig land and sail downstream. “They're good eatin', though. Man, they're tasty.”

  But the crappies weren't biting. Not at twigs, anyway. So after a spell Joey said, “Up for a swim, Rusty?”

  “Now?” It was getting dark. Cooling off quick.

  “Any time's good,” he laughed. “Water's always just right.”

  He yanked off his shirt and his shoes and flung them down to shore. Then came the socks, fling, fling. And with a little scoot forward he grabbed the rope and said, “It's a blast, Rust, trust me.”

  “You goin' in like that?” I asked, looking at his jeans.

  “I ain't gonna drown, if that's what you're worried about.” He pulled up the rope, then backed along his branch, getting ready. “And I ain't gettin' down to my skivvies in front of you.” He pushed off and swung out over the water, hollerin', “We only just met!”

  Mama and Dad were none too pleased to see me soaked to the gills when I got home. And Sissy told me I looked like a drowned muskrat, then went back to painting her toes. But I ate like a horse and yapped like a terrier through supper, and everyone was surprised 'cause Mama claims I'm given to “quiet brooding.”

  So the next day, they let me go again. And the next, too. And the day after that. And before long Joey and me were swinging doubles and bombing each other in the pool, wearing nothing but skivvies and big fat grins.

  We'd catch frogs and launch them into the river, too. Joey'd call, “Come 'n' get it!” to the crappies, but pretty much the frogs would just swim for a bit with their legs all sprawled, then go under on their own. And maybe it doesn't seem too exciting, doing this stuff day after day, but I had more fun in that single summer than I'd had in my entire life combined.

  Then one day it was hotter'n Hades and we were hanging out on a big, flat rock after a swim, talking about how just the thought of middle school starting up was enough to spoil the last few days of summer—never mind all the fus
sin' your mama insisted on doin' to get you ready—when Joey let out the biggest, nastiest gasser you can imagine. My eyes bugged clear out and he laughed. “So let's hear what you got, Rusty-boy”

  “Nothing like that,” I told him. “Nothin' even close.”

  “Ha!” he said. “Let me teach ya.”

  “Teach me …? To fart?”

  He laughed again, then stuck his behind right up in the air. “First you get like this …”

  “Joey, honest. I know how to fart.”

  “On command?”

  “Well, no … depends on what I've been eating. Like if I've been eatin' cabbage—”

  “Cabbage? Shoot, Rusty, you don't need to eat vile stuff to make righteous farts. Watch.”

  He got comfy on his elbows and knees, then bowed his head and hoisted his butt. And after a minute, he flipped around and let out the nastiest juicer I'd ever heard.

  He laughed when he saw my face. “It's just air, Rusty-boy Just air.” He flipped around again. “Here, come on. Give it a shot.”

  “Nah …”

  “Give it a shot.”

  “All right, all right!”

  So I stuck my skivvies sky-high and waited. For what I wasn't real sure. And while Joey was flipping back and forth tootin' and hootin', I was propped up backward, feeling like one dumb fool.

  “Nothin'?” he asked me finally.

  I shook my head.

  “You gotta relax.”

  I was about to tell him I'd practice at home, when he charged down the rock to the pool, yelling, “Ya gotta watch this!” He jumped into the water, then waited until the surface was calm. “Ready?” he called.

  “Sure,” I called back, glad to have my behind back where it belonged.

  He held a finger up, his eyes big and bright, but all that happened was a couple of bubbles rolled to the surface.

  “Shoot!” he said with a frown. “Too much interference!”

  He climbed up to shore, stuck his butt up right there on the bank, then faced me and said, “Turn around.”

  So I turned away while he peeled out of his shorts. And when he'd waded out a safe distance, he sat down in the water and called, “Okay, now look!” Then he stuck a finger up in the air like he had before and waited. Only instead of gas bubbles coming to the surface, he came shooting out of the water like a torpedo, screaming like he was gonna die.

  And then I saw it—a flashy, silvery, spiky-finned crappie chompin' down on his privates.

  “Do something! Do something!” Joey screamed, flailing around, falling in the water, standing up, falling down, while that crappie hung on like it had struck the mother lode.

  I didn't know how I was going to help, but I jumped in the pool anyway. But by the time I'd made it over to him,Joey had stuck a finger through that crappie's gill and set himself free.

  I tried not to look, but Joey was red, boy Red and raw. He hurled the crappie way up onshore, then eased back into the water, whimpering and quivering, his eyes brim ming with tears.

  “You want me to get a doctor?” I whispered.

  “No!”

  “Did he … did he get any of it?”

  “No!”

  I stood there just waiting while he tried to ease the pain. But finally I couldn't help looking around the pond and asking, “What if there's more of 'em?”

  He shot out of the water and dived for shore, holding himself safe the whole time. And after I'd left him alone to inspect himself for a minute, I tried asking again, “You sure you don't want to go to the doctor?”

  He stepped into his skivvies and tucked himself away real careful-like before putting on his jeans. “No. What would he do to it, huh? I don't want no doctor bandaging me.” Then he put on his shirt and said, “I swear to howdy, if you ever tell a soul …”

  “I won't!”

  His eyes squinted down on me. “I know how it goes. Especially when you start meetin' kids at school.” He took a few painful steps, muttering, “And boy, this would be one temptin' tale to tell.”

  “I won't, Joey. I swear.”

  He checked my face over a minute while he tried to figure a new way to walk. “So we got a pact then?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “'Cause you know, you can't break no pact. It's a-moral.”

  “I won't tell, Joey. I swear.”

  He put out his fist, so I did, too. Then we hammered and punched each other's fists some, but he still wasn't sure we'd sealed the deal. So he dug up his pocketknife, sliced his finger, and looked at me while a drop of blood rose through his skin.

  I put out my finger to prove I was good for his trust, and after he'd nicked it we put our fingers together and let the blood mix.

  “You're a true friend, Rusty,” he told me. “A true friend.”

  Then we took that crappie to Joey's house and fried it to a crisp. I didn't want any of it—couldn't seem to shake the thought of where it'd been—but Joey seemed to like it fine.

  Ate the whole thing right up.

  2

  DIAMOND DOLL REVENGE

  Joey's family and mine were alike in a lot of ways. Both our dads worked at the paper mill, both our mamas were helpers at schools—Mrs. Banks helped out at the nursery school where Joey's baby sister went; mine was a teacher's aide at the high school where my sister went.

  Not that Sissy was too happy to have Mama there. She took up sassing shortly after we moved, and was all the time saying how mortifying it was to be under Mama's microscope. “I feel like a ladybug with my wings pinned flat,” she'd tell her.

  Mama'd just smile, then plant a kiss on the back of Sissy's curly head and say, “All bugs should be so lucky, Jenna Mae.”

  Sissy's sass came straight from next door, if you ask me. Straight from the mouth of Amanda Jane, who was Joey's older sister.

  Amanda Jane was the same age as Sissy, and there wasn't a whole lot of difference between the two. Every bone in Jenna Mae's body was one hundred percent annoyable, just the same as Amanda Jane's.

  The one place Sissy'd cut some slack was with her name. You could call her Jenna Mae, or Jenna, or Jenny, or Sissy Didn't seem to matter to her.

  But Amanda Jane? Boy! She'd fuss about every little thing and her name. You had to call her A-man-da-Jane, or she'd bite your head clean off.

  The two of them would hang together for hours, fixing their hair and nails and smearing on makeup, gossiping about kids at the high school. Joey and me'd put our ears to the wall when we were bored, but we'd end up even more bored and quit. Girls think the dumbest things are worth wasting time over.

  But all of that just gave Joey and me more reason to be friends. To escape them, we'd go exploring places I would never have gone alone—across the river, back along deer paths, or even just into town. Didn't really matter, 'cause Joey turned everything into an adventure. Shoot, that boy knew how to have more fun with mud than most folks have with store-bought stuff. Like one time during a frog-stranglin' rain while the rest of the world was huddling indoors, Joey took me sliding down the riverbank on trash can lids. He broke the lid handles clean off, and we went flying. It was the wildest time ever, and we stayed out until we were soaked to the bone and covered in mud.

  Mama had a lot to say about me trackin' in mud— even though I'd stripped down best I could before coming in the house. And of course Amanda Jane and Sissy turned up their noses and told me I was dumber'n a post. Didn't spoil my mood, though. Sissy and Amanda Jane were always turning up their noses. It was something I was used to.

  Or so I thought! Come baseball season, I discovered I was not immune. Sissy and Amanda Jane made Diamond Dolls, and that was the end. They thought they were the hottest things to hit Lost River since summer. They dressed up in little uniforms, wearing concession stand trays around their necks at the games. Shoot, all they were doing was selling peanuts and popcorn and Cokes, but from the way they strutted around the bleachers and around the diamond between innings you could tell they thought they were Miss America, or somethi
ng.

  Mrs. Banks was mighty proud of Amanda Jane, but Mama took it more in stride. “You do look cute, Jenna Mae, but I'd sure like to see you play something instead.”

  “I don't need muscles like a mountain man, Mama. It's not attractive.”

  Mama'd give Sissy a kiss on the cheek, Dad would tell her she was getting too big for her britches, and I'd just lay low, wondering what was attractive about that goofy striped hat and those matching shoes Diamond Dolls had to wear. Uglier than a bucket of armpits is what they were.

  Then Mama decided we ought to go watch games, just to be supportive. Of what, I never really figured out. But we'd go and watch the ball game, without even caring who was playing against Sissy's school. We'd just swelter in the sun while Mama'd wave money in the air and buy popcorn. Ten bags she'd go through in a game, with Cokes to match, giving it away to everyone who'd take it. She'd always flag down Sissy, too. Sissy couldn't exactly ignore her, but she'd hand over the order, huffing and sighing like it was the world's biggest bother, and then not even say “Thank you, ma'am” like Diamond Dolls are required.

  And on the drive home, Mama would always be real complimentary about the popcorn and how it was salted just right, and how the Cokes were still full of bubbles— not flat the way some Diamond Dolls let theirs get. Dad would frown at Sissy in the backseat staring out one window, and then at Amanda Jane staring out the other. And he'd say, “You girls should be more grateful to your mamas for the support you get.”

  Sissy would keep right on starin' out the window, and Amanda Jane would snap, “Why, my mama ain't even here!” while I'd cringe between the two of them, feeling nailed to a fence post.

  Then Mama'd pat Dad's knee and say, “Well!” and start up with some other happy topic like the weather.

  After we'd been to a bunch of boring games, I asked Mama, “Can Joey come?” and right off she said, “Sure. Why not.” So him and A-man-da-Jane piled into the car with the rest of us, and off we went to the ballfield.

  Only the whole way over Amanda Jane and Sissy were complete cats to us. We didn't like being stuck in the middle any more'n they liked us being there, but they hissed and snarled and jabbed our ankles with their Diamond Doll sneakers—real sly, so no one in the front seat could tell what was going on.