by Jane Kurtz
That first Sunday morning in Kansas, I woke up wanting to help Dad get off on the right foot. I really did! But Isabella was clingy, and no matter how Mom and I tried, we couldn’t get to the church on time. Inside, Mom showed me an arrow pointing upstairs to the fourth-and fifth-grade Sunday School class. “Think you can handle getting there by yourself?”
I nodded, although I felt like Daniel heading into the lions’ den.
Step, step. Loud on the stairs. Did Daniel go all draggy shoes? Step. Step. I never felt new in our Colorado church because I first went there the week after I was born. Step. Step. The aspens by our Colorado church would have new leaves, now, like pale green coins. Last step. I peeked into a small room with a long table and luckily an empty chair beside Morgan. I slid into it. “You’re the preacher’s kid,” a boy said.
Morgan flipped a pencil at him. “I think she might know that.”
Everyone laughed. The teacher said, “Welcome. I’m Mrs. Miller.” She went around the room to do official and polite introductions and then asked, “How many of you are related to Anna?”
Hands waved. “Could be worse,” Morgan whispered. “Seven of the eight grandparents of the last Spanish Hapsburg king were descended from just two people.”
“What?” I whispered back.
“Shh.”
By now I’d forgotten most of the names, which made me feel sweaty and not because it was warm in this room.
Right away Mrs. Miller solved the mystery on the church sign by asking us what we thought the Bible meant by saying we should forgive seventy times seven.
“So if I don’t know how to multiply, I don’t have to forgive anyone?” a boy named Chad asked. Some kids laughed. Luckily, he was not related to me.
Mrs. Miller obviously thought it was better to ignore inappropriate comments. “When someone says forgiveness, what do you think?”
“Forgive and forget,” a fifth grader named Kylee said.
Morgan said, “Some things people can’t forget. Like if you’re a queen and your father beheaded your mother, you aren’t going to forgive him, and you sure aren’t going to forget.”
A boy whose name I’d forgotten raised his hand. “My grandma told Morgan’s mom that old farm can’t pay the bills and if she thinks it can, she doesn’t have the sense God gave geese. Morgan’s mom hasn’t forgiven and forgotten my grandma.”
Wow. I glanced at Morgan. A lions’ den might smell like blood and death, but lions didn’t make personal remarks.
Chad jumped in. “What about Simon? My mom says he’s only an eight-year-old, and people should forgive him.” He waved toward me. “And what about when her grandma sold her acres and the family didn’t forgive her?”
Personal remarks about my very own grandmother.
“And you can shut up,” Morgan said.
Mrs. Miller looked a little desperate. “Those are all good questions. No one said forgiveness is easy. Who else has a thought?”
I sat in a strange room that smelled like baby powder wondering what Chad meant about Simon. Finally Mae said, “It’s when someone does something bad to you and deserves something bad back, but you don’t do it.”
Luckily, a bell rang, and no one else had to talk about forgiveness. When we were going out the door, Chad asked Morgan. “Where is your dad really?”
Morgan gave him a look and clattered away down the stairs before I could pry.
In the sanctuary the sun lit up the sheep in the stained glass window and turned the plain glass windows to shining rectangles. During the announcements, Mom and Isabella and I stood up. I tried to smile normally, which is hard when you don’t know where to make your eyes look. Slurpee—in the pew in front of us—blew me a kiss. I didn’t see Simon. Or Morgan.
Dad started the sermon with a joke, and I laughed extra loud to be loyal. Then he said, “Thank you for inviting me to help in a time of change.” He smiled. “We get the funny idea God wants us to always be comfortable. When we’re uncomfortable, instead of sticking with it and eventually growing, we put all our energy into fighting whatever is making us uncomfortable.”
I sneaked a look around. Were people listening?
Actually, maybe he was talking about me. That would be unfair because nobody should have to be comfortable in a pink room.
On the church wall was a banner with red flames licking up it, which made my brain remember holding Dad’s hand and looking at the ridge of mountains as planes flew over to drop fire retardant in trails of bright red. And that made me think about the day I kicked the same-sames out of the Safety Club.
Ever since I was in preschool, I’d had those same-same friends—Lilya and Tigerlily and Clare, same block, same church, same school. Of course I invited them to join the Safety Club. It was great for a while. Then Lilya complained about the rules. A week later Clare wasn’t prepared when it was her turn to present.
The worst was the day I had researched forest fires. “If the fire gets too close and you know you can’t escape,” I was saying, “get in a ditch. Your feet should be facing toward the fire.” I looked up and saw Lilya was giggling. “You’re out!” I said.
“Don’t we get a vote?” Clare asked.
“We all belong in this club, too,” Lilya said.
“No.” I said. “I made up this club and it’s my house and you all belong out.”
Jericho told me later, “Thinking of fire could have made Lilya nervous, you know. Sometimes people behave in strange ways when they’re nervous.”
But I . . .
Oops. I suddenly realized Dad was finishing up and I hadn’t been paying attention. “Difficult as it is,” he was saying, “forgiveness sets us free. Not only so the person who has done wrong can have another chance. Also so we don’t have to carry the weight of frustration and bitterness around.”
Great-aunt Dorcas sucked in her breath. It was quick, but I heard it.
As we opened our hymnbooks, Slurpee’s mom leaned over in the pew in front of us and whispered to Slurpee. “This song was written one hundred and fifty years ago. People have been going to church for two thousand years.”
When it was time for the benediction, Dad raised his arms and said, “God invites us to the freshness of new beginnings.”
Unluckily, there was probably zero chance for new beginnings in a church after 2000 years.
CHAPTER 21
Bad Luck at the Potluck
Safety Tips for Fires
1. Check your smoke alarms every month to be sure the batteries work.
2. Make an escape plan, including where your family will meet outside. Practice it.
3. If you’re in a fire, crawl. Smoke and heat rise.
4. Stop, drop, and roll—and keep your hand over your mouth.
5. Sprinkle baking soda, not water, on an electrical fire.
After our Sunday casserole lunch, Dad headed right back to church to change the sign. “My new Kansas Sunday routine,” he said.
In Colorado our Sunday routine was driving up into the mountains. Sometimes we hiked in wildflowers, all tiny and red or purple. Sometimes we saw deer with velvet ears. Sometimes Grandpa met us with surprises—a zip line or balloon or train ride. “What will your special message be?” I asked.
“Wait and see.” He gave me a grin.
“Can you help me find the right place for the new fire extinguisher?” Mom asked me. “Right after I put Isabella down for her nap?”
Of course. “But wouldn’t you rather write?”
“Oh, well.” She took Isabella’s hand. “Some change can be good.”
Really? Because what we already had in Colorado was perfect. I didn’t believe what she’d said, and I knew she actually didn’t either.
That afternoon Dad came home one time, to load boxes of books into the car and drive them back to the church. Mom and I were putting the fire extinguisher right by the kitchen door because the directions in my Safety Notebook said to put it in the room where most fires happen, in plain sight and easy to reach.
; “We need one for upstairs, too, right?” Mom asked. She was very smart and usually very helpful.
When Isabella woke up, she and I played hide-and-pounce with Midnight H. Cat while Mom made her salad. Then we practiced SMART in case we saw a wolf or feral hog.
1. Stop; do not run.
2. Make yourself look big.
3. Announce, “Leave me alone!”
4. Retreat; back away slowly.
5. Tell an adult.
On the walk to the church that evening, the air smelled green and warm. Mom had her arms wrapped around a big painted bowl, and she looked nervous.
I showed Isabella things: prickly brown pods like tiny troll heads; a worm squiggling on the sidewalk. “Do worms have teeth?” Isabella asked.
I told her they didn’t, but she grabbed Mom’s leg anyway. At the corner I read the sign. BLESSED ARE THE PURE IN HEART. My heart was pretty pure, I thought.
I wanted to ask Mom if people were going to watch us actually eat. Because chewing can be pretty disgusting. Instead, I said, “I’ll help Isabella down the stairs.”
Step. Step. The basement smelled like ham. Adults and kids were covering tables with white paper. “Stay here,” I told Isabella. I went over to the dessert table to check if my pies were there.
Not yet.
Behind me I heard a man say, “Hold on there, young lady.”
I whirled around. Isabella was on a chair by the salad table. “But I like those hairy green things,” she said.
Two kids putting forks on tables laughed. I hurried over to her. “Kiwi,” I said. “Not hairy green things. And we have to wait.”
Her face started to crumple. I managed to lift her—even though she was as heavy as a full dresser drawer—and stagger away. Isabella’s head blocked my view, which is why I didn’t know something was in front of me until it snagged my ankle.
I yelped. As I was going down, I caught one tiny glimpse of Simon. Then I fell flat on my sister.
Isabella let out a howl and grabbed my shirt. I rolled off—and heard a ripping sound. Shiverydee! I pinched her, because sometimes it’s good to do something stupid so you won’t do something even stupider. Suddenly Morgan’s face was right there. “Help,” I gasped out.
I managed to get Isabella’s arms. Morgan grabbed her legs, hollering, “Ouch! Don’t kick.” We hustled Isabella up and out onto the lawn, where she kept screaming and her nose started bleeding and where Mom and Cousin Caroline found us.
“Help me get her home,” Mom called over Isabella’s screaming. As we hauled Isabella off, I saw Aunt Dorcas. Pinch mouthed.
No one tried to talk until we got onto the porch, and Morgan, who was the only one not hanging on to some part of Isabella, grabbed her nose. Isabella shut up. “Stinky worms.” She let out a huge hiccup.
I looked at the slime streaking our door. She was right about the stinky. It wasn’t worms, though. Someone knew where to find eggs that had been laid a long, long time ago and had sat around somewhere getting rotten.
I had a feeling I knew exactly who that someone was.
CHAPTER 22
Stinky Oakwood
Simon must have followed us to the church. While Isabella was having her fit, he had time to get back here.
Why did he have to be mean upon mean?
I ran upstairs to change my shirt and ran back downstairs. Caroline had been scarily fast at finding a bucket and a brush and was scrubbing the door. “Really?” Mom was saying to her. “That’s pretty shocking.”
“What’s shocking?” I asked.
“Shh,” Morgan said. I went over to sit beside her. “True story,” she whispered. “About when people would come home and find paint, not eggs, splashed on their houses.”
Isabella had her head in Mom’s lap. “Sorry,” I mouthed to her.
“America was at war, and Germany was the enemy,” Cousin Caroline said. “Here in Kansas our ancestors were refusing to pick up guns. They spoke German at home and church as if they might be German spies.”
“Were they spies?” I muttered to Morgan.
She shook her head. “Peacemakers.”
Cousin Caroline said people, including some of our ancestors, would find their houses painted yellow as a way to say, “You’re a chickenhearted traitor and no-good neighbor of mine.” She said something low. I heard the word dynamite.
“What got blown up?” I asked.
“I didn’t hear Caroline say anything got blown up,” Mom said. “Why don’t you go back to the church and keep Dad company?”
Morgan and I took off running, and the whole way I wondered if Simon’s ancestors had thrown dynamite at mine. Or maybe mine had thrown dynamite at his.
We clattered into the church and down the basement steps. At the bottom Morgan turned around with her finger on her lips. Dad was standing by the long main dish table saying the blessing.
I peeked over Morgan’s shoulder. About forty people were standing around with bowed heads. A woman with bluish halo hair. Sunday School kids. Slurpee looking all hungry face at the dessert table.
I bent close to Morgan’s ear. “What’s Simon’s problem?” The s’s came out in a hiss.
“Church,” she whispered back.
“Why?” My voice came out louder than I’d planned.
“Amen.” Dad opened his eyes and frowned in my direction.
Morgan slid toward a basement pillar, and I slid after her. A woman handed Dad a plate. “Start us off, Pastor. You’re the guest of honor. And where’s your family?”
Dad looked around, a bit desperately.
“Let’s get in line,” Morgan said. “I don’t want my mom’s pie to run out before I get dessert. We can talk about Simon later.”
“When?” Oops. That was loud. Now a bunch of people were looking at us, even the people who were pretending they weren’t.
Shiverydee.
I really didn’t mean to get Dad off on any wrong feet. But I could tell I was going to be flat out no good at anything in this church.
CHAPTER 23
Shiverydee
My number one job at the potluck was taking double helpings of Mom’s salad to be loyal. My next job was to tell Dad about Simon, and now I had two more things he’d done, too. But there were church members who wanted Dad’s attention just as much, and they had gotten to him first.
I glanced around. Morgan’s table had filled up with other kids. I could crowd in and talk about the bear or something interesting. But some or all of them had seen me fall flat on my sister and get my shirt ripped. What a pathetic way to get started.
Instead, I slid onto the other end of Dad’s bench and concentrated on eating, which wasn’t easy because people kept coming over to say welcome and give Dad their opinions. “I hear Simon was in the basement earlier,” a woman’s voice said over my head. “He needs to stay away until he makes a public apology.”
Great-aunt Ruth came over to hug Dad. “God put something noble and good into every heart,” she murmured.
Behind me a man added, “And every child should be welcome in church.”
“Old feelings,” another man said. “Stirred up like so much pig feed.”
Someone with a purple bracelet blocked my view. “It’s a sad shame that our beloved minister decided it was time to retire. But thank goodness you’re here.”
Even Great-aunt Dorcas came over—to tell Dad it wasn’t appropriate for Morgan to plant beans in the flower bed.
If I closed my eyes, my brain could almost think I was back in Colorado. The other same-sames and I used to sit together at potlucks. Here . . . I heard steps and looked up to see Cousin Caroline slip in. Alone.
I didn’t get close to Dad until the dishes were stacked in the giant dishwasher and the tables were wiped and people had wrapped up the plates of leftovers. Then we started out into the warm evening, loaded with leftovers and Mom’s painted bowl.
As we walked to the parking lot, I finally got to tell Dad all about Simon and the rotton eggs. “Why does he h
ave to apologize to the church?” I asked.
“He threw a rock through the stained glass window.” Dad put the plates of leftovers on the car hood and opened the back door. “Some people think we should make a very big deal about it. Others don’t.” He put the leftovers on the backseat. “Small towns can be like spiderwebs: if you touch one part, another part jangles.”
“But what do you think?” I asked.
“Let me show you something.” Dad opened the passenger door. “Hop in.”
We drove out of Oakwood. The welcome sign was black against the sunset, and I felt small compared with the sky but also bigger and safer now that Dad was involved with solving Simon.
A few minutes later the car slowed down, eased into the grass, and stopped. I got out. The moon was a munched-down curved cookie. In the starry light, I could see that we were in the clearing with that wooden cowboy and horse. I followed Dad across ankle-prickling grass. Now I could see a wire cross filled with flowers, too. “What’s that creaking noise?” I asked.
“Frogs.”
I leaned against Dad, feeling his breath on the top of my head as he told me a terribly sad story about Simon, whose mom died when he was a baby. “This year Simon’s dad was riding in a church motorcycle fundraiser,” Dad said. “A storm blew up with thunder and lightning, and he pulled his motorcycle into this clearing to wait it out.”
Dad’s voice dissolved and quit. “Did the lightning hit him?” I peered at the wooden horse’s eyes that peered back at me. “Did he die?”
Dad squeezed me. “Yes, Anna. He did.”
I stood as still as Lot’s salt wife in the hot, froggy evening, with the air smelling watery like the inside of a tin camping cup. “At the funeral,” Dad said, “the minister said God had called Simon’s father home. I guess he didn’t think how that would sound to Simon. Simon ran out of church and threw that rock.”
It was awful. Why should Simon take it out on me, though? “I’ve decided,” I said, “I don’t want to go to school. Not while Simon is there.”
Dad took a crunchy step toward the car. “I’ve never seen it work to run away from problems. It’s only four weeks until summer vacation.”
