by Annie Tipton
“Macy, we’re going to have to distract it to trap it,” EJ whispers. “Otherwise, the wolf could attack us in our sleep—or worse, attack your mom.”
Macy shines her flashlight on the floor around them, and they see mostly dirty, crumpled clothes and a few stuffed animals that look like they’d been well-loved for many years. Not the best weapons against a deadly beast. But still …
“Grrrrrrrrrrrroooowwwwwwl.” The creature stirs and rises from the floor on its hind legs to its full height, silhouetted by the moon shining through the window behind it.
“Now!” The girls grab handfuls of clothes and toys and hurl them at the obviously bloodthirsty beast. Macy accidentally nudges the star projector with her foot and it falls over, turning on and splitting open to shine a spotlight-sized beam of light on the wolf….
A skinny teenager, dressed in nothing but Spider-Man boxer shorts and a comforter around his shoulders, was blinded and dazed by the bright light shining straight in his eyes and the dirty clothes attacking him.
EJ gave a little squeak and covered her mouth with a hand to keep a threatening scream from coming out.
“Wha—? Whogoesdere?” Squinting and more than half asleep, Bryan Russell tripped on his comforter, flailed, and flopped down on his bed, where he immediately curled up into a ball and started snoring again.
“EJ, are you okay?”
“My heart’s finally slowing down a bit,” EJ whispered. Macy tiptoed to Bryan and arranged his comforter so he was covered up. EJ kept her distance, already a little weirded out that she had seen him in his boxer shorts.
“I thought you said Bryan was staying at a friend’s house,” EJ whispered. “And why was he sleeping on the floor?”
“He’s a sleepwalker, and lots of times he wakes up in places in the house other than his bed,” Macy said as she turned off the star projector and handed it to EJ. “He doesn’t like spending the night at friends’ houses because he never knows if he’ll stay where he is supposed to. So I’m not really surprised he came home.”
“Let’s get outta here and back to your room,” EJ said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at Spider-Man the same again.”
Chapter 8
WEDDING PLANS
March 28
Dear Diary,
Since January, I’ve been taking lessons from the worship minister at our church. His name is Dane, and he is totally awesomesauce. He graduated from college a couple of years ago, so he’s still young enough to not be entirely old and lame. He plays the guitar. And the bass guitar. And the piano. And the drums. And the harmonica. (Unfortunately, not all at the same time.) And now he’s learning the ukulele and teaching me along the way. Basically, Diary, he loves music. And he’s funny and nice, and I think he’s very handsome (don’t tell anyone). Usually if I think a boy is good-looking (like Cory Liden and his dimples), I’ll describe him as cute. But Dane definitely qualifies as handsome. Well, handsome under the hot mess of a beard on his face right now. Several months ago, Dane started growing a beard. But it’s not just any beard. According to Dad, Dane said he’s trying to grow a yearlong beard—also known as a “yeard.”
Sometimes Mom and Dad tease Dane about being Vine Street Community Church’s “homeless worship dude,” and they just laugh and shake their heads. I don’t know much about shaving, Diary, but not shaving for a year seems sort of like something a crazy person would do. But if Dane is crazy, at least he’s a crazy person with a goal.
After my ukulele lesson, Mrs. Winkle, Mom, and I are going shopping for some wedding inspiration. You know how I feel about shopping, Diary, but this sort of shopping seems completely different from grocery shopping (snooze!) or clothes shopping (double snooze!). Or maybe it has to do with the fact that my favoritest person, Mrs. Winkle, will be there. Honestly, Diary, everything is better with Mrs. Winkle.
EJ
EJ’s fingers felt like Jell-O on the ukulele strings as she started and stopped her way through a verse of “Oh My Darling, Clementine.”
“Rats!” EJ squeezed the uke by the neck to silence the strings that just weren’t cooperating. “I’m never going to get this one.”
“Come on, sure you will. Learning new music takes time.” Dane stroked his beard in a way that reminded EJ of a mountain man. “Let’s try playing it together.”
“No! I want to do it myself!” EJ was getting flustered. “I have to do it myself if I’m going to play and sing at Mrs. Winkle’s wedding.”
“Hold on a second, EJ.” Dane set his uke on his lap as the two sat on the steps on the stage of Vine Street Community Church. “After some practice, you’ll get to the point where you can do it yourself, but you’ve got to let other people help you sometimes.”
“But it’s so easy for you!” EJ waved the ukulele by the neck, exasperated. “It’s like you can pick up any instrument and just know how to play it. I wanna do that.”
“It’s not quite that simple, EJ,” Dane said. “Anything worth doing is worth the work. Why is it that you want to play the ukulele, anyway?”
“I just thought being able to play the uke would be cooler than playing the piano or the clarinet like other kids my age,” EJ said, adding silently to herself, And if I wow people with my fantastic musical talents, all the better.
“You like to be special—to stick out in a crowd. That’s cool, EJ.” Dane tapped the hollow body of his ukulele with his fingertips. “But sometimes you have to admit that you need help to get there.”
EJ raised an eyebrow, confused. “If I know I can do it, why wouldn’t I just work hard and figure it out myself?”
“Well, one reason is that your friends—like me—want to help you. Just the same way that I know you like to help other people.” Dane pulled a phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen. “And a second reason is that God is glorified when we accept help from others.”
EJ thought that might be the weirdest thing she’d ever heard. Maybe Dane’s beard was growing into his brain.
“Sometimes when I’m trying to do everything myself or if I’m working on a new piece of music and it’s not as easy as I thought it’d be, I remind myself of what the Bible says in Ecclesiastes 4:9–10.” Dane held out his phone to EJ so she could read from the screen.
“ ‘Two people are better off than one, for they can help each other succeed. If one person falls, the other can reach out and help. But someone who falls alone is in real trouble.’ ”
“When we accept help from others, we’re honoring God because it helps make us humble and less focused on ourselves,” Dane said. “And then, with God at the center of everything we do, the pressure is off us to be perfect. You can be confident and know that God’ll help you do your very best for His glory.”
EJ absentmindedly strummed a C chord. She thought she still would like to just do things herself—when she could.
“Do you think you can help me learn ‘You Are My Sunshine’?” EJ looked hopefully at Dane. “Mrs. Winkle’s wedding is just a few weeks away, and I want to make sure I know it really well.”
“Two of my favorites: Mrs. Winkle and ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ ” Dane said, smiling. “Let’s work through it together.”
The crystal-clear ocean water gently laps the white sandy beach as the tropical breeze tickles palm tree leaves high above. The groom fidgets nervously in his Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo shorts, his ghost-white legs mostly covered by long black socks and sandals on his feet. (EJ shakes her head and smiles to herself, amused by Mr. Johnson’s lack of fashion sense.) The white-haired man stands in the sand under an arch adorned with green palm fronds and hot pink exotic flowers. His entire face lights up and he stands a little taller, and EJ knows the time is almost here.
EJ looks across the tops of the heads of the wedding guests to see the lovely bride take her place at the edge of the sand. She strums the first few chords of the simple but beautiful tune and inhales the salty sea air into her lungs before singing in her clear soprano voice, “You are my
sunshine….”
“I’d love to have a Hawaiian destination wedding.” Mrs. Winkle sighed and untied the vintage grass skirt that had triggered EJ’s daydream. “If only Honolulu weren’t four-thousand twenty-eight miles away from Spooner.”
“That’s a very specific number of miles, Wilma,” Mom said, taking the grass skirt from Mrs. Winkle and hanging it on a display of authentic Hawaiian clothes.
“I Googled the distance from Spooner to Honolulu.” Mrs. Winkle’s eyes twinkled. “A girl can dream.”
“I know you’ll come up with a fabulous plan for your wedding, Mrs. Winkle.” EJ returned a flower lei to the display and glanced around the antique shop full of interesting goods for sale. “I mean, you’re the most creative person I know.”
“The child speaks truth!” Miss Adele, the shopkeeper of Miss Adele’s Antiquities, popped out from behind a display of mismatched trophies, some of them more than seventy years old but shining like they were brand new. “I gave up any hope I had to be as creative as you years ago, Wilma.”
Miss Adele was a feisty little lady, a retired junior high algebra teacher, and one of Mrs. Winkle’s good friends from the bowling league. Miss Adele loved helping people plan their events, and even though she wouldn’t admit it, Miss Adele had almost as many fascinating ideas as Mrs. Winkle. The shopkeeper wore multiple layers of sparkly, gauzy shawls on her thin shoulders and more jingly bangles on her wrists than EJ could count. The reading glasses propped on her head were encrusted with multicolored jewels, only matched by the large rings on nearly every finger. Miss Adele greeted Mrs. Winkle, Mom, and EJ with an air kiss on each cheek—“like the Europeans do,” she’d explained the first time EJ and she met.
“Adele, I should’ve come to you weeks ago—I don’t know where to begin with this wedding business!” Mrs. Winkle held her face in her hands as she looked around the store. “Classic and serious or fun and frivolous?”
“Oh dear, I’d hate to think those were our only two options!” Mrs. Winkle, Mom, and EJ followed Miss Adele as she weaved through the merchandise until she stopped in front of a display of vintage cowboy boots and hats. “How about an Old West wedding?”
“Ya’ll, we’re gathered here today to celebrate the hitchin’ of this here cowpoke to this here cowgirl.” The spurs on Dad’s boot clink as he kicks away a tumbleweed blowing toward the wedding decorations.
The wind kicks up across the prairie, and EJ pulls her neckerchief to cover her nose and mouth. The leather fringe on Mrs. Winkle’s wedding dress dances in the breeze, and a sudden gust of dust blows Mr. Johnson’s hat sky-high.
“Too windy.” Mrs. Winkle brushed her hand along the brim of a cowboy hat. “And think of the dust!”
“What about a Classic Hollywood theme?” EJ pointed to an old-timey reel-to-reel movie projector.
The Big Band music fills the auditorium as the bride starts her confident stroll down the red carpet lining the aisle. Mrs. Winkle is bathed in the halo of a spotlight that follows her every move. A single red rose tucked behind her ear completes the elegant beauty of her simple white dress and long white gloves. Standing at the altar, Mr. Johnson’s black tuxedo with tails is only perfected by a classic black bow tie and top hat. The lights go down as a click and whirr of a flickering movie projector means the love story of the bride and groom is about to begin.
“Lester would never go for it. He despises movies.” Mrs. Winkle chuckled. “He told me that ever since he saw Old Yeller in the theater and cried like a baby at the end, he swore he’d never go see another movie and risk crying in public.” Mrs. Winkle covered her mouth with her hand, and her eyes got wide. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
“We’ll keep it a secret, won’t we, EJ?” Mom smiled.
EJ thought it was kind of nice that grisly old Mr. Johnson was sensitive enough that he’d cried in a movie where a boy had to say good-bye to his pet. “His secret is safe with me,” EJ said.
“You know what Lester would really like?” Mrs. Winkle asked no one in particular. “An elopement.”
Mr. Johnson looks perfectly at ease in the Spooner city courthouse—on a Tuesday morning. He leans against his cane, wearing his everyday clothes of a button-down plaid shirt and slacks. Mrs. Winkle, carrying a bouquet of white daisies and wearing a simple cotton dress with tiny wedding cakes all over it, hooks her arm onto his as they walk a few steps to stand before the judge.
“Not an option!” Miss Adele busted into EJ’s daydream. “You’re not getting married in the courthouse, Wilma!”
Just then, Mom’s phone rang.
“Hi, honey.” By Mom’s tone, EJ knew Dad was the “honey” on the other end of the line. “Oh my goodness, that’s hilarious. Yeah, hold on, let me put you on speakerphone.” Mom tapped the phone’s screen. “Okay, David, you’re on speaker.”
“Big news!” Dad’s voice sounded breathless and excited. “We have a walker!”
A week ago, Faith had taken her first wobbly steps across the living room and since then had been right on the verge of becoming a full-fledged walking machine. She had been trying so hard to master the skill, and EJ could see her own frustration in her sister’s face every time she fell on her diapered behind.
Bert’s distressed bark sounded in the background of the phone call.
“Is Bert okay?” EJ strained to hear more from him on the phone. “He sounds like he’s trapped in a cave.”
“That’s the funny part of all of this.” Dad chuckled. “Faith’s first real steps weren’t so much walking as they were running. And she sprinted after Bert.”
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Winkle grinned. “What did our furry friend do?”
“Well, he ran as fast as he could from her,” Dad said. “And when I caught up with the two of them, Faith had cornered him here in the mudroom, and he is currently peeking his head out of the opening of the empty clothes dryer! She giggled and laughed and was so proud of herself. Poor ol’ Bertie’s life just got a whole lot more interesting.”
Everyone laughed.
EJ felt bad for Bert, but she had to admit that the scene happening at home sounded pretty stinking funny. “This must be Faith’s way of getting back at Bert for destroying her favorite pacifiers,” EJ said.
EJ had always been proud of the fact that she had a better-than-average vocabulary. But as she read the caterer’s menu on the card in front of her, she thought maybe she didn’t know very many words after all:
HORS D’OEUVRE
MINIATURE TORTILLA CUPS
WITH CHIPOTLE GLAZED ROCK SHRIMP
FIRST COURSE
CHILLED SPRING GAZPACHO
ENTRÉE
ROASTED FILET MIGNON
POTATO GALETTE, SAUTéED SPINACH, ROASTED MUSHROOM
“These samples are all delicious, but it’s too fancy for my taste,” Mrs. Winkle whispered to Mom and EJ as Cady of Cady’s Catering hurried to clear the dishes from the table. “And Lester told me he’d like it if we just served cold cuts on a tray at the reception.”
Mom laughed. “Lester is a man of simple tastes.”
“The word you’re looking for is cheap, dear.” Mrs. Winkle smiled. “But I might just agree with him in this instance.” EJ could see that Mrs. Winkle’s creative mind was trying to come up with a way to make lunch meat work elegantly at a wedding reception.
“Soooo, bride-to-be, how much do you love the menu I’ve selected especially for you?” the caterer gushed, her large, white teeth gleaming from her big smile. “It’s to die for, right?”
“The menu certainly is … impressive.” Mrs. Winkle chose her words carefully. “But I will need some time to think about the options and talk to the groom-to-be.”
“Sure! Sure, no problem!” A pink lipstick smudge appeared on Cady’s front teeth. EJ subconsciously ran her tongue over her teeth. “Are we ready for the cake test, ladies?”
Yes! The cake! This was the part of today’s wedding shopping trip that EJ had been waiting for! Cake, in EJ’s humble op
inion, was the very best wedding tradition of them all. White cake, chocolate cake, marble, strawberry-filled, angel food, pound cake—EJ thought there was something almost magical about the way wedding cakes tasted.
“Ta-da!” Cady removed a silver dome from a cake stand to reveal a masterpiece of confection perfection: a four-tiered square cake, perfectly smooth fondant, the crease of each layer lined with tiny white pearls. But the best part was an explosion of vibrantly colored flowers that cascaded over the top of the cake and draped beautifully down the side.
“Oh, how lovely.” EJ realized her mouth was hanging open in amazement, so she shut it quickly. “How did you get the red frosting for the flowers so red? My red frosting always ends up pink, no matter how much red food coloring I put in it.”
“It’s a secret I only tell my best clients.” Cady smiled at EJ. “They’re made of a special sugar—not frosting and food coloring.”
“It’s perfect—exactly what I am looking for,” Mrs. Winkle said. “Now if it tastes half as good as it looks, you’ve got yourself an order, Cady.”
The caterer cut three pieces from the top layer and set them on plates. EJ was disappointed that none of the slices included sugar flowers. She really wanted to try one.
Realizing she’d left the forks in the kitchen, Cady left the room and promised to be right back, and Mom and Mrs. Winkle scooted their chairs together to look at the caterer’s album full of pictures of past cakes. EJ felt her fingers itch as she looked longingly at the sugar flowers. Surely she could take one from the cake and nobody would miss it. She glanced at Mom and Mrs. Winkle, who were oohing and aahing over a groom’s cake that looked like a classic car—something Mr. Johnson, a retired used-car salesman, would love.
Before EJ realized she’d plucked it, she had an intricately beautiful red sugar rose in her hand.
