by Kym Brunner
“Where are you two going on your trip, anyway?” Lincoln asked, expertly veering the topic away from me. I’d have to thank him for that later.
“Milwaukee,” Mom said. “There’s that nice art museum on the lake I’ve heard so much about.” She cut a meatball in half. “Dad’s going to bring Grandma Buddie here to come and stay with you kids while we’re gone.”
Lincoln and I both jumped in at the same time, protesting. “We don’t need a babysitter,” I argued. Lincoln said, “You’re going to drive all the way to Brown Deer, bring her back here, and then go back up to Milwaukee? Why?”
We loved our gram, but she came up with all these “fun ideas!” and then was offended if we said no. Last year’s anniversary trip started off with her asking Linc and me to pick up “a few things” for her at the grocery store (nearly eighty bucks’ worth) while she and Maddie got their nails done on Friday night, woke us all up for a surprise big breakfast at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, followed by a mandated visit to the haircut place “just for trims,” and then treated us all to a Disney movie Saturday night. Maddie loved it all, of course, but Lincoln and I ended up tired, aggravated, and sporting hairstyles we didn’t want.
“Spending time with your grandmother is important. You shouldn’t begrudge doing a few things with her or for her,” Dad said, his eyebrows pinched together in disappointment.
I could tell right away that complaining wasn’t going to cut it. “It’s not about us, Dad. We’re worried about her. I think we wore her out last time.”
“Mercer’s right,” Lincoln agreed, quickly tuning in to my line of reasoning. “Gram had a hard time getting up the stairs, and she had to sleep on the couch.”
“Stress isn’t good for someone her age,” I added as backup for our cause. Guess I had learned something from those Wool-Mart demonstrators, after all.
Dad smoothed his mustache. “She did say she had a backache for a week afterward. And Mercer’s right about the stress.” He glanced at Mom, as if looking for her input.
“It is a lot of driving back and forth,” Mom said, setting her fork down. “Regardless of whether Gram comes or not, Maddie has a birthday party at the bowling alley on Sunday at one o’clock, so Lincoln, you’ll need to give her a ride.”
“Can’t.” Lincoln downed his milk. “I work Sundays, eight to three.”
“If you don’t call in sick, that is,” Dad added sarcastically.
“I have to go to the party,” Maddie complained. “It’s Joanna’s birthday, and she’s going to have cosmic bowling and everything!”
“That presents a problem,” Mom said to Dad. “Who can you call to carpool?”
Since Mom wasn’t home after school, Dad did most of the driving whenever Maddie or I needed to be chauffeured somewhere. He cleared his throat. “I’d give Susan Jenkins a call, but she’s going out of town too.” Dad looked at Maddie. “I’m really sorry, honey. Not sure it’s going to work out this time.”
“You’ll live, Tattleson,” Lincoln told her. “There’ll be other parties.”
“Shut up, Lincoln.” Maddie took a sip of her milk, setting the cup down loudly. “Mom, did you know Lincoln hung out with Zola today in the basement?”
I was in mid-chew when she asked that, causing me to bite my tongue hard. The unmistakable taste of blood filled my mouth. I popped my eyeballs wide at Maddie, sending her a telepathic message: Shut your big mouth before you get Lincoln in major trouble with Mom and Dad and, worse, me in major trouble with Lincoln—which could have adverse side effects.
“Dad already knows that.” Lincoln pointed to the basket next to me. “Can you pass me the garlic bread?”
Another great diversion ploy on Lincoln’s part. I played along, figuring I owed him one. “Sure thing. Great dinner, Dad.” After handing him the basket, I pressed a napkin against my bleeding tongue.
Maddie continued, “Yeah, but do you know they went down there to make out? That’s why Mercer ran into the house, to warn him that we were home. Tell them what you told me, Mercer.”
Four sets of eyes turned to me.
“I neva thaid that!” I argued, hiding behind the blood-spotted napkin.
“You’re dating Zola?” Dad asked, looking confused. “I thought she was Lauren’s friend. What happened to Lauren?”
“Nothing happened,” Lincoln said. “We’re just taking a break, that’s all.”
“Didn’t sound like it on the machine,” Maddie retorted.
“Mind your own business,” Lincoln told her.
Mom shook her head, reaching for her wine. “We have rules in this house about where we entertain guests of the opposite sex, Lincoln. The kitchen and the living room are fine, not upstairs or downstairs. We’ve discussed this.”
“I know, but seriously. I’m eighteen. Don’t you think I deserve some privacy?” Lincoln glanced at our parents, but gave me a dirty look along with it.
I knew that look. It said I was dead meat. My stomach lurched. I swallowed a ball of guilt and gave the same dead meat glare to Maddie.
“If you don’t like our rules, don’t bring girls here.” Mom stared at Lincoln a moment. “End of discussion.”
“Fine.” Lincoln stood abruptly, his chair falling onto the floor with a loud thwack. He lifted it up, elbowing me in the head in the process. It hurt like hell but I didn’t say a word. “But don’t ask me to drive Maddie and Mercer around anymore. Favors work both ways.” He deposited his dishes in the sink with a loud clank and headed toward the stairs.
Dad and Mom exchanged glances. Mom shrugged. “He’s got a point.”
“Not budging on this,” Dad said firmly. “We’ll talk later.”
My appetite gone, I cleared off my place and hurried upstairs, needing to set Lincoln straight on what really had happened earlier with Maddie to avoid any backlash on his end. When I got upstairs, I knocked on his door softly. “Lincoln, let me in,” I whisper-yelled through the door. “I want to explain.”
“Go away, snitch.”
I cringed, turning the handle. It was locked. “Come on. Open up.”
He bellowed, “Go away before I beat the crap out of you!”
He didn’t need to tell me twice. That’s when I saw Maddie stroll to her room. I decided to give her a piece of my mind—the piece that was steaming mad right now.
I found her sitting on her frilly pink comforter watching TV and smiling, as if she hadn’t just announced the secret that she clearly swore she’d never tell only an hour before.
“Out of my room. You didn’t knock,” she said, imitating me.
I ignored her and stood in front of the TV, blocking her view. “You begged me to tell you what happened, promising you’d keep it a secret. Now Lincoln’s pissed, and you know he’s going to find a way to get even with me.”
“Lincoln’s always mad about something.” Maddie rolled her eyes. “Besides, Mom and Dad needed to know what he was doing.”
Her way of butting in to everything made my face heat up. “No, they didn’t! If it doesn’t involve you, stay out of it! Grow up and stop your whiny‑ass tattling already!”
She got up from her bed and rushed toward the door.
“Where are you going? Downstairs to tell Mom and Dad I yelled at you? That I swore?” I stepped toward her, pushing her toward the stairs. “Hurry! Run and tattle, just like always!”
She froze two feet from the door, like she was contemplating whether to stay or go. Suddenly, she burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Mercer. I do have a big mouth—I can’t help myself. I got mad when Lincoln called me Tattleson, and it slipped out.” She plopped face-down on the bed, sobbing. With her voice muffled, she wailed, “I won’t tell your secrets ever again, I promise.”
“Like I’ll ever tell you one again?” I stalked off, wondering what made me think I could trust a ten-year-old anyway.
At least I didn’t have to worry about how and when Lincoln would strike back. On Sunday morning, I saw a mute pile as big as Mount
Zola underneath Flip’s perch, which could mean only one thing—Lincoln had snuck Flip a double helping of dinner last night. I swear, lazy old Flip laughed when I put him on the scale, knowing full well that he’d be too heavy for me to fly him, the same way I’m unmotivated to do anything after I eat on Thanksgiving. And to think that all through grade school I wanted to grow up and be like Lincoln. Now I thought he was an egocentric loser.
My only hope was that he couldn’t read minds or I’d be in big trouble.
FIFTEEN
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, MOM AND DAD TOOK THE whole family to the Johnny Appleseed Festival over in Crystal Lake. The whole family sans Lincoln, of course. Mom and Dad never make him go with us anymore. At first I declined as well—until Dad dangled the promise of waffle fries, funnel cakes with cherries and whipped cream, and my favorite, corn dogs on sticks. Since Reed was working on his future car with his dad and Charlie wasn’t answering his cell, I figured I’d go.
Corn dogs have that kind of power over me.
When we got there, Mom and Maddie headed to the Craft Barn, while Dad and I made our way to the motocross track. We decided we’d all meet back at the Corn Dog Hut in an hour. Five races later, I had learned a ton of new tricks to show Reed and Charlie the next time we took our dirt bikes out, and was ready to chow down.
Mom and Maddie waved to us from one end of a partially occupied picnic table. Dad and I bought six corn dogs and three orders of onion rings—all on sticks. The smell of those foods nearly sent me running to the table. After handing Mom her freshly squeezed lemonade, I slid in next to Dad and dove for my first corn dog. I took a bite, and savoring the deep-fried cornmeal coating outside and the juicy hot dog inside, I confirmed what I already knew: everything’s better on a stick.
“Maddie and I had fun, didn’t we?” Mom patted a large bag on the bench between them.
Maddie glowed, grinning widely. “I love all the stuff you bought me, Mom. Thank you sooo much. You want to see the necklace and earrings I got, Dad?”
“Sure!” Dad grabbed an onion ring.
“Let me guess. You bought something pink,” I said, my mouth full. A small chunk of corn dog slipped out.
Dad flicked it off the table with his napkin and a shake of his head.
“Sorry,” I managed, before biting into a crispy brown onion ring. That’s when I heard a man behind me say, “Frieda, isn’t that the woman who’s the director of that research lab?”
I froze, the onion ring still dangling from my lips. I’d heard that voice before.
The woman answered, “Oh Lord. I believe it is, Jerry.”
Oh no. Please be a coincidence. I risked a peek behind me, and sure enough, Lucy’s parents were a mere six feet away. Crap! Both of them wore bright red HALT sweatshirts and carried handmade protest signs attached to yardsticks. One sign read MEAT IS MURDER and the other ANIMALS ARE NOT ENTERTAINMENT.
Guess I was wrong about everything being better on a stick.
I spun and faced my mom and sister, contemplating what to do—run to the john, keep my back turned the whole time, or confront the situation head-on, saying, “Oh, hi there, Mr. and Mrs. Wendel. Fancy meeting you here.” Yeah, definitely not that.
I groaned when I heard Lucy’s father say, “How do you live with yourself, lady?”
My mother set her corn dog down on her napkin. “Not this again.”
Dad stood up, awkwardly straddling the picnic bench. “Mind your own business. We’re here with our family.”
Lucy’s father raised his voice so that everyone within thirty feet could hear him. “I’ll mind my own business when your wife stops killing innocent animals. Hey, everyone! Did you know that the woman in the maroon shirt injects dogs with poison and watches them die, just so that the Illinois University of Rockford can profit from the development of new drugs? Hundreds of dogs are slaughtered each year, all for corporate greed.”
The people sharing our picnic table gasped, craning their necks to see who was speaking. Dad scrambled to get his other leg over the bench too, pointing his finger. “Walk away, pal. This is not the time, nor the place.”
“That’s it. I’m getting security,” Mom told me, tucking her hair behind her ears, which she does whenever she means business. She slid to the end of the bench and stood up.
Lucy’s father yelled out, “Are you going to run away now? I’d run too if I tortured animals for a living and didn’t want my neighbors to know.”
Lucy’s mom pulled on her husband’s sleeve. “That’s enough now, Jerry. Remember what happened last time.”
Maddie clutched at my hand from across the table. “What’s going on, Mercer?”
“Shhh,” I told her, pulling my hand away. “It’ll be fine. Stay here and watch our stuff.” I stood up, not sure if I should get involved or keep my back turned, since the Wendels hadn’t noticed me yet.
Mom had only walked ten feet toward the main building before she spun and faced her attacker. “You know what? Perhaps you should find out what clinical research is all about before you spout any more of your false accusations.”
Dad put his hand up like a stop sign. “Quiet, Shalene. Don’t even talk to these people.”
That’s when Lucy appeared out of nowhere, carrying a cone of blue cotton candy. “Who are you guys talking to?” She looked over at the table and broke into a huge grin. “Hey, Mercer!” She took two steps toward me when her father grabbed her shoulder.
“Stay here,” he spat.
My meal became a gnarled mess in my stomach watching Lucy pluck uselessly at her father’s grip. “Let go of me, Dad,” she argued. “That’s Mercer. The boy who came to the Wool-Mart protest with me yesterday, remember?”
Uh-oh.
“That’s him?” her dad asked. At the same time my father barked, “He did what?”
“Is that true, Mercer?” Mom’s tone was so sharp, it could break glass.
I swallowed a lump of guilt and shrugged noncommittally.
Jerry herded his wife and Lucy away from us. “Let’s leave. These people make me sick. And you stay away from him, Lucy, you hear me?”
Before Lucy got dragged off, our eyes met briefly. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell that she was confused and worried. I knew that by the time they reached the parking lot, her parents would have filled her in about my mom’s job, and that would be the end of Lucy and me. No movie date, no first kiss, and no more sitting at her table at lunch.
If my parents ever let me leave the house again, that was.
My mother started in on me first, her arms flailing as she spoke. “You want to explain what you were doing at a wool protest with the daughter of those HALT fanatics? Didn’t you know who she was?” The cheerful music of the Ferris wheel was a weird accompaniment to this conversation. A funeral dirge would have been more fitting.
“He knew,” Dad, the betrayer, said. “He spoke to that girl outside the lab last week.”
Mom squinted at me. “Why, Mercer? I don’t understand.”
“I like her, all right?” I stared at my half-eaten corn dog, wondering how things could have gone from appetizing to appalling in a matter of minutes. “I did it so I could spend time with her.”
“We don’t spend time with people like that.” Mom swiped her palms together the way people do when they have crumbs on their hands, as if signaling the end of my relationship with Lucy. “There are a million other girls, Mercer. Find one who doesn’t destroy property and break the law.”
“Or throw fake blood on people,” Maddie added.
I responded angrily to the only person I could. “Shut up, Maddie.”
I shot a dirty look at the woman gawking at us from the next bench until she turned away. Dad gathered the remaining food and walked it to the trash. Another perfect lunch ruined by HALT. Dad balled up his napkin, throwing it on the table in disgust. “Let’s go.”
Following behind my family like a convicted felon being led to the electric chair, I jammed my hands in my
pockets, no longer interested in being at the fair.
We dodged in and around the other carnival-goers until we finally made it through the exit. As our feet crunched the gravel parking lot, Mom spoke over her shoulder. “I’m still in shock over this, Mercer. Needless to say, there are going to be consequences for your actions.”
Wasn’t losing the girl of my dreams consequence enough? “Consequences?” I met her eyes for the first time, incredulous. “Because I went to a protest you don’t believe in?”
“No,” Mom answered matter-of-factly, “because you lied to your father about where you were going.” That was what she said, but I knew the protest had her way madder than the lying part.
“I didn’t lie about where I was going,” I pointed out. “I did go to Woodley Town Centre.”
“You lied about why,” she replied.
“Yeah, but if I told him the real reason I was going, he wouldn’t have let me!” I argued, exasperated with this Catch-22 situation I found myself in.
Dad said, “Enough! There are always consequences when you don’t do the right thing.”
Normally when Dad uses his angry voice, I back down, but not this time. This black-and-white moralizing didn’t sit right with me. “Don’t do the right thing? Are you saying that fighting for animal rights is wrong? Am I not allowed an opinion here?” I wasn’t even sure how I felt about this complicated issue, but I knew that my parents couldn’t dictate my beliefs. Doing that would be communistic or fascist, or some other corrupt form of ruling I had learned about in World Political Systems, which I’d obviously forgotten. Still . . . it didn’t matter what it was called; they were wrong.
Mom slid her purse onto her shoulder. “Mercer, stop arguing. I told you not to speak to that girl again and that’s that. End of story.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Rules were one thing, but this was tyrannical.
“Not quite.” Dad pulled his keys out as we neared Mom’s car. “Apparently Mercer isn’t sure whether falconry is right or wrong, Shalene.”
“I never said that!” I insisted, but Dad continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “And as his sponsor, I’m afraid his apprenticeship is now in jeopardy.”
