After a little while, Amy and her parents got up and started picking through their camp, which had been trampled. Amy saw a zillion packages of superdehydrogenated peas and carrots and Salisbury steak broken open and strewn among the cornstalks. Her own tent had been dragged around and stepped on.
“Anybody ready to go home?” Dad asked Mom, and they both looked at Amy.
“Hell yes,” said Mrs. Barch, who nodded around at everyone and started crossing the cornfield with caution, probing ahead with her cane.
“Mrs. Barch,” said Amy’s mom, “would you care to—”
“Nope,” said Mrs. Barch, not stopping. “I’m going home. You people scare me.”
Amy was about to tell her mother yes, she’d like very much to go home, but then a voice spoke up. A voice both tired and queenly.
“I wonder,” said this voice, “if I might convince anyone to join me at my home for a warm slice of pondhouse pie. I daresay we would all like to sit and be comfortable for a spell. Besides, some of you might have questions….”
Mom and Dad and Ms. Kopernikus looked a tad lost still. Looked like they weren’t sure if they wanted to go to this woman’s house and be made comfortable.
Ms. Goolagong stood like a grand old tree.
Oliver appeared at the witch’s side and addressed the three parents.
“You’ll find,” he said, sounding crisp and bright, “that the things you’ve seen or think you saw, whether five minutes ago or thirty years—my goodness!—ago, make a great deal more scientific sense if you use your words and ask a question or two.”
Mom and Dad and Ms. Kopernikus all spoke at once.
“Who are you?” they asked Ms. Goolagong.
“I’m Ms. Elaine Goolagong,” she answered.
Mom’s and Dad’s foreheads furrowed. Then their eyes flew wide, startled.
“The Ms. Elaine Goolagong?” said Mom. “Dr. Elaine Goolagong?”
“The Elaine Goolagong who discovered the Peanut Galaxy?” said Dad.
“And the Rose Galaxy?” said Mom. “And galaxy NGC HG3784698?”
Ms. Goolagong, for once, was taken aback.
“Well, yes,” she said.
Mom and Dad gushed and blushed, both competing to tell her that they worked at the university, where she was quite famous, and was it true about her husband, and so on. Because if that was true, maybe it wasn’t so strange, the thing with the disappearing rocking chair, which they might or might not have seen long ago, and—
“So then,” interrupted Ms. Goolagong. “Pie? My place? Yes?” And all three parents nodded as she gathered them with her long, mighty old hands and steered them gently toward the road.
“Excuse me?” Amy said, hopping up to tap the witch on the shoulder. “Your house? You haven’t lived in that old cabin for years, and you said there were huge, man-eating germs, and—”
“Please,” said Ms. Goolagong, turning toward the road. “I’ve got much better accommodations these days.”
She waved one hand thataway, down the roadside. Amy looked, and there it was…Ms. Goolagong’s house.
It was unmistakable.
The house was a bus, parked a hundred yards away. A school bus, perhaps, or an art festival on wheels. It was painted all over with great yellow stars and red comets. Plus moons and UFOs and peace signs and hearts and birds and rockets and rainbows and wild dreams.
“It’s got a kitchen,” Ms. Goolagong assured them. “Plus a sofa and chairs and bookshelves and whatever else. And two pondhouse pies sitting on the counter, dying to be eaten.”
And off they went, Amy and Moo and Oliver the powerful lawyer and Ms. Goolagong, and Mom and Dad and Ms. Kopernikus, hiking toward the ditch and the bus and the road.
“It’s nice to see you, Oliver,” said Amy.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” Oliver replied. “It’s been a while.”
“A couple of hours,” said Amy.
“Twenty-five years,” said Oliver. “Quite enough time to think about everything you told us, long ago, in Elaine’s cabin. Time enough to make quite a few plans.”
Behind them, Ms. Goolagong was saying, “Yes, Ms. Wood, I have a medicine cabinet. You’re welcome to check on your daughter’s terrible, awful head wound. I hope we don’t have to amputate. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse! They’ll tell you all about it if you promise to remain calm. Why, these girls have been through more than you know in just a day. As for the rest of you—”
“I’m starved,” said Oliver. “It was a long flight.”
“Well, then,” said the witch, “I believe I’ve got some ham, and crackers, and perhaps a Tootsie Roll or two. If none of that appeals to you, there’s a roasted third grader in the oven.”
The parents jumped.
“Kidding,” said the witch, leading the way across the ditch.
“Everyone knows you don’t roast children,” the girls heard her mutter to Oliver. “You have to boil them, or they scorch.”
Amy and Moo winked at each other, sharing the same thought as they all trooped down the road toward Ms. Goolagong’s house.
When we are old women, they said to each other, we will sometimes behave quite strangely, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
Out of nowhere, seemingly, Tuba appeared from above in a storm of feathers and unsuitable words. He managed to land on Amy’s outstretched arm, muttering, “They changed the Monopoly pieces. Why’d they want to go and do a thing like that?”
When I’m old, said Moo, I’m going to wear costumes, not just clothes.
Amy nodded. “I’m going to start with a new butterfly hoodie. I’ll pay for it this time.”
We could make one of those Chinese dragons, like they have in parades, with, like, forty people inside it. Except it would be small enough for just two people, and whenever we go into town, we’ll go as a dragon.
Amy nodded thoughtfully.
“We could do a lot of crime experiments,” she said, “disguised as a Chinese dragon.”
She kept expecting Tuba to repeat something, but…nope. He was snoring.
“Of course,” said Amy, “before all that, when I grow up, I’m going to be a witch.”
Me too, said Moo.
“Me too,” said Oliver.
“Me too!” laughed Ms. Goolagong.
“That’s enough for me,” snorted Tuba, talking in his sleep. “I need another chocolate chip cookie like I need another rear end.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Hi.
Why are you reading the acknowledgments? The story is over. What exactly did you think you would find back here? A golden ticket? A secret code? A dead, mashed-up spider? (I found one of those in a book once. It was horrible, but also sort of fantastic.)
Anyhow, I’m glad you are reading the acknowledgments, because in this book, they are for YOU.
Yes, you, specifically.
Why?
Because you’re the reader.
You’re the whole reason this book—any book—even exists. If you weren’t there to read it (if you didn’t choose to read it), this book would…well, I think it would be very sad, for one thing. Don’t you? It would be like a dancing bear named Charles putting on an outrageous, roaring ballet in the middle of the woods and dancing the BIG FINISH only to discover that everyone had gone home to watch TV instead. Sniff.
So I’m glad that you were there and that you read every word carefully and wisely—possibly with a sigh—all the way from beginning to end. You are this book’s best friend.
Consider yourself acknowledged.
Now, there are other people who should be acknowledged. I mean, there are people who helped make the book happen. Like, helped me take out parts that were dumb and add things that were magical.
One of them is my agent, Michelle Brower. She h
as a dog named Jonathan. Sometimes she makes him wear costumes.
Another is my editor, Jenna Lettice. She likes to go hiking in places like Colorado. Her favorite character in this book is Tuba. She helped me see places in the book that needed to be less like dirty socks and more like chocolate and storms. I’m also grateful to senior editor Caroline Abbey, who was a big cheerleader for Amy, Moo, Ms. G., Oliver, and Tuba and helped bring them into the publishing world so that you could read about them. Thanks, Caroline!
There’s my wife, Janine. She’s a professor who writes books, and poems about snakes. And there’s Jianna, my daughter. She’s an excellent, excellent artist. I wrote this for her. I hope she likes it. If she doesn’t, that’s going to be awkward.
Thank you for reading the acknowledgments.
Maybe you should look at the next page, too. You never know what you’ll find. Perhaps a possum…or a pizza…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Poore has written several books and short stories for grown-ups. Two Girls, a Clock, and a Crooked House is his first novel for young people. He lives in Highland, Indiana, with his wife, the poet and activist Janine Harrison, and their daughter, Jianna.
@mikepoore227
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Two Girls, a Clock, and a Crooked House Page 19
