“Darn right you should have.” She shakes her head. “I don’t mind you kids exploring. Back when I was your age, I roamed Shady Pines from sunup to sundown. But you gotta be smart about it. That means you don’t go wandering after dark in spots with NO TRESPASSING signs. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, Gramma. I’m sorry. Really.”
She lets out a breath, and then her hands fall to her lap. “Anything else I oughta know?”
I could tell Gramma the whole truth. The fog rising from the ground. The neon dust. Bell’s last words. It’d probably feel good to dump it off my chest. Then somebody else would be in charge of figuring out what it all meant. “I’ve never seen a person have a heart attack before.”
Gramma eyes her reflection in the rearview mirror. In the morning sun, the lines around her mouth look deeper than usual. “Death’s a hard thing to wrap your mind around. I remember the day Ernie passed like it was yesterday. We were tending to the azaleas in the front beds. Your daddy was toddling about in the shade. Then all of a sudden Ernie up and grabbed his chest, said, ‘Trudi, I need to rest a spell.’ Those were his last words. He’s been resting out behind Good Servant Church ever since.” Gramma blinks a few times and then clears her throat. “People up and die. And it’s hardly ever good timing for the ones they leave behind.”
I think about Gramma raising Dad all alone. How hard it must’ve been on both of them. “Did you ever feel mad that you lost Grandpa so young?”
“Sure I did. But then after a while I realized all that anger was making me forget about what I still had. Your daddy. Two working arms and a set of legs. A job that could pay the bills. Staying mad wouldn’t put food on the table or keep the lights on.” Gramma gazes toward the deep green pines that border the library. She’s got a far-off look like she’s traveled way back to the days when Dad was small and she was still young. But when she finally speaks again, her voice sounds the same as always. “I’m sorry that you had to be there when Bell passed. I reckon that was mighty frightening. Yet dying’s a natural part of living. From dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.”
Gramma’s got sayings like that for just about everything. Sometimes they make me feel better, but mostly they leave me more confused. “What if Bell’s death wasn’t natural? Some people say those woods are haunted or cursed or––”
“Those woods are just woods. I know you’re shook up, Magnolia, but the best thing is to keep on keeping on.”
Gramma doesn’t want to talk this out. She just wants me to settle down. I glance out my window. A black bird flutters to a puddle in the library parking lot. It wriggles its wings and dips its beak into the water. It’s a great-tailed grackle. Dad once said they’re some of the scrappiest birds he knows. They live all over the place. Eat just about anything. The bird tilts its head, peering over the hot asphalt with beady yellow eyes. It looks a little lost. Like maybe it planned to be scrappy, but then things happened and it forgot how.
Gramma gives me a long look and then pats my knee. “Death is scary and sad. I wish you hadn’t bumped into it quite so early, but then life doesn’t always go the way we’d like.” Gramma reaches for one of the Goodman’s sacks and pulls out a chocolate bar. She unwraps it and breaks the candy in two. “Have a bite. It’ll make you feel better.”
I shake my head. I can’t eat sweets when I’ve still got wispy bits of forest floating around in my head.
Gramma munches on the chocolate and then tucks the other half into her fanny pack. She turns on the country music station and puts the car back into drive. Gramma sways her head to the music and I can tell she’s given Bell’s death all the thinking she plans to.
Back home Gramma whips up a stack of tuna melts and little cups of fruit cocktail. I pick at my food and scan the counter for Dad’s journal. Whenever I can’t get him on the phone or by e-mail, I can at least flip through his pages. I scoot away a bottle of Gramma’s fiber pills and a stack of junk mail, but the book’s not here.
“Gramma, did you move Dad’s journal?”
“Don’t think so,” Gramma calls from the living room recliner.
I search around the computer and under the desk. “I had it yesterday, and now it’s gone.”
Gramma turns the volume up on her soap opera. “It’s bound to be around somewhere.”
I’ve flipped through that journal nearly every day since Dad moved. It’s loaded with his goofy drawings, scribbled notes, and old to-do lists. I can’t lose it.
I jog down the hall and tear through my room. I check every drawer, dusty corner, and even under the bed. Nothing.
I peek down the hall. Ezra’s door is cracked open and rock music with whiny singing drifts out.
I tap on the door. “Ezra?”
There’s no answer.
I glance over my shoulder, then push my foot into the gap. There’s a wad of candy wrappers on his desk and the place smells like imitation evergreen from the body spray he’s always squirting.
I peek under his bed. A rusty silver bucket with a bit of dirt trickling down the side lurks in the shadows. I narrow my eyes. If Ezra’s plotting to take over selling nightcrawler worms to the bait shop, he can think again. That gig is mine. I reach for the bucket, not entirely sure if I’m planning to confiscate it or leave him a warning note telling him to back off.
That’s when I see it. The edge of Dad’s journal pokes out from inside the bucket. There’re smudges of mud across the cover. I snatch it. If Ezra had asked to borrow it, that’d be one thing. But this? Stealing it and then dumping it in some cruddy pail? Ultra-rude.
I storm out of Ezra’s room, slamming the door behind me.
I flop on my bed and flip through the journal, wiping off bits of dried dirt as I go. I stop. In the middle, there’s rough edges where several sheets have been torn out. I run my fingers down the ragged pages. Spray-painting some trees is one thing; messing with Dad’s journal is a whole other level of rotten. Especially after what happened last night.
As I rehearse all the words I’m gonna hurl at Ezra the next time I see him, the cuckoo clock in the living room chirps twelve times.
Noon. The mailman will be here in two hours.
I slide the journal between my mattress and my box spring. If I’m going to get my Merit Award application in on time, I’ll have to save strangling Ezra for later. I grab my backpack, wave to Gramma, and race out the door. I ring the bell at Nate’s place, and he answers in three seconds flat. The TV blares cartoons and Nate’s three-year-old twin brothers, Collin and Benny, are arguing about whose turn it is to hold the remote.
“I’ve gotta pick up my film at Goodman’s. Wanna––”
“Yup.” Nate scrambles down the porch and then yells over his shoulder. “Going out with Mags. Be back later.”
* * *
At the photo counter, I slap down five dollars for the pictures.
Kiki, the cashier with frizzy blond hair and braces, chews on a wad of pink gum. “Those are some weird-looking pictures you got there.”
There’s no such thing as privacy in a small town. “It’s science stuff.” I give Kiki a mind-your-own-beeswax kinda look and hustle down the aisles in search of Nate. When I find him, he’s got a huge, bright orange squirt gun propped against his shoulder.
“Looks fancy,” I say.
“It’s the MegaBlaster 3000. Targeting scope. Blasts up to forty feet, and when the crossbow’s deployed it can shoot three separate streams. This is the mother of all squirt guns.”
I eye the twenty-five-dollar price tag. “You got any money?”
“Two bucks in nickels at home… but when you win that award we’ll have enough.”
I’d planned to use any winnings on something scientific. Like a microscope or fancy binoculars but with this heat, an epic water fight sounds pretty amazing. “Totally, and enough for those water grenades, too.”
“Pew, pew, pew.” Nate pumps the MegaBlaster’s trigger. “You really think you can get the board to rehire your dad?”
>
“Dad’s the smartest guy I know. They’d be crazy to not give him another shot.”
Nate shrugs. “My dad said rich people are hard to figure out.”
“It’ll all come together. You’ll see.”
Nate puts the MegaBlaster 3000 back on the shelf. “Until later, Oh Great King of the Squirt Guns.”
Back at Raccoon Creek, we climb the clubhouse ladder and smoosh down into our beanbag chairs. I tear into the photo envelope.
I grin. They turned out good. Fleshy mushrooms shine atomic green against a backdrop of velvety black forest. I flip through a few more pictures and then stop at one of the landscape shots. In the background near the dark outline of trees, there’s a blur of white.
The hair at the back of my neck rises. The fuzzy cloud has a shape. Head, shoulders, legs.
CHAPTER NINE
Nate leans in. “Whoa, what the heck is that?”
After last night, the last thing I need is to throw Nate into full-blown paranormal investigator mode. I flip to the next photo. “Lens was probably dirty.”
“The old dirty lens theory.” Nate shakes his head. “Some people might buy that sort of thing, but I know aliens when––”
“Nate!” A voice hollers from the ground, saving me from another of Nate’s UFO speeches. We poke our heads out the clubhouse window. Nate’s dad stands on the gravel drive wearing a greasy mechanic’s uniform. The twins are wrapped around his legs. “I’m taking an extra shift down at the shop. I need ya to watch the boys.”
“I wanna Popsicle and a bubble bath!” Collin whines, his red curls jutting out every which way.
Nate shakes his head gravely. “Babysitting is the bane of my existence.”
I crack a smile. “How much longer till your mom gets back from Georgia?”
“Like, a month. All because twins run in the family. Apparently, they’re even harder to take care of as squishy little newborns. At least that’s the story my aunt Josie’s telling.”
“Hustle up, Nate. I got work!” Nate’s dad calls.
“I’ll catch you later, Mags.” Nate trudges down the ladder. The boys peel off their dad and onto Nate. “Two orange Popsicles coming up.”
“I wanna purple ’sicle,” Benny whines.
“No! I wanna purple.” Collin shoves Benny and they both start to howl.
“Have fun,” I call, and then grab a manila envelope tucked under a stack of old Nat Geo magazines. My application for the Merit Award has been printed for days, just waiting for me to fill in the blanks describing my photos. I carefully print a few lines about the mushrooms and the wonders of bioluminescence. After that, I add a final bit about Dad teaching me almost everything I know about the flora and fauna of Shady Pines.
I slide in two of the best photographs––close-ups of a brilliant turquoise mushroom—then trot to the row of mailboxes at the entrance to Raccoon Creek. I close my eyes and drop the letter in the chute. I’m inching my way toward that award.
I step inside the trailer just as the phone rings, and nearly trip over Ezra’s skateboard racing to answer it.
“Magnolia?” The voice sounds far away, like the call’s coming from somewhere deep underground.
“Dad?” I spin in a circle wrapping the cord around my chest.
“Hi, kid! It’s me.”
“You’ve got service!”
“My supervisor’s visiting my campsite and has a satellite phone. I sorta borrowed it while he went to check on a troop of Cub Scouts.”
Sizzle.
Pop!
“What’s all that?”
“I’m working on a little something. I know a special lady who just turned eleven.”
“My birthday was last month, Dad. And you already mailed me a card and sang me happy birthday in your goofy British accent.”
“That wasn’t British, my lady. T’was Scottish,” he says, swinging into the bad imitation again. “But I still owe you a present. So I wanted to see about your favorite color these days. And if you prefer transparent or opaque. Hypothetically speaking, of course. No spoilers.”
Crackle.
Bang!
“Whoa there. Easy does it.”
“Are you doing something dangerous?” I want to update Dad on everything that happened in the woods, but it sounds like he’s in the middle of a potential catastrophe.
“What? No, kiddo. Just tinkering around a bit. You know me. Having a little fun before work.”
“There’s no smoke or anything, right?”
Dad coughs. “I’d say it’s more of a mist, really. Low-hanging sulfuric cloud, possibly.”
“Dad! Yellowstone has rules about that sorta thing. You could get in trouble!”
“No worries, Magaroni and Cheese. I’m at a campfire in a designated area. Plus, I’ve got two fire extinguishers on hand if need be.” He coughs. “Everything is one hundred percent under control.”
Sizzle, snap… crackle.
“Ouch! Okay… um, actually, I’d better run… so did you say green was a good color for you? Things are looking a bit green.”
“Green’s great.”
“Perfect. Listen, I’m going to be out of range for another week or so, but you keep checking the mail, okay?”
There’s a sound like a giant pot of pasta sauce boiling over.
“Sure, Dad. Just get the fire put out.”
“No problemo. I’ve got this under––”
“Tooooommmy!” A man’s voice hollers.
“Love you, kid––”
The line goes dead.
I set the phone back on the receiver. I’m going to need to get in front of the Vitaccino board stat. It sounds like Dad may need a new job sooner than expected.
CHAPTER TEN
I lay back on my bed and flip through the rest of the pictures. I pause. There’s one I didn’t notice before. It must’ve been taken by accident when we were running. It’s a little hazy, but one of the doberman’s faces is completely in focus. Something pokes out of its mouth––long, skinny, and white––like a bean sprout in the chicken chow mein at Eggroll King.
I open my nightstand drawer and dig out my magnifying glass. Enlarged, it looks like the white stalk is actually attached to the dog’s bottom lip. I didn’t notice anything on the dogs this morning, but then again, there wasn’t really time to examine them while Sheriff Huxley was ratting me out to Gramma.
There’s a tap at my door, and I shove the photos under my pillow. The door creaks open and Ezra hovers in the entry. “Hey.”
I purse my lips. “Are you here to apologize for vandalizing Dad’s journal?”
“Huh?” Ezra barely blinks.
“You tore pages out. What kind of creepazoid does that?”
“I didn’t tear anything out. I just looked at it. You shouldn’t go snooping around in my room anyway.”
“You left the door open.”
“Well, you left the notebook on the counter. So we’re even.” Ezra leans against the doorjamb like destruction of personal property is no big deal.
I punch my pillow. “Those pages didn’t just pull themselves out!”
“Maybe they got stuck on something sticky and it yanked them out.”
I roll my eyes. That totally didn’t happen. But I don’t have enough evidence to keep arguing, so I decide to let it go for now. Ezra lingers in the doorway. “Did you want something?”
He sighs, then shoves his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for not ratting me out to Gramma when you got busted.”
“I figure she didn’t need to know every detail,” I say. Ezra and I might not always get along, but I’m not one to snitch unless I have to.
“She told me you guys bumped into the sheriff. She said Old Man Bell died.”
A snapshot of Bell’s glowing face flashes through my mind and I shudder. “Heart attack.”
“That’s messed up. I wish I coulda helped him more.” He fiddles with the hem of his black T-shirt. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you were okay and stuff.
”
“I guess. You?”
“Yeah. I just thought––” Ezra’s words suddenly die off in a fit of coughing.
His face gets a greenish tint. Like he ate too many fried Twinkies at the county fair. At last, Ezra wipes his eyes and sputters out, “I think I’m allergic to your cat.”
“Um… okay.” We’ve had Pascal since he was a kitten and Ezra’s never so much as sniffled around him.
“I just thought I’d check on you. That’s all.” Ezra turns and goes. Faint coughing drifts down the hall after him.
Brothers are weird. One minute I want to sock him in the nose for being a stinkface and the next I kinda want to hug him.
I’m reaching for the photos under my pillow when something rustles in the corner of the room. I glance up to see Lennox hurl his little lizard body against his terrarium glass. He pounces again, this time tumbling backward onto his heating rock. “You’re going to shed your tail if you keep freaking out.”
I pop the lid off and scoop him out. As soon as he’s free, he leaps to my arm, then scrambles down my leg onto the carpet. I drop to my knees. I’m inches from grabbing him when he springs across the room as fast as a four-inch leopard gecko can possibly run.
“You’re being a psychopath,” I yell and dash after him.
There’s a meow, and I whirl around. Pascal saunters into the room like a lion creeping through the African savanna. I spread my arms wide. Pascal’s tail twitches as Lennox races up the back wall and disappears behind the curtains.
Pascal crouches to pounce. “You CANNOT eat my lizard!” I swoop down and grab Pascal around the middle. He gives a sulky cry as I toss him out and slam my bedroom door.
I throw my curtains back, but there’s no sign of Lennox. “Come here, boy. You’re safe now.” I reach for the miniblinds cord and give it a tug.
The Mutant Mushroom Takeover Page 4
