I storm down the hall, empty jar in hand. “Where’s my spider?”
Gramma and Ezra sit at the kitchen table, smiling and quietly chatting. A swirl of steam rises from Gramma’s coffee mug. She reaches over and pats Ezra’s hand.
My eyes narrow to slits. “What’s going on in here?”
Gramma chuckles. “Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed. But you won’t spoil my good mood, not when I’ve got a grandson who’s turning into such a fine young man.”
“What are you talking about?” Ezra hasn’t done anything fine lately. Unless Gramma considers stealing other people’s research projects and being a general pigheaded toot praiseworthy.
“Only thirteen and already gainfully employed. That’s what I call taking responsibility.”
“Ezra got a job?” My eyes snap to Ezra. “If you think you can steal my worm business—”
“I’m not selling any worms. Vitaccino hired me to help out around their plant.” Ezra pokes at a plate of scrambled eggs with his fork.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I squeeze the mason jar between my palms.
“It’s no joke.” He shrugs. “They hired Jack and Zion, too.”
“After what they did to your daddy, I’m not too fond of the Crofts myself, but I’m certainly not gonna stand in Ezra’s way of earning some money this summer.”
First the spider and now this. Ezra is trying to sabotage me. He knows I’m working to win the Merit Award and get in front of the board. But if he does something stupid at Vitaccino, all my plans for bringing Dad back will crumble. I spin to Gramma. “He can’t work there. Tell him he has to find a job someplace else.”
“What’s gotten into you, Magnolia? You’re getting all hot and bothered over nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Ezra makes trouble wherever he goes.” I glare at the empty jar, remembering everything Ezra said about Dad last night. “The only reason he’s doing this is to mess things up for Dad. That’s why he stole my spider. He’s out to get me.”
“Now, you need to calm down, Magnolia Jane. That’s no way to talk about your brother. And besides, he didn’t take your spider, I did.”
“What?” I ask, feeling like somebody just sucker-punched me in the gut.
“I grabbed your hamper this morning and saw the vile thing scuttling all about. I didn’t want it mucking up my good jar.”
“I needed that spider––I’m doing important research!”
“I told you she’s been moody about everything lately,” Ezra says, giving Gramma a knowing look.
“I’m not moody!” I stomp one foot.
“I see.” Gramma takes a long swig of coffee. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll make you a fried egg and cup of hot cocoa?”
“I don’t want to sit down. Why can’t Ezra collect cans or do a lemonade stand or something?”
“I’m thirteen. I’m not doing a lemonade stand.”
“I’ve spent half the summer working for this Merit Award and Ezra’s going to––”
“That’s enough. You can have your opinions, but you can’t go hollering at your brother about a fine opportunity to make some money.” Gramma stands and takes her mug to the sink. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got errands to run before work.”
“But Gramma––”
“I’ve heard all I want to. You and your brother need to get along. You’re family. You gotta root for each other. Besides, nobody likes a sourpuss.”
Gramma doesn’t get it. This was our one shot to bring Dad home again. I slump down on a lumpy couch cushion.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Gramma pauses at the front door. “I saw in the paper that there’s going to be a memorial service for Hiram Bell. I think it’d be real nice if we made a showing.”
I nod, but barely look up at Gramma. As she steps out the door, Ezra’s eyes twinkle as they slide to mine. “Sorry I can’t stay and chat. I’ve gotta get ready for work.”
I hurl a fringed pillow at his head, but he dodges it and slinks to his room.
This is far from over.
I march down the hall and slam my bedroom door. I yank off my nightgown and grab the Yellowstone National Park T-shirt Dad sent last month. When I pull it over my head, the sleeves pinch me under the arms and the hem barely hits my belly button. It’s at least two sizes too small. Heat splotches my cheeks. If Dad were here, he’d know I hit a growth spurt. He’d know a lot of things.
I pull the shirt off and launch it across the room. It lands in a crumpled wad. I sink to the floor and stick my head between my knees. My nose drips and my eyes sting.
When I was little, I thought I’d have the world totally figured out once I hit double digits. But the questions keep growing. Like why everything that was good had to change. Why one mistake sent Dad across the country and left me here without him.
A gloomy, gray wave rolls over me. What if Ezra’s right? What if I can’t bring Dad home and things are this way forever? Dad a thousand miles away, never pointing out Venus in the night sky or laughing over Pascal ambushing his own tail. Drifting further and further apart until one day he doesn’t even remember my middle name or my favorite ice cream.
A tear slips down my nose and a prickly feeling creeps up from somewhere deep inside. I imagine calling Dad. Shouting at him that he never should have gone to Yellowstone. Telling him that he’s just like Mom. That I’ll never forgive him.
But as the images stream through my mind, I see Dad. His shoulders slumped. The pain in his eyes. And I pull it all back in. I don’t want to hurt him. I just want him home again.
I stand and pull a blue shirt dotted with tiny pink flowers over my head, then fold the Yellowstone T-shirt and put it back in the drawer. I don’t know the answers. All I have is my plan. I’ve gotta hope that’ll be enough.
If a mutated fungus really is spreading through Shady Pines, that’s huge news. It might even be enough to wow the board into rehiring Dad, no matter what Ezra does. But I’ll need some seriously stupendous evidence if I’m gonna prove it.
I grab some supplies and head out the door. Before I’ve even made it to Nate’s front porch, the wispy little hairs around my face are glued to my skin. I ring the bell, and the sound of squealing toddlers erupts from inside. The door opens, and Benny––though it may in fact be his twin, Collin––stands in the doorway in an oversize cowboy hat, Spider-Man underwear, and swim flippers. “Hi, Magnowia.”
“Hey, bud,” I say, remaining name-neutral. “Nate around?”
He squints up at me. “How much will you give me if I tell ya?”
A bead of sweat glides down my neck. “Um… I was kind of hoping it might be free this time.”
The twin giggles maniacally, then shrieks, “Nate! Magnowia’s here! But you can’t see her unless you pay me quarters!”
Nate appears a second later and gives the twin a shove out of the way. “Sorry, Collin’s training to be a mobster. He won’t do anything for free anymore. Wanna come in?”
“Actually, I wanted to see if you were up for a little sleuthing around town.” I lower my voice and add, “There’ve been some developments in the last few hours. I need to brief you, stat.”
“I’m always up for recon work,” Nate says, grabbing his Darth Vader ball cap. “I’m heading out with Maggie. Be back later,” he shouts over his shoulder.
Nate’s dad calls out something resembling, “Have fun, you two,” but the “Thomas the Tank Engine” theme song drowns him out.
“So what kind of developments are we talking about?” Nate asks as we pedal out of Raccoon Creek Trailer Park.
I meet his eye. “Brace yourself, this is big-time.” I tell him everything––the spiders, the doberman, Ezra’s symptoms, and the zombie-ant fungus.
“Whoa. That’s mega-huge.”
“I think Old Man Bell was trying to warn us that night. He knew the forest was loaded with the stuff.”
Nate meets my eye with the kind of gloomy expression he saves for really rotten
news, like when Lenny’s Supermarket quit carrying Flamin’ Hot Cheezy Poppers. “You said the gunk might be spreading around town making zombies, right? And Ezra got pretty close to Old Man Bell, and now he’s got the cough and the glow. So, not to freak you out or anything, but this is pretty much standard zombie apocalypse stuff.”
I chew my lip. This time science sorta agrees with Nate. “Just keep pedaling.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hours later, we coast down a hill and cruise along Maple Street. My eyes drift to the little blue house that used to be ours. Only the grass is too long and there’s a plastic garden gnome knocked over in the front flower bed. Even the white minivan parked out front is all wrong. Nate glances my way. “You wanna stop and investigate? Maybe we could take a ride on the tire swing out back… if it’s still there.”
Nothing is the same anymore. Without Dad, our old place is just another house. “Nah, I’m good.”
Sweat runs down my back and the buzz of cicadas blares from the trees. After a few more minutes of riding, there’s the familiar sound of splashing and squealing. Like a June bug to a porch light, Nate instantly veers off the road toward the Shady Pines city pool.
Shouts of “Marco… Polo” drift from the water. Nate sighs. “Do you think those kids know they’re living the dream?”
“We’re on the hunt to solve a massive mystery and possibly make scientific history. Swimming can’t compare to that kind of glory,” I say, as a girl cannonballs into the shimmery blue water and another thick bead of sweat rolls down my neck.
“I’m just saying we’ve been searching around town for clues all day and haven’t found anything. Maybe we’d think better after some splashing.”
“We don’t even have our suits.”
Nate gives me an even more pitiful sigh. “My life’s a wasteland of annihilated dreams.”
A breeze ruffles my ponytail and I glance toward Nate with a sniff. A pungent odor slinks through the air. Nate sniffs too and then gives me an offended look. “Don’t try to pin that stench on me. That doesn’t even smell human.”
I look over my shoulder to see if we’ve accidently pulled up near the dumpster, but there’s only shrubs and mulch.
Nate slinks along the side of the pool, nose poking out like a bloodhound. “It’s coming from over here.”
I follow after him and stop when a horrible stink crashes into my nostrils. A rocket-shaped mushroom with a slimy film coating sprouts up from the grass. Flies buzz around the top of the tall dark stalk. I duck my nose into my T-shirt. It smells worse than a kitty litter and banana peel sandwich.
“The bugs are going nuts over it,” Nate says as a wasp lands next to a fly, seeming nearly glued on. “Don’t they know when something stinks you clear out?”
“Flies like nasty stuff,” I say, watching as several more buzz by. “So the more the mushroom stinks, the more bugs come.”
Nate nudges the mushroom with the side of his shoe. The flies form a perfect V shape and dive bomb his foot. “Huh?” Nate bumps the stalk again. The flies swoop into a straight line and pelt his leg. “Are you seeing this? It’s like they’ve got a bug commander synchronizing their flights.”
“Hive mind,” I murmur and kneel for a closer look. The flies are dusty with a thin layer of white powder. “They’re all covered in spores.”
Nate’s eyes meet mine. “More zombie-maker fungus?”
“It’s definitely suspicious.” I reach into my backpack and pull out an empty sandwich bag. When the wasp buzzes away, I reach for the mushroom using the bag as a glove. But the flies rocket toward my face like spitballs shot from a straw. I cringe and swat them away.
“Lemme handle this. I got a way with bugs.” Nate grabs the bag and then ninja kicks the mushroom. It falls over like a freshly cut tree. The flies fan out and Nate swoops in. “Told ya. No sweat.”
Nate’s methods don’t seem quite scientific, but the mushroom’s in one piece so I can’t complain. He opens a pocket on his cargo shorts and tucks the bag inside. “So, what’s next?”
A low buzz hums in the distance and a dark swarm emerges from the shrubs. Wasps. Dozens and dozens of wasps. Bobbing and weaving through the air and heading straight for us.
“We gotta go!” I shout and we race toward the bikes.
We pedal hard, but the swarm follows. I’ve been around enough bees and wasps to know they don’t usually attack unless their hive is messed with. Either these guys are crankier than average or it’s got something to do with that fungus. The buzzing grows louder as the wasps get closer. A wing twitches against my ear and something rustles in my hair. I rip out my ponytail holder and slingshot it down the road. A wasp zooms after it.
Nate smacks his knee. “We’re under attack!”
I pump my legs with all my might. The dark cloud of wasps thins out. We peel around another corner, until bit by bit, the droning grows fainter, then disappears altogether. My legs are weak and my skin crawls. We skid to a stop.
“I can’t go on,” Nate pants. “I’m pretty sure gallons of wasp venom are seeping into my veins.”
“You got stung?”
“A bunch.” Nate rubs a pink, puffy spot on his elbow. “Didn’t you?”
I pat down my legs and arms. “I don’t think so.”
“Lucky.” Nate’s chin is red and splotchy where another wasp got him.
I reach into my backpack and pull out a pack of alcohol wipes. I hand them to Nate. “I think it was more than luck. You had the mushroom in your pocket. That’s what they wanted.”
“At least I’m not going into anna-flap-tic shock.” Nate sighs and rubs a wipe over his leg. “But I’d kill for an ice pack and a can of pop right about now.”
I smile and look to a bend in the road just past a cluster of scraggly bald cypress trees. “There’s a vending machine at the bait shop. Think you can make it there?”
Nate groans but starts pedaling anyway. In a few minutes, we’re gliding toward The Wormery. We park in front of the shop and I reach into my pocket and dig out some coins. “You want root beer or orange?” I ask, dropping the quarters in and stepping around a sticky puddle at the base of the machine.
“I think we hit the motherlode!” Nate exclaims.
“Don’t get too excited,” I say, noticing a bunch of red lights. “They’re out of everything except diet and some pricey cans of Vitaccino.”
“I’m not talking about the pop. You gotta check this out.”
I turn. Nate’s down on his knees poking a stick at a foot-long crack in the dirt. Fuzzy green carpet grows along the opening. It reminds me of the stuff that turns up on forgotten fridge leftovers. Only this gunk glows. “The bait shop’s covered in nuclear barf and I didn’t even bring my video camera.”
“It isn’t barf,” I say, though to be honest, I can’t rule that out. It smells like rotten apples and resembles hairy Jell-O. “I think it’s more funky fungus.”
“Tell me you’re not gonna make me add the neon puke to my pocket.”
I bite my lip. Nate’s shorts are getting a little too full of grossness. “Why don’t we just scoop some up and ask Mac about it and the stinky rocket? He knows tons about nature, plus he’s got a microscope in the back if we need it.”
“I’m down with any plan that doesn’t involve me wearing that goo.”
I fetch another bag and turn it inside out, using the plastic as a makeshift glove. I scoop up a glob. But as soon as I do, the broken-off piece quits glowing. “Weird,” I mumble and seal the top of the bag.
We push into The Wormery, and Bubba Bass, the battery-operated fish mounted on the wall, flips its tail back and forth. The place smells like leather and lazy Saturdays on the lake. Mac hits a button on the register and hands a man in fishing waders his change. “Good luck on the water, Jimbo.” Mac waves and the man heads for the door.
“How are you two doing this morning?” Mac calls. He’s got deep brown skin and eyes that crinkle up when he smiles. As usual, he’s wearing a ball cap w
ith fishing lures stuck in the sides and a pair of faded overalls. “You got another load of worms for me?”
“Not today,” I say, coming to the counter. “But I was wondering if we might be able to use your microscope.”
“My scope is your scope.” Mac swings open the half-door that separates the front of the shop from the back. He leads us to the workroom where two long wooden tables are pushed against the walls. One’s strewn with tackle boxes, fishing hooks, and bobbers. The other has a stack of nature guidebooks, a bug board, and a microscope. “Let me know if you kiddos need anything,” Mac calls over his shoulder as he heads back to the register. “And help yourselves to a cold drink. The machine out front’s been giving me fits all week.”
“You’re a good man, Mac.” Nate makes a mad dash to the mini-fridge, yanking out two bottles of root beer. He sticks one against the sting on his knee and starts guzzling the other.
I get settled at the table and position the stinky mushroom under the scope. Up close, the strand is mostly smooth with only a few grooves here and there.
“Whatcha seeing?” Nate asks. “Evidence of a hostile takeover?”
I increase the magnification to get an extreme close-up of the underside of the mushroom. There’s a familiar swirly jellyfish shape. It looks a whole lot like the close-up of Ophiocordyceps I saw last night. I pull out Dad’s journal and examine the sketch. “There’s definitely some similarities.”
Mac shuffles into the backroom. “How are things coming in here? Anything I can help with?”
“Just looking at some fungus,” I say, shifting my body to block Mac’s view of the samples.
“Oh really? Mind if I take a gander?”
My fingers twitch against the base of the scope. I thought I wanted Mac’s take on the fungus, but now I’m not sure I’m ready to share this discovery. Then again, this is Mac’s microscope. In his shop. I scoot back and show him the rocket-shaped mushroom on the tray and the green fuzz in the bag.
The Mutant Mushroom Takeover Page 6
