I grab the receipt before Joey can and read the words printed on the back:
Take a shot in the dark if you dare.
Be large and be whole since you care.
I slam my fist down on the table. “We just worked our butts off for a clue that we already have. What a waste of time.”
Joey picks up the paper, reads it, then slides it into his backpack. “The world’s a cleaner place now because of us, Mac. At least her cart is.”
I stare at all his grayness. There’s dismay mixed into his words.
Because a cleaner world and a clean grilled-cheese cart doesn’t get me closer to my computer camp, or him closer to helping his mom.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A Visit with Brie
Joey and I finish our sandwiches. Good food always puts me in a better mood. “Let’s plan our next move.”
“Can’t,” Joey says. “Ma’s working a double shift at the diner today. I have to get back to our apartment, make her some dinner, and do a few other things.”
“But . . .” I try to hold in my disappointment, but it’s clearly oozing from my face.
“We’ll find another clue tomorrow, Mac.” He stands up. “We can start early. I’ll come by your house about eight.”
“No!”
That’s a bad idea. Coral will suck him in and gush about his cafeteria composting and free-food-table projects. Hank will want every detail about the new water systems Joey helped the school get. Within an hour, they’ll be telling him he can come by anytime, or even move in.
“Let’s meet somewhere. Maybe Sunnyville School? It’s close to the main bus lines.”
“I’ll text you.” Joey waves and tosses his backpack over his shoulder.
I sit at the table and watch him walk away, feeling strangely empty, even with a nourished stomach. I remind myself that we have eight clues.
Two more clues, and I’ll have one thousand dollars. I’ll be learning new coding languages. Creating apps and games.
I check my phone for texts. Willa hasn’t responded, but Brie has: Come by. Doing physical therapy.
I hop on the bus for ten blocks, then walk to Brie’s house. Mrs. Vo lets me in, and I see Brie lying over a highly inflated yoga ball, belly down. Her arms are out to her sides like butterfly wings.
“Shoulder exercise?” I ask.
“Yes, and it hurts.” Brie’s voice strains. She holds her arms out for about five more seconds and then rolls off the ball and kicks it hard against the wall.
Mrs. Vo rushes back in. “Brie? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m going to take a break.”
“You can exercise with your friend here.” Mrs. Vo points a finger at the yoga ball.
Brie kicks it again as her mom leaves the room. “The physical therapist was here for two hours this morning teaching me exercises. Mom took notes the entire time. I really want to be done.” She whispers the last sentence.
“You don’t have to do everything your parents want.” I tell myself this a lot.
“You don’t understand. My parents are so . . .” Brie turns her head away from me and breathes out. “I don’t want to talk about them or my shoulder. I’m so glad you’re still doing the hunt. How’s it going?”
I sit down next to her on the carpet and tell her about my day with Joey, all the clues he has, how he and I are teaming up to find the final two clues, how he talked the grilled cheese lady into letting us work for the next clue, but then how it was all for nothing. The only thing I don’t mention is Joey’s other mom, and how she’s sick.
“I’m glad you have someone to help, but Joey Marino? I don’t think I’ve ever talked to him.” Brie speaks softly.
I get how she feels. I had the same thought yesterday, how none of us has ever tried to talk to Joey. I’m not proud of that either.
I quickly change the subject. “Have you heard from Willa? She hasn’t answered my text.”
“Yes. She said her dad’s packing a bunch of his stuff up at the house. She’s hanging out with her mom and Becca at their aunt’s place until her dad’s done and out completely.”
A stupid stab of jealousy hits me in the chest. Jealousy that Brie knows this info and I don’t. That Willa told her all this but not me.
“She says her mom might sell the house,” Brie adds.
“What?”
The Moores’ home? That beautiful, four-bedroom, two-bath home with a porch and a driveway? It’s going to be sold?
“Where will they move?”
“An apartment in Northeast.”
“But that’s so far away. Can she still go to Winterhill?”
Brie rubs her bum shoulder and rolls it in circles. “I don’t think she’s worried about that right now.”
That’s probably true.
“Mac,” Brie says, “Willa and I can’t help with the hunt, but you know we’re both cheering for you . . . and Joey.”
“I know. Thanks.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Broody Chicken
On Thursday morning, Hank and Coral are once again already up, probably doing early morning goat yoga. But after I finish braiding my hair, I find Coral and Coho at the kitchen table with huge clumps of red rhododendrons in front of them. Coral has a needle and thread, and she’s stitching the flowers together, poking her needle through the stems.
“What’re you doing?”
As soon as I ask, I wish I hadn’t. It’s safest to keep far away from Coral and her crafts. She has a cyclone way of sweeping me into her recyclable decor projects. Two summers ago, she sucked me into collecting clear plastic CD cases. Then she made a chandelier out of them for our hallway. Last summer, she had me clean grease off extra bicycle chains and she super-glued them into baskets.
“Coho and I are making flowered leis for everyone to wear at the bike ride on Saturday.” She smiles at me. “I’d love your help, but Hank needs you more. He’s out with the chickens.”
The egg basket sits on the kitchen counter, and I peek inside. There’re only three eggs.
I hear light tapping when I go outside. The garage door is open, and the goats are inside standing by Hank, who’s sitting on the floor in the straw, his drum in his lap.
Rumpa-pum-pum.
Ziggy, Marley, and Emmylou all bounce toward me, circling me with their goat dance. I try to push them away, to keep their fur and smell off my clean clothes.
“Mac, good, you’re here.” Hank pauses his bongo beat. “I’ve already collected the eggs. We’ve got a problem to deal with.”
“What problem?”
Emmylou pokes her head at my thigh.
“Look at Poppy.”
The Rhode Island Red sits in a nesting box, staring forward with her permanent head tilt. She doesn’t move or twitch.
“Does she seem broody to you?” Hank asks.
“Broody? She’s not broody. She’s just mean.”
Hank ignores my comment. “I’ve been drumming for her this morning. I don’t think it’s helping.”
Hank sets his drum down and gets up, moving to Poppy’s roost. He scoops her up, gently holding down her wings. He brings her tilted head to his lips and kisses it.
“She probably has a disease. And now you’re going to get it.”
Hank shakes his head. “No. I think it’s the goats.”
“What?”
“I think Poppy is jealous of them.” Hank kisses his new evil hen one more time, and places her lovingly back on her straw pile.
“Maybe you should take the goats back.” I want to suggest he give Poppy back too, but I keep that to myself.
“We’re going to give the coop a thorough scouring,” Hank states.
“But we did that last month.” I don’t have time for coop cleaning. The hunt clock is ticking—fast.
“I think cleaner living accommodations will help her feel that she’s still adored. I also think we should build her a higher roost.”
Hank’s words make the blood in my w
hole body stop flowing. It’s like I’m not even standing in this garage with him. Maybe I need to cluck. Maybe I need to bleat. Maybe I need to pound on his drum.
Doesn’t he notice . . . me? I’m brooding too.
I turn away.
“Mac? You okay?”
“I have important things to do today.” I still don’t face him, but it doesn’t matter because he can’t see me anyway. He can’t see that the shorts and shoes I’m wearing are getting too small. He can’t see all the things I’m good at, like math and programming. He can’t see that I’m busy with my own things. He can’t see that this chicken coop garage is not where I want to spend my time.
“We’ll get this done today. I’m going to get a bale of straw and some fresh feed.” Hank hitches his trailer to his bike.
“Hank, I—”
He hands me a push broom. “You can begin sweeping out the old straw. Your food cart research can wait, Mac.”
He squeezes my shoulders in a one-armed hug. “Our chickens need you now.”
Hank peddles down the driveway, and I’m stuck standing with a broom in a straw-filled garage, with four chickens and three prancing goats. “They’re not my chickens!”
But Hank is already at the end of the block. I fling the broom onto the floor, nearly hitting Ziggy on her rump.
“And they don’t need me!” I add. “Poppy doesn’t even like me! I’m probably the reason she’s broody!”
Ziggy and Marley seem to be the only creatures affected by my yelling. They dart out of the garage. But Emmylou stays, poking me with her nose over and over.
I grab the feeder container and take it out to the compost bin, tossing away the small amount of remaining feed. Just as the last kernel falls out, I feel a sharp needle stab in my ankle. “Ouch!”
Poppy has followed me.
And now she’s attacking me. She jabs her beak into my ankle again.
“Go away!” I kick at her. “I’m going to clean your coop, so back off.” But it’s impossible to reason with this tick-brained animal. She lifts her wings and shakes them, but she doesn’t move. She leans forward to skewer me again. I hop backward, lifting my stabbed ankle away from her, and then . . .
WHAM!
I’m flat on my back on the lawn and a foot is on my chest.
No.
Make that a hoof.
Now two hooves.
Marley or maybe Ziggy steps right on top of me, but I somehow manage to locate my muscles, and I roll onto my side before the bulk of her weight can pin me. She jumps off me and bounces around in a circle near my feet.
I sit up, coughing and holding my chest. My lungs seem to have forgotten how to function. I wheeze in some air. Then I cough again.
“Mac? Are you okay?”
I look up, hacking into the foggy face of Joey Marino.
“Wow, you really do have goats.”
I try to stand, but my lungs still can’t figure out the inhale-exhale thing, so I drop back down on my knees and lean over, gasping for oxygen.
“MacKenna! Honey!” It’s Coral’s voice. “Coho, can you take her inside?”
I’m scooped off the grass and carried into the kitchen. Coho sets me onto a chair, then gets me a glass of water. He sits down across from me.
I gulp down the water. Every swallow brings a pulsing pain in my spine, but I’m not coughing anymore.
“These goats aren’t your jam, huh, Mac?” Coho turns his head and gives me a sideways stare.
Finally, I can speak, but I sound more like a hamster than me. “That chicken you brought isn’t exactly my jam either.”
“I know.” Coho nods his head and pushes the water glass toward me. “I feel your vibrations, MacKenna MacLeod. You’re out of alignment with your core environment.”
No, I’m not, I think. This man used to be aligned with me. We used to be on the same wavelength.
“Hank and Coral feel it too.”
“Hank and Coral . . .” But I can’t finish any thoughts on core alignment because Coral steps into the kitchen with Joey Marino right behind her.
“MacKenna.” She leans down and hugs me gently. “Let me look in your eyes. I need to see if you can focus.” She puts her hands on my cheeks. “How do you feel now?”
“I’m fine.” But I’m not really looking at Coral. I’m looking at Joey.
“Are you sure?” She brushes some straw off my shirt and pulls some grass strands out of my braid.
“I’m fine. Really.”
Coral pats my cheek. “You didn’t tell me this delightful boy was coming over this morning.”
“Because I didn’t know,” I say, my voice still sounding hamster-like. But I give Joey a mammoth-size glare.
“Your house is right on my way to Sunnyville, so I just thought I’d stop.” Joey turns to Coral. “Nice goats.”
“They’ve been getting in the way a bit.” Coral looks at me.
I don’t know if she’s referring to my fall or to the number of plants and pots they’ve kicked off her table.
“Joey, I’d love to hear more about the table scrap program you developed this year,” Coral says.
“Sure, it was—”
“No, Joey can’t stay,” I say. “I mean . . . he’s busy . . . at least, that’s what he clued me into.” I intentionally draw out the word clue.
Joey’s eyes dart between me and Coral.
I stand up and grab his arm, my spine making an instantaneous recovery. “Joey and I have to talk, Coral.” I pull him into the living room, which he immediately scans from corner to corner, recording every detail in his brain: the incense pots; Hank’s drums; the two futons, one on the floor, precise and structured, the other a heaping mess of flax-filled pillows and hemp sheets.
“Nice. It’s big.”
“You can stop all the brownnosing now,” I whisper. “Coral’s not here.”
“I’m not brownnosing. You have a nice house.”
“You’re mocking it,” I say. “Did you want a tour, because you’ve seen most of it. That mattress over there is my bedroom. There. You’ve now seen my world up close and personal. Happy?”
Joey is still, like I’ve just knocked him unconscious. He stares at his boots, and I do too. In the icy silence, the scuffs and the tears of his boots speak words that Joey has never spoken. Or words I’ve never listened to. Questions I’ve never asked. The pain in my back flares.
He wasn’t mocking my house.
Or me.
I wish I could problem-solve people like I can a computer program. People don’t always follow my steps. They jump out of the loops I’ve coded and create big ERROR messages in my head. Joey Marino more than anyone.
“I’m having a really bad morning,” I finally say. And then the words just shoot out. “Hank thinks the new chicken is broody, but she’s not, she’s just . . . Satan in disguise. So now he wants to build her a new nesting box and a higher roost, and he’s making me clean out the entire garage coop, and then help him build. I tried to tell him I was busy with my research, but he didn’t listen. Which is pretty usual.”
What does it matter if I just tell Joey Marino everything? He’s seen my home life now. He’s met my mom. Nothing should surprise him.
“Your parents don’t know what you’re doing, do they? They don’t know about this hunt and the clues and prize money?”
I shake my head and put my finger over my lips.
“I won’t tell them, Mac. I’ll help you.”
“Do you have a lead on one of the clues?” I whisper.
“No. I meant I’ll help with the chicken, building a roost or cleaning or whatever.”
“You don’t have to do that. You should keep going on the hunt, visiting carts. I know that shot-in-the-dark clue is a coffee cart.”
“Yes, but the sooner we finish, the sooner we can get back to the hunt. Together.”
“Really?”
Joey sticks his hand out. I grab it and we shake again, like yesterday.
Together. Me and J
oey Marino.
We’re still a team.
We’ll fix the broody chicken, and then we’ll finish the food cart treasure hunt.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hannah and Isabel
Even with Joey’s help, yesterday was wasted on Hank’s broody chicken. Today, we need every moment to find the final two clues before tomorrow’s deadline.
I arrive at the school playground exactly at eight a.m. like we planned. Joey’s already here, squatting down near a woman who’s leaning against a big oak next to the play structure. A loaded grocery cart is parked nearby.
I decide not to approach. This woman might be one of Joey’s contacts. I don’t want her to run away like the woman did when I stormed to Joey’s rescue a few days back.
I sit down on a bench painted in primary colors. I wait and watch Joey and the woman.
I realize I’ve seen her before. She’s the one Joey spoke to at the Hawthorne carts. She looks old, maybe seventy or more. Joey hands the woman a blanket out of the grocery cart. I’ve always ignored this woman. I’ve never considered giving her a warm drink or one of my rare spare coins, or even a hello. I’ve never wondered a thing about her.
But now I start to wonder a lot.
How long has she been homeless?
Where does she sleep at night?
Does she have enough to eat?
Should I give her my extra coat, the one I never wear because it’s way too big?
Joey turns around and sees me on the bench. He says a few more things to the woman, and then he waves to her and smiles before sitting down next to me.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“I was wondering if she might want a coat of mine.”
Joey looks at me. He appears surprised by my question. I am too, a little. “You can ask her.” He pushes on my back to make me go.
Slowly, I move toward the woman.
“Her name is Hannah,” Joey says.
Gray-haired Hannah watches me intently as I get nearer. I wonder if she’s fearful of people, fearful of everything, for that matter. It seems like you’d be hypervigilant if you lived outdoors all the time. I know I would be.
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