CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A Miraculous Mess

When I step out onto the front porch Thursday morning, I get my first hint that Clemency has morphed into Crazy Town overnight. There’s a sign sticking out of the grass by Mrs. Abernathy’s mailbox: camping site available, $20 a night. Even more bizarre, there’s a neon pink tent sitting like a bloated pimple in the middle of her lawn, and a beat-up, black Volkswagen Beetle is parked at the curb. Mrs. Abernathy hasn’t owned a car since she ran over the Shaved Ice Shack last summer and lost her license. I’m still bitter over the lack of snow cones in town.

There’s no way my sweet, deaf, older-than-death neighbor is renting out her lawn. And yet there’s the sign and there’s the tent and there’s the car. It’s a trifecta of evidence.

I pull out my camera, ready to document this new insanity, but the Polaroid only makes an annoyed whirring noise when I hit the shutter release. I check the number of shots left and sigh. Out of film again. Damn. It’ll take a week for new film packs to get here if I order them online. My only other option: persuade Emmet to take me to Bob’s Classic Cameras in Ashby on Saturday. Fat chance. Lately, Emmet’s harder to find on the weekends than an open liquor store on Sunday.

I’m still working on my mental sales pitch when Emmet strolls out of the house ten minutes later. His hair is sticking up on one side and there are bags under his eyes. Somebody missed his beauty sleep.

“When did you get home last night?” I ask as he eases into the car.

“None of your business,” Emmet mumbles.

I don’t think there’s a single drop of hair gel in his hair this morning. That’s almost grounds for a 9-1-1 call. “Tough night?”

“You have no idea.”

“Mystery girlfriend dump you?”

Emmet tightens his hands on the steering wheel but finally mutters, “Something like that.”

I consider patting his shoulder but the level of awkward in the car is already at Threatcon One proportions. Instead, I say the only thing I can. “Sorry things went to hell.”

Emmet’s eyebrows go up, and he gives me a suspicious look, doubtless questioning my sincerity. That’s what I get for trying to be nice.

Finally he nods and says “Thanks” low enough that I have to lean forward to hear him properly.

I decide not to bring up Bob’s Classic Cameras. Maybe he’ll be in a better mood tomorrow and I can spring it on him then.

The ride to school is slow and tortuous thanks to traffic. How do city people deal with this crap everyday? We’ve only been dealing with it for a week and I already want to ram every car on the road. It’s almost worth pulling my old bike out of the garage.

I’m still contemplating the joys of road rage when we reach the town center. A giant red banner proclaiming clemency: the hometown of miracles! is hanging on the park gazebo. Emmet nearly rear-ends the car in front of us, he’s so busy staring at the thing.

“What the hell?” I mutter.

Emmet doesn’t bother answering. A car horn blares behind us and Emmet casually lifts his middle finger without looking back. The horn blares again.

“We should get out of this mess and take the back roads to school,” I say, twisting to glare at the driver behind us. The black Mitsubishi’s pinch-faced owner glares back.

Emmet nods.

At the next stop sign, he whips our car to the left and we begin winding through tiny streets and back alleys, headed roughly north. I spot two more tents and more signs. It looks like Mrs. Abernathy is lowballing the others because most are asking $30 a night for camping space. Worse, cars are parked along the side streets and out-of-towners are wandering around, peering into yards like they’re strolling through Disneyland. We make only slightly better progress on the back roads and still arrive at school late. Judging by the half-empty parking lot, we aren’t the only ones having trouble getting in today.

Gabe isn’t waiting for me on the front steps for once, not surprising considering the tardy bell rang ten minutes ago. As I pull one of the main doors open, however, I hear a shout behind me and turn to find Gabe jogging across the parking lot. He looks pissed.

“Five years!” Gabe growls as he stops beside me. “Five years of perfect attendance and some jerk in a Ford nearly runs me over and makes me late.”

“You are such a nerd.” I soften the comment with a grin.

“I was going for a record!”

“Hey, I’m late too. So are a lot of people. Maybe the school won’t count today against you.”

More students trickle past, looking grumpy.

Gabe’s expression turns thoughtful. “Good point. Maybe Mrs. Winnacker is stuck in traffic.”

Unfortunately for Gabe, Mrs. W is waiting for us in homeroom and not interested in excuses. She marks both of us tardy. We sit down just as the morning announcements crackle over the aging PA system.

“Good Morning, Shrenk High Snapping Turtles! There will be a special assembly for all students in the gymnasium at ten this morning.”

Gabe and I share a look. Special assemblies mean trouble. This had better not be another one of those teen pregnancy talks they tortured us with last year. Just because a bunch of girls in some other state decided to collectively ruin their lives by getting knocked up, we had to listen to not one, not two, but three intervention sessions telling us about how babies will not solve all our problems.

The assembly is not about teen pregnancy.

Mrs. Candlewhite steps up to the wooden podium that’s now sitting beneath the away team basketball hoop. She’s dressed in her usual floral dress with white pearls gleaming at her ears and neck. Add a wide brimmed hat and a wooden porch and she’d be the perfect extra in a commercial selling ice tea, the quintessential southern belle. She’s a Georgia transport who somehow ended up in our town, and she’s never lost the slow twang in her voice.

“Settle down, settle down,” Mrs. Candlewhite calls and the murmur of a hundred voices slowly dies away. “Now I’m sure by now you’ve all seen the news footage, watched a reporter or two, or even been front and center to witness one of the miracles our town has been blessed with. While the miracles have presented a few challenges in recent days, I want to assure you that your classes will remain unaffected by the media interest. There are to be no reporters on campus at any time. I would urge each of you to talk with your parents before giving any interviews. You represent this town in everything you do. Please keep that in mind. We are a strong community, united together, and that is what I want everyone outside Clemency to see whenever they turn on the TV or read a news article. Let’s show the world how wonderful our tiny town is and what makes Clemency so special. To that end, Mayor Thompson has provided T-shirts that he would like each of you to wear at the press conference he’ll be giving this afternoon. You may pick up a T-shirt in your size on your way out following the assembly.”

Mrs. Candlewhite drones on about bus schedules being moved earlier and how it’s our responsibility to get to school on time, regardless of road conditions. There’s more crap about coming together and presenting a good face to the world. I didn’t miss her little jibe about not talking to reporters. Gee, I wonder who that could be aimed at? And while I knew Mayor Thompson was interested in the miracles, this seems like overkill. T-shirts? Really? The scales are definitely tipping in favor of the mayor being behind this whole miracle mess. How long does it take to order several hundred T-shirts?

When we file out of the gym after Mrs. Candlewhite finally stops lecturing us, there’s a line of teachers handing out the bright red T-shirts. I ask for a large, and when Mrs. Winnacker hands me a rolled-up shirt, I promptly unfurl it. It has the same slogan as the banner I saw this morning: clemency: the hometown of miracles!

I shove it in my backpack and shoot an exaggerated eye roll at Gabe. I will not be wearing that thing. We have to head in opposite directions for our next classes but I tap the T-shirt he’s still holding and say, “Top of the list. We need to find a way into Mayor Thompson’s office.”

Gabe’s mouth falls open, but he doesn’t have time to protest. The stream of students exiting the gym carries him away and I head for class. One way or another, I’m getting into that office.