CHAPTER 10

Are Toadstools Poisonous?

Dad is sitting on the steps of his run-down cabin, drinking a cup of coffee, as the bus pulls to a stop at the end of the dirt driveway. I’m relieved Bo and Ty already got off the bus. They won’t wonder why I’m being dropped off at this shack.

Dad is still wearing a dusty T-shirt, jeans, and his heavy work boots. His truck and tool trailer are parked in the driveway.

He sets down his coffee and gets to his feet as I walk up the drive. “Hey, Squirt!” he says, giving me a hug. “Are you ready for a grand tour? Thought we’d start with the lake. It’s the cabin’s best feature.”

“Okay,” I say.

“You want to ask any questions, or should I?” Dad asks.

“You,” I reply.

Dad sets my backpack next to his coffee cup and steers me into the side yard as we shuffle through the fallen leaves that are scattered across the matted grass. The lawn could use a haircut.

“You look a little down, Squirt. How did the bus ride go?” Dad asks, beginning the game.

“It was fine,” I reply.

“Any trouble?”

“No. Just boys. I can deal with them.”

“That’s my girl. How was school?”

“The same as usual.”

“Did you have a spelling quiz today?”

“Yes. I aced it.”

“Boom! Did you take a trip to Mars?”

Giggle. “No.”

“Would you like to take a trip to Mars?”

“Yes! With you?”

“Sure. How about a week from Tuesday?”

I giggle some more.

“How’s Shakespeare these days?” Dad continues.

“Good. He misses you.”

“I have to admit, I miss that fur ball too. Do you have any homework?”

“Some. Not a lot.”

“Do you have any fleas?”

“Da-ad.”

“Can you say the alphabet backwards?”

“Z . . . Y . . . X . . . um . . . W . . . um . . . no.”

“Do you like having your own phone?”

“Yes!”

“And you know you can call me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Even for no big reason, okay?”

“Okay.”

Dad puts his big, warm hand on my shoulder. “Here’s the lake.”

Waves chop against the lake’s rocky shoreline. A breeze blows against my face now that we’re clear of the trees. Clumps of soggy leaves blanket the rocks as the water thumps against them. A big tree lies across the shore, its trunk thick and rough like an elephant’s leg. I can see a snag of fishing line caught in its dead branches. Kids must fish from that tree in the summer. I’ve seen this lake lots of times before, but always from the other side. It’s still the same lake, but it looks different from over here.

“Look,” Dad says, pointing. “Straight across from here is the park. We can hop on the bike path, just down the road, and pedal all the way around the lake. If you squint, you can see the top of the big playground slide.” Dad gives me a sideways glance. “The slide looks little from here, doesn’t it, Squirt? Not nearly as scary, this far away.”

Dad and Mom were with me the day I shot down that slide in my slippery swimsuit and got spit onto the hard dirt. I was just a little kid then, so it scared me to tears. Mom stood me up and brushed me off. She told me I was fine, then pushed a juice box into my hands. But I couldn’t stop crying. Not even when other kids wandered over, watching me. Finally, Dad stepped in and scooped me up like we were roughhousing. He carried me away, whispering funny questions in my ear, until I finally stopped sobbing and started laughing again. Then we sat quietly on a bench, and looked at the lake, while I drank my juice box and Mom repacked the picnic basket.

“I see it,” I say. “You’re right, the slide looks little now.” Then I look past the park and catch a glimpse of Mom’s house through the trees. I wonder if she’s home yet, or if she’s still at work. Will she remember to feed Shakespeare? That’s always my job. Will she make popcorn and watch a movie tonight? And read another chapter from Charlotte’s Web, even if I’m not there to listen?

“Watch your step,” Dad says as we walk back toward the cabin. A lumpy mound of brown yuckiness is poking up through the damp leaves.

“Ew . . .” I say, crouching down for a closer look at the weird blob. If Amber were here, we’d make believe it was alien brains. “What is that?”

“Toadstools,” Dad says, leaning in.

“Are toadstools poisonous?” I ask, poking the blob with a stick.

Dad shrugs. “You never know where a toad’s butt has been.”

I smirk at Dad’s toad joke. “Butt-er not touch them.” He laughs and takes my hand as I step around the toadstools and follow him to the cabin’s back steps. Dad props open the storm door with his foot so he can unlock the cabin’s back door. I reach out to hold the storm door for him, but my hand goes right through it because there’s no glass in the bottom panel. My knuckles punch Dad’s leg.

“Oof,” he says. “Nice left hook, Squirt.”

I rub my knuckles. “Knock, knock,” I say.

“Who’s there?” Dad replies.

“Better fix,” I say.

“Better fix who?”

“Better fix the broken door.”

Dad chuckles, then ruffles my hair. He opens the cabin door and steps inside. “Welcome home, Wren.”

*   *   *

Sitting on the bottom bunk in my new bedroom, I bounce a little. The bed squeaks, but not in a creepy way. Amber would probably say it sounds like mouse giggles. The top bunk doesn’t have any bedding on it. The walls are the same color as the toadstools in the yard.

The whole cabin is tiny—I can see most of it from my bedroom. Just a teeny kitchen with a round table and three mismatched chairs. The living room has a small couch, Dad’s recliner, and a TV sitting on top of his desk. The picture of Dad and me on the logjam ride hangs above it. Around the corner, there’s a short hallway leading to the bathroom and Dad’s bedroom.

“Sorry about the color,” Dad says, watching my eyes from the doorway. “I can ask Kermit if he will let us repaint in here.” He looks around my little room. The bunk bed, a tiny desk, and a dresser for my clothes take up most of the space.

“Can we paint it orange?” I ask.

Dad looks at me with surprise. “Orange? I thought your favorite color was blue.”

“It used to be, but I switched to orange this summer.” It might seem strange to choose a new favorite color when everything else around me was changing. But picking a new favorite color was the only choice that belonged to me.

“I got you some pencils and notebooks,” Dad says, stepping over to the desk. “Sorry, they’re not orange.” He picks up one of the notebooks. It’s small, like the one Ms. Little gave to Marianna. The cover is light blue. “I thought we could hang a shelf for your knickknacks, get some posters for the walls . . .” He scuffs his boot across the dark floorboards. “A rug or two . . .”

Dad sighs, his shoulders sagging. He takes off his baseball cap and rubs the back of his neck before sitting next to me. “You deserve better than this, Wren,” he says in a low voice, even though no one else is here to listen. “A lot better. But this is the best I can do for now.”

Usually, Dad’s eyes are bright with a smile or sparkle with mischief, but tonight they look gray and tired, which makes me feel halfway between sad and scared.

“I’ve always wanted a bunk bed,” I say, trying to sound cheerful.

Dad’s eyebrows go up. “You have?”

I nod and tap the bunk above me. “I can pretend I’m a pirate in a crow’s nest, or a princess in a turret.”

The corners of Dad’s eyes crinkle a little. “Princess Wren,” he says, putting his hat on my head. It comes down over my eyes. “There, now you’ve got a crown.”

I smile.

Dad’s phone rings. He steps out to take the call while I hang his hat on my desk chair and pull my phone from my hoodie pocket. I click up the screen and tap out a word.

Toadstool

“I was right, toadstools are poisonous,” I say to Shakespeare, before I remember he’s not here.

Tucking away my phone, I unzip my backpack and put my homework on my desk. Then I tuck my weekend clothes in the dresser. I toss the little blue notebook and a package of pens onto the top bunk and climb the ladder at the end of the bed.

Sitting on the bare mattress, I start drawing swirls and curlicues on the notebook cover. I’m not as good at drawing as Marianna, but I do okay. She said she has lots of diaries, but I’ve never kept one before. I take out my phone again.

Diary

Then I look up reflection.

Reflection

I contemplate for a minute. Then I open my diary to the first page.

Dear Diary,

I’m writing this at Dad’s cabin because it’s Friday, so this is where I have to be. I hate that we can’t all live at our house. Or that Mom and Shakespeare can’t live here. Mom wouldn’t like the cabin, though. It smells like our basement after it rains. And the curtains on the windows don’t match the furniture. Dad doesn’t care about that stuff, but I don’t think he likes living here either. I wonder who started this whole divorce thing. Was it Mom? Was it Dad? Or did they pinkie-swear at the exact same time? Mom is stressed. Dad looks tired. Why would they do something if it doesn’t make us happy?

Amber is having a sleepover tonight. All the girls are there, except me. I wonder if they’re baking brownies like Amber and I always do. I mean, did. We’d turn on a movie, crawl under a blanket, and eat the whole pan while the brownies were still gooey and warm. Most times, we wouldn’t even watch the movie because we were too busy talking, and laughing, and telling secrets.

“Hungry, Squirt?” Dad pokes in from the living room.

“A little,” I say, closing my diary. “Was that Mom on the phone?”

Dad shakes his head. “New client. I just got hired for a big remodel. Should keep me busy for months.”

“That’s good, right?” I say, even though I’m disappointed it wasn’t Mom calling.

Dad nods. “Very good!” He smiles. “How about we celebrate with a Large Marge Pizza Supreme? I’ll place the order while you pick out a movie. What do you say? Couch picnic?”

“Okay,” I say. “Couch picnic. Movies and a pizza. Extra cheese, please. No mushrooms.”

Dad winks and ducks out of my room. A moment later I hear him talking on his phone. “Hey, Marge, it’s Jeff Byrd. Good! How are you? That’s nice to hear. Say, can you fix up a Supreme for Wren and me? Thanks. Extra cheese, please. Hold the toadstools.”