when I’d untangled my heart from that conversation, I had to do the same with the vines of honeysuckle to get to the creek. Betsy would never fight this sweet wall just to get to the water, but she was really missing out. Not that I was ever missing her, but still.
Something familiar was on the ground, small and blue. It was a rubber band, and I figured it had snapped off Twang. Triple had barely known our mother; he didn’t even have two years with her before she was gone. But Twang was built out of a shoebox that had held her favorite sandals, and it was about all Triple had of her.
He probably hadn’t even noticed that his blue string was missing, on account of the turtles on his brain. But I scooped it up and stuck it in my pocket, figuring I’d come to the rescue of a shoebox banjo that used to hold sandals.
And that’s when I felt it. A small tube, cool and compact, with a tiny circle sticker on one end.
June.
She must have slipped the Christmas Nutmeg into my pocket while we were having lemonades under the marquee. That made me do the kind of grin where you put your hand over your mouth and you don’t even realize it went there. But I stuck the lipstick back in my pocket real quick, ’cause I didn’t want to lose it to the quick-moving waters of Ridge Creek itself.
The path to the creek was well marked, thanks to all of the running back and forth kids had done here since who knew how long ago. You had to be careful in some spots or you’d get a branch in the face, but even after being gone for a year, I knew right where to leap and right where to duck. And after I’d gone about the distance around the bases, there it was.
Triple was a few rocks away, face‑down near the small rapids and the muck.
“Hey, Triple!” I yelled. “Any luck?”
All I got back was a halfhearted wave, and I couldn’t tell if that was good news or bad. So I flopped down on a rock, careful to keep my sneakers out of soaking distance. And then I twisted up the Christmas Nutmeg, rich and smooth and beautiful, and I put it on the best I knew how. That’s why I didn’t notice at first when Marcus showed up.
“Derby, what the heck is all that paint you’re putting on your face?”
“And why are you so filthy?” He had red dirt all over, from his knees down to his feet and from his elbows out to his hands.
Neither one of us was mad, of course—sometimes it’s easier to pick on a friend than to just say hello. And then we smiled and did our most favorite version of a Rockskippers victory high-five, one we had studied for two-thirds of a season before we got it right, the one that went right slap, left slap, right slap, fake the left slap and tap shoulders twice instead, slap the back of your left hands, go down low for a five on the right and then snap your way out.
By the time the snaps were through, a whole year had fizzled away.
“How’s June?” Marcus asked, a little quiet. “You saw her?”
“June? Great, I think. She said it’s going to be a fine summer,” I said. “Oh shoot, I forgot to tell her about the sweet‑potato fries. You are going to love them with a burger or two. Unless you became a vegetarian since last year.”
“What?” Marcus flipped his wilder-this-summer hair around a little, and then said, “Oh. Betsy.”
“Oh, Betsy,” I said, and then our smiles turned to the laughing kind.
Through the trees shading the creek, we could hear Miss Houston’s kerplunks. She was the organist at the stadium, and she wasn’t all that good. But that meant batting practice was close, and watching the warm-ups was what Marcus and I always did on game days. We’d stand low in the bleachers pretty close to the bullpen and watch his dad, Lump Emmett, shag balls and joke around with the rest of the outfield. The rest of that outfield happened to be Goose and Scooter Plogger, who played right and center field alongside Lump’s left, and they happened to be Lollie’s dad and Betsy’s dad. Lollie and Betsy weren’t into batting practice like we were.
“Derby,” Marcus said, “I gotta go. I can’t make batting practice.” And before I could even ask him why or why not or anything at all, he leaped and ducked his way away from the creek.
“Marcus Emmett, get back here! It’s tradition!”
I hoped a root would stub his toe and slow him down, but it didn’t. He was gone.
And so was Triple. I’d probably have to do the onions.