The smell of bacon frying woke me. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, and the early Saturday sun peeked through my window. It looked to be a beautiful day for a festival.
Ava Claire snoozed next to me, wearing her scratchy-looking pink pajamas and a frilly satin sleeping mask. She said the mask blocked out any trace of light and was infused with aromatic lavender oil to reduce stress and encourage relaxation. I told her that’s what curtains and ice cream were for. I sat up, slowly, to keep from creaking the bed (and disrupting her beauty sleep) and slipped out from under the covers. Ava Claire didn’t even roll over when I tripped over a pillow and bumped my knee. Maybe she slept in therapeutic earplugs as well.
“Good morning, Frog,” Daddy said, and plopped a steaming waffle onto a plate. “Feel like waffles today?”
My stomach rumbled, fully awakened. “I feel like waffles every day.” And that was the honest truth. I scooted to the table, gloriously unaware of my horrendous display of bed-head.
“Bacon?”
“Please.”
“One piece or two?”
I gave him a look.
He put three on my plate. “Where’s Toad?”
“Sleeping.” I poured myself a glass of orange juice from the carton on the table. “Where’s Leon?”
“Running.”
I took a sip of juice.
“And Mama?” I asked, already guessing the answer.
“She’s having a bit of trouble getting going after all of the commotion late last night. And the headline this morning.” He slapped the Howard County Press down next to my plate.
COOP CATCHES FIRE AFTER FIREWORK PRANK screamed the headline in big black letters. A giant photograph of the smoldering henhouse followed by a full-length article highlighting the damage covered most of the page. A quote from Mrs. Willoughby was enlarged and bolded, but I didn’t even read it. The tiny byline and profile picture of the journalist told me plenty. Bettina B. Wiggins. Poodles.
“It wasn’t a true prank.” I turned the paper over. A picture of Dawson O’Dell cradling a terrified hen in his arms glared at me. Jackie. I groaned and put my head down, unable to look at the article any longer. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Daddy plunked two plates sided with thick strips of bacon on the table, one across from the other. Warmth from the waffle radiated onto my face. Five minutes before, I’d have licked my lips in anticipation, but now I didn’t think I could eat five bites. “The whole world knows, but no one knows the truth.” I dredged a strip of bacon through my maple syrup. “We weren’t being malicious . . .”
“The people that matter know. However, you three need to apologize to Mrs. Willoughby in person.” Daddy took a bite of waffle, then blotted his mouth with his napkin.
I nodded and poked at my waffle.
“And.” Daddy’s face brightened. “You’ll be able to tonight, as you are now working alongside me in the Tom Sawyer food truck.”
My fork clattered to my plate. “WHAT?”
“Simmer down.” Daddy held up his palms. “It’s only fair you guys work a few hours to pay for the damage.”
“But, we’ll miss the festival!” I jumped up, knocking my chair backward.
“No, you’ll technically still be there. And if AC agrees to work one hour, then you only have to work two.”
“But this is all Leon’s fault! He’s the one who shot the fireworks, not me. Not her!” My voice squeaked with frustration.
“And he’ll work longer than you, but you were all present. You know better than to sneak down to the creek at night without permission.”
Speechless, I snatched a piece of bacon from my plate and bit off the syrupy end. My head spun. How could I win Mr. Reyes a new goldfish and introduce Mama and Daddy to Ray Charles if I was scooping up mounds of coleslaw? And what about AC? She was dancing a number in the pageant!
“Vilonia?” Daddy asked as I carried my dishes to the sink. “Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast? We Beebes don’t pass up fresh-squeezed orange juice.”
“Sorry, Daddy,” I said, scraping waffle bits into the trash. “Guess I’m not feeling very Beebe-ish today. Gotta run.”
• • •
So I ran. Ran right out the door. Because only one thing made me feel better when I was down in the dumps or beyond frustrated. Okay, two things. A Guy’s Cookie Dough Blast was most definitely up there, but I needed something physical. Ava Claire danced. Leon ran. Me?
I pitched.
And pitched. And pitched. I pitched so much I became a quick pick for games at recess. And on a good day, when I wore my lucky socks, I could throw a curve so fine it made boys weep. I didn’t have my lucky socks today, they were in the wash, but I did have my glove and my wire basket full to the brim with worn softballs. So I lugged them out to the best spot in the yard, by the tire swing.
Dropping the basket and glove in the grass, I walked up to the old tire, grabbed it through its middle, and pulled it back a few steps. A fly buzzed my face. I blew my bangs out of my eyes with a puff and counted, “One, two, three!” Then I took off running and heaved that dusty tire with everything in me so it sailed up into the air and cleared its branch. When it came down on the other side, its rope had shortened, lifting the tire a couple of inches off the ground to create a strike zone. One more swing around the branch did the trick. I stopped the tire’s pendulum swing and stepped back to survey its height. Golden. Plucking the first ball from the basket, I warmed my arm. My foot dug its place in the earth. My fingers gripped the skin of the ball, while my glove and eye found my target. I stood like a deer in the woods, all senses alert. My heart thumped. My nostrils flared. This is for you, Ray Charles.
In a flash, my left arm swung back and around. The ball flew from my grasp. It sliced through the air and straight through the tire’s middle.
“Yes! Take that, world!” I danced a jig. Over and over, I threw one ball after another—for Max, for Mama, for Ray Charles, for me. All my anger and sadness and frustration soared through the air with each pitch. Soon, I’d finished the basket.
When AC found me, I was picking up the last ball. It had sailed clear to the back fence.
“Hey!” She tromped through the grass toward me, wearing my horse head T-shirt, the only shirt I owned with a speck of glitter. “Heard you skipped breakfast.”
I waved my glove. “Yeah. Guess you heard we’re working the Willoughbys’ food truck.”
“Yeah.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I don’t do fish.”
“I know. Fish eyes. Fish scales. Fish tails. Fish smells . . .” I tossed the last ball into the air and caught it.
Ava Claire shuddered. “Yeah. I meant, I don’t think I can work.”
“Excuse me?” I tossed the ball into the basket. “We are working to pay for the chicken coop.”
“I know, but Neely said maybe I could come up with something not fish related, like manis and pedis for a cause or something.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you skipping out on me?”
“What? No!” Her cheeks burned. “It’s just I can’t miss the pageant. My dance teacher’s competing, and remember, I’m dancing in the second number.”
“But”—I threw my glove into the basket for good measure—“you can’t walk away and leave me!”
“You can’t expect me to smell like fish. It’s my first solo!”
Great. Just great. Ava Claire adored her dance teacher Miss Connelly, and if anyone could recite the past decade of Miss Catfish tiara wearers, it was my best friend. She dreamed of two, no three, things: 1) completing a quadruple pirouette 2) one day being crowned Miss Catfish, and 3) one day being crowned Miss Catfish without having to actually sample said catfish. This was a perfect stepping-stone, a big deal, and I was sunk.
“Aren’t you happy for me?” she asked.
“No! I mean, yes. Of course I am, but your timing is plain crummy. A real friend would help.”
AC frowned. “A real friend would be more supportive of my first solo performance.”
“You’re one to talk, Miss I Have Dance Every Day. You’ve hardly been around, and I’m trying to replace someone’s pet and adopt a dog while working a food truck.”
“Maybe so, but you’re not the only one with stuff going on,” AC said, and crossed her arms. “And I have too been here. I helped with Max. I went to his memorial at the creek, and you know how I feel about snakes. I even hunted hens in the dark.”
“Okay, fine. You’re right. Maybe I haven’t been the best friend. But things have been a bit nuts around here, in case you haven’t noticed!”
“You don’t have to shout.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” I sighed. “But I still need to win a goldfish to be responsible, and somehow, someway get my parents to meet Ray Charles at the Animal Shelter booth. If he’s even there.” My voice became a whine. “If we both work, my time will be cut. You have to help me, AC. The Great Pet Campaign is on the line.”
She looked skeptical. “You know fish makes me faint.”
“Please. You’ll be done in plenty of time to get backstage, and I’ll have enough time to find a goldfish and watch you perform. It’s win-win.”
AC tightened her braid and sighed.
I practiced some deep breaths.
“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll work one hour, max. Only because it’s Ray Charles. He’d better be as cute as you say he is.”
“Thank you!” I surprised her with a big hug. “I knew I could count on you.”
“But if I miss my call time . . .”
“Do you really think I’d do that to you?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Yeah, okay.” I crossed my arms. “Have a little faith.”
AC looked at me. “I’m warning you, though, if the announcer takes the stage and I’m still working, I can’t promise a buttermilk biscuit or cup of sweet tea won’t go AWOL along with me.”
“A-what?”
“A-wall. A. W. O. L. Absent without official leave. It’s a military term.”
“Oh.” I glanced at the silver locket the general had given her before he left, the locket full of memories and meaning and missing. “Sorry. I didn’t know. Have you heard anything?”
AC shook her head. “But it’s okay. Neely thinks we’ll hear from him soon. Anyway, I need to get ready for dress rehearsal, so I’ll catch you later. You’re welcome to ride with us. Maybe we could squeeze in a few rides before the gate opens and we have to clock in?” She smiled.
“Sure,” I said, picking up the basket of balls. “Maybe that’ll be just enough time to win myself a goldfish.”