We drove and drove—for seven hours and forty minutes. Isabella said, “Are we there?” about 740 times. My cat carrier bounced along empty because my cat stayed under the seat. “Good thing we never drove to Oakwood before,” I said. “People have been known to die in captivity, you know.”
Mom’s glasses glinted in the dusk. “If you ever get thrown into a prison of solid stone, you can survive by soaking rags in the water that seeps in.”
“Also, prisoners have been known to survive by keeping their minds hopeful.” That was Dad.
“Here’s something for your notebook,” Mom said. “If you get chained to a wall, push against your bonds and then relax. It keeps blood flowing to your fingers. And grasshoppers and beetles and termites are all good sources of protein. Avoid cockroaches and rats, though. Too much bacteria.”
Unsavory. “Why didn’t we ever come to Oakwood for vacation?” I asked.
Mom glanced at Dad.
“What?” I said.
Mom reached over and squeezed Dad’s shoulder.
“What?” I said.
Isabella smack-smacked her thumb. “Well,” Mom said, “in Dad’s family, people mostly stuck tight in Oakwood. His mom didn’t.”
Dad’s mom had become an angel so long ago. I imagined an unsticky angel bouncing from cloud to cloud. Dad rubbed his neck. “Mom used to say the only thing dumber than a turkey is the farmer who tries to raise it.”
The line of kids popped back into my brain—with farmer hats and straw sticking out of their mouths. “So I have a bunch of turkey-raising farmer cousins?”
Dad was quiet. I stared out where the low sun made the grass look like a fuzzy carpet and the oil pumps look like dark grasshoppers. “My mom sold her acres,” he said finally. “Her brothers and sisters gave up on farming then. Aunt Lydia hung on to the house and a few rocky, hilly acres.”
No farmer cousins. I felt strangely disappointed.
“I hear my cousin Caroline has quit being a cop to try to farm those old acres. Probably doomed for failure, though.” Dad pointed out the window. “These days Kansas has wind farms.”
I looked out at the giant white arms slowly turning. In my mind, someone named Cousin Caroline ran under them with a huge net, harvesting wind.
“Stinky,” Isabella said. Two seconds later we passed a truck with holes in the side. Through the holes I could see eyes and tails.
I imagined Oakwood fourth graders sitting around me at lunch. I could say, “Cows and turkeys? I saw a bear.” I tapped Mom’s shoulder. “Don’t you think the Oakwood school will be awfully small for me?”
“It will be exactly the right size for you,” Mom and Dad said in unison. They thought it was perfect that I would have four weeks in school to meet other kids before summer vacation.
“Stinky,” Isabella said again. I looked out at red flickering in the dusk. Dad said some farmer lit a fire on purpose to kill the weeds and because the ash serves as fertilizer. I held my nose and shivered.
Too much like the smell of wildfires last July.
“Getting close!” Dad took the next exit and let out a big cheer and instantly got stuck behind a tractor clogging up the road.
Mom unfolded the church’s letter about the house. “Watch for Cole Street.”
I squinted out the window. In a clearing next to the road was a wooden horse with its head hanging down and a cut-out wooden cowboy kneeling next to it.
The tractor turned onto a side road, and Dad sped up.
Ahead I got a quick glimpse of lights. Then the road dipped. “Welcome to Oakwood,” Mom said, pointing to a sign. “And look. We’re on Cole Street.”
We drove to the only house on Cole Street. I saw a tree with a branch stretching out toward the street. In Colorado we didn’t have any good climbing trees, which was a waste of good muscles since I could do the third most pull-ups of the kids in fourth grade.
Dad pulled into the driveway and stopped.
“Be careful,” I said. “Don’t let Midnight H. Cat escape.” I cracked the car door open. The porch light was on, and something in the yard buzzed loudly—too steady to be a rattlesnake, I hoped. I went around and helped Isabella out. She grabbed me tight around the neck. “Carry me.”
“No way. You’re huge.”
She uncurled her hand. “Want my lucky jelly bean?”
“Thanks.” I set her down and popped it into my mouth. “What makes it lucky?”
“I licked it,” she said.
When she wasn’t looking, I spit it into the grass. I probably needed some good luck here in Oakwood, Kansas, but not that much.