CHAPTER 3

Where do bad days come from? Why are some days bad and others good?

Despite extensive research by many smart people, the science on bad days is sketchy at best.

It is, scientists might say, pending further research.

There are some people who think bad days are caused by black cats. Black cats would like it to be known that they have plenteous good days and they are in no way responsible for your mom’s car getting towed or any of that other stuff. There are also people who think stepping on cracks causes bad days. Cracks in the sidewalk would like you to know that they are trip hazards, sure, but not responsible for you dropping your ice cream or any of that other stuff.

What was clear to Mal was that something in Molly’s package had made the rest of the day irreparably, irretrievably BAD.

Even though Molly left the books under Mal’s bed in Roanoke cabin, it was like she was lugging them around everywhere she went. Through everything she and Mal did that day, it was like she was carrying them in her soul.

Or something.

A bad thing happening can feel like a push through a trapdoor that sends you tumbling down into a rotten day. That’s why people say things like “It all went downhill from there.” Because sometimes a bad day is like riding backward on a wagon with three different-size wheels down a hill made of angry rocks.

Also, watching someone you care about so so so much have a bad day can feel pretty horrible.

And so.

Mal’s first solution to Molly’s bad-day vibes was to take her to the archery range, because Mal knew Molly was a great archer, and doing something you’re great at is sometimes a way to feel good.

Or better.

But after her first shot, Molly’s string broke and then her arrow broke and then Molly didn’t feel like shooting anymore.

“Okay,” Mal said, rubbing her hands together. “Okay. No problem. What about, um, music?”

Molly was a much better musician than she might ever give herself credit for. Which made music something that generally made Molly feel good. Generally.

But that day, Molly sat slumped over her accordion. No matter what keys she put her fingers on, they were the wrong keys. It was like the wrong keys were jumping out of place and sliding under her fingertips.

“I can’t do this,” Molly groaned, dropping her head on the accordion, which generated a loud WEEEEEEZE sound.

That made Bubbles put his little paws over his ears.

“It’s okay.” Mal unstrapped her accordion. “We don’t have to play music we can . . . um.”

Mal looked around. What was a guaranteed anti–bad day thing to do?

If Molly was Ripley, Mal could just dip her in glitter, but Molly was not Ripley.

“It’s fine,” Molly said, standing up slowly, like someone with a head cold. “It’s lunch, so . . . let’s just go to the mess.”

You would actually think lunch would be a pretty safe place to avoid a bad day. And it was . . . until Molly accidentally stuck her elbow in a plate of guacamole.

“Great,” Molly grumbled.

I mean, it was that really good, super creamy, Kzyzzy special HOLY MOLY VEGAN GUACAMOLE.

Mal held her breath.

April reached for a napkin. “It’s okay, Mol,” she chirped. “It’s just avocado and what I’m guessing is a hint of tofu mayo.”

“Whatever.” Molly watched the green goop drip off her elbow. “I’m sure my elbow will enjoy it.”

“You can still eat that,” Ripley pointed out, handing Bubbles a chip.

Bubbles, among many other things, was a raccoon who LOVED guacamole.

“Thanks, Rip,” Molly said, holding out her sleeve while Bubbles carefully scraped off a good-size serving.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly when Bubbles was finished. “I wasn’t really hungry.”

“What do I do?” Mal hissed while Molly headed to put her tray away.

“With what?” Jo asked.

“With this . . .” Mal checked to see if Molly was in earshot. “BAD DAY?”

“Scientifically speaking,” Jo said, finishing the last of her chips, “there’s not much you can do. In my understanding, research is still pending.”

Mal pressed her fingers together. “Maybe nothing else bad will happen?”

Jo knew there was no scientific theory that said there were a finite number of bad things that can happen to a person in a given day.

Bad days aren’t like prime numbers, lovely reliable prime numbers.

Bad days, if they are really good bad days, can always get worse. In fact, they often have a pinnacle, a height of bad day, a pièce de résistance of BLEH, basically a moment where you can sit back and go, “WOW, this is a REALLY bad day.”

For Molly, this moment transpired while she and Mal and Ripley were picking herbs for their Herb in the Hand badge.

Mal thought this activity might help because the herb garden in question was tucked in the forest, so it meant going into the woods, which was a place that usually made Molly happy.

It did.

But then while Molly was picking scallions she started thinking about the salads she used to make in her backyard, when she was little, out of grass and the tops of the radishes from her mother’s garden. Which used to drive her mom nuts.

“MOLLY!” her mother would shriek from the back porch, hands on hips. “What are you doing picking WEEDS?”

Sometimes it felt like the only time Molly’s parents noticed her was when she was doing something they thought was wrong.

“Hey, Molly,” Ripley called back, holding up a handful of basil, “are you feeling better?”

“What?” Molly stepped out of the garden, looking back at Ripley. “Did you ask for something, Rip—”

Just then, Molly’s toe caught on a rock, and she fell forward, swirling past Ripley, who was bent over smelling some leaves.

“Molly!” Mal cried out, dropping the dill she’d gathered.

Molly spun on her right foot, tripped over another branch, scraped past a pine tree and, finally, landed with what could be described as a tremendous SPLOOSH in a giant puddle of mud.

“Great Lucy Maud Montgomery!” Mal ran over. “Are you okay?”

Molly sighed her longest sigh of the day. It took about a minute to get the whole thing out. She looked at her muddy palms. “Good thing Bubbles is off at dance class.”

Mud dripped down Molly’s cheek, down the back of her neck, and flooded her sneakers.

“Here.” Mal held out her hand. “I’ll get you out.”

Mal grabbed Molly’s hand and heaved. But Molly did not move.

“Or I could just stay in the mud,” Molly grumbled. “Forever.”

It ended up taking Ripley and Mal and Veronica from Dartmoor to pull Molly out of the puddle with a somewhat satisfying SMUCK.

Standing next to the puddle, Molly held her arms out and looked down. “I look like . . .”

“A mud wrestler,” Ripley said, because that’s what Molly looked like.

“A really cool mud wrestler,” Mal added, because it was clear Molly did not want to look like a mud wrestler.

“Great,” Molly said. Her shoes squitched. She had mud in her ear. And her nose. And her mouth.

“At least . . .” Mal said, searching her brain for something to say that was good about being muddy. There were a few good things, actually. “You got a free mud mask!”

Molly ran a finger over her gritty cheek. “Hooray,” she said, unconvinced.

“Come on.” Mal put her arm over Molly’s shoulder. “Let’s go back to camp.”

The score, for those keeping track, was:

Bad day: 4.

Mal: 0.

But the day wasn’t over.

Yet.