“A bunch of us are going sledding after school,” Cha Cha told me a little while later, as we were heading downstairs to the cafeteria. She was as short as Mackenzie, and I could tell by the looks some of the other kids were giving us that we made a funny-looking pair. “Want to come?”
I hesitated. Stealth-mode protocol called for me to lie low until I was part of the school scenery, instead of a very tall novelty. I’d been trying that all morning, though, and Cha Cha wasn’t letting me get away with it. She was determined to be friends.
“It will be fun!” she urged.
“I can’t,” I told her. “I have to go to the bookstore.”
Cha Cha knew all about Lovejoy’s Books. It turns out she and her family had been at the going-away party for Gramps and Lola. Pretty much everybody in town had been invited, I guess.
She frowned. “Can’t you go later?”
You don’t know my father, I thought. Lieutenant Colonel Jericho T. Lovejoy doesn’t do later.
“There’s this tutoring thing,” I replied, and then, as Cha Cha looked at me expectantly, I caved, spilling the whole story about my math grade, and my father’s reaction, and how it meant I’d be tutored every day for the foreseeable future.
“Well, if you have to be stuck someplace, the bookstore isn’t such a bad spot,” she said when I was done.
I looked at her in surprise. Cha Cha didn’t strike me as the bookworm type.
“It’s one of my favorite places in town,” she continued, holding the cafeteria door open for me. “When I was little, I used to like their Story Hour better than the one at the library, because your grandmother made treats to go with whatever we were reading. You know, like cupcakes with little candy carrots on top when we read Peter Rabbit. Plus,” she added, “my brother and I love Miss Marple.”
Miss Marple is Gramps and Lola’s golden retriever. Named after the elderly detective in Agatha Christie’s mystery series, she’s the store mascot. Her picture is on the bookmarks given out with every purchase.
“Everybody loves Miss Marple,” I agreed as I followed Cha Cha to a table by the window.
“Hey, Cha Cha, can I eat with you?”
I looked over to see a tiny boy standing beside us. His face, which barely reached the tabletop, wore a hopeful expression.
“Sure, Bax, have a seat,” Cha Cha told him, patting the bench beside her. “This is my brother,” she told me as he clambered up. “Baxter, this is Truly.”
“Hi,” said Baxter shyly.
“Hi back,” I replied.
“Tell Truly what grade you’re in,” Cha Cha said, and her little brother proudly held up one finger.
Baxter Abramowitz was kitten to Cha Cha’s cat. He had the same slight build, the same curly dark hair and green eyes and dimple in his cheek. As I watched him eating his peanut-butter-and-jelly-sandwich, it struck me how different Daniel Webster was from any other school I’d ever been at. Not just because all the grades were together in one building, but because it was obvious that what my brother Hatcher calls “the universal cafeteria classification system” didn’t seem to have made it as far as Pumpkin Falls. I looked around at the tables, trying to sort out who was who. Usually the jocks sit together, and the drama kids sit together, and so do the gamers, and the skateboarders, and the band kids, and so on. This was the first cafeteria I’d seen since elementary school where everybody sat together in a jumble.
Across the room, I noticed that Annie and my sister had found each other on their own. The two of them were talking a blue streak over their sandwiches. Or more accurately, Annie was talking, and Lauren was listening. What was weird, though, was that they were sitting at what I would normally have thought of as the jock table. Hatcher was beside them, and although Pippa was perched on his knee, he was talking to a bunch of guys who were clearly athletes, including Scooter Sanchez.
“Over here!” boomed Cha Cha all of a sudden, her deep voice making me jump. She waved wildly at a girl just entering the cafeteria, a girl who looked familiar, which was odd, since I was pretty sure we’d never met.
“Jasmine of the tap shoes,” Cha Cha told me as she introduced us. “She and Scooter are twins.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Ohhhhhh.”
“Don’t judge me,” Jasmine replied quickly, flashing me a smile.
Raven, I thought, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her shiny dark shoulder-length hair. I smiled back. “I promise I won’t.”
“Where were you this morning, Jazz?” asked Cha Cha, and Jasmine bared her teeth at us.
“Orthodontist,” she replied.
“Aren’t you supposed to get those things off soon?”
Jasmine nodded. “One month left to go. Dr. Wilcox says I should have them off in time for Winter Festival.”
“Nice,” said Cha Cha, slapping her a high five.
Our table filled up quickly. Besides Cha Cha and Jasmine and Baxter and me, there was Lucas Winthrop, who hadn’t spoken a word all morning, Annie Freeman’s older brother, Franklin, who was just as friendly as Annie but not nearly as talkative, thank goodness, and Amy Nguyen, whose mother is my mother’s academic advisor at the college, as it turned out.
“I’ll tell her to make sure your mom gets straight As,” Amy said with a friendly smile.
Usually on the first day at a new school, I end up either sitting by myself at lunch, or with someone who’s been assigned to be nice to me. This was—different. Good different, though not different enough to make me stop wishing I was back in Austin.
I took a bite of my tuna-fish sandwich and quietly observed my new classmates. Franklin was talking about his family’s farm, which from what I could gather was famous for its maple syrup. If his sister Annie was a magpie, thanks to her nonstop chatter, Franklin was definitely a wood thrush. His warm brown skin and eyes were the same shade as the thrush’s cinnamon-colored contour feathers. They were also the same color as the syrup his family’s farm produced.
“Who’s that?” I asked Cha Cha, pointing to a boy across the room who was sitting next to Scooter. I recognized him from our homeroom.
Cha Cha turned around to see. “Oh, that’s Calhoun.”
“Calhoun who?”
Franklin shrugged. “He just goes by Calhoun.”
“Some people call him R. J.,” Jasmine added. “His dad does, anyway. Calhoun is my brother’s best friend.”
“He moved to Pumpkin Falls last year, when his father took a job at Lovejoy College,” Cha Cha explained. “Dr. Calhoun is the president.”
Jasmine reached over and helped herself to a piece of Cha Cha’s brownie. “I am so not looking forward to science class this afternoon,” she said, changing the subject.
“No kidding,” said Cha Cha.
“Why? What’s happening?” I asked. “We have somebody else for science, right?”
Jasmine nodded. “Mr. Bigelow. It has nothing to do with him, though.” She shuddered. “It’s frog dissection day.”
Lucas Winthrop’s already pale face went about three shades paler.
“Eew,” I said. We’d done that back in Austin, right before winter break. It was completely disgusting. Maybe if I asked, I’d be allowed to skip the lab and go to the library instead.
“Not going to faint just thinking about it, are you, Lucas?” teased Franklin, his dark eyes alight with amusement.
The tips of Lucas’s ears grew pink. He stared down at the table.
“Of course he’s not going to faint!” said Jasmine, clapping Lucas on the back. “Just remember what we told you—deep breaths, okay?”
Lucas nodded unhappily. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, trying to decide what bird he was. Lucas Winthrop was even quieter than me in full stealth mode. A hummingbird, maybe?
The bell rang loudly a few minutes later and I cleared away my lunch things and followed Cha Cha and Jasmine and the others back upstairs to the science lab.
“Good news, my friends!” said the teacher, before we could even sit down. “You’ve been given a reprieve!” He chuckled. “Or perhaps I should say the amphibians have been given a reprieve.”
Short, bald as a grape, and slightly overweight, the science teacher was definitely a duck, I thought, watching as he waddled over to greet me.
“You must be Truly Lovejoy,” he said. “I’m Mr. Bigelow. You picked a fine day to join us—you’re in for a treat.” Turning back to the rest of the class, he clapped his hands. “Bundle up and meet me down by the front office in exactly five minutes! We’re going on a field trip!”
“No frogs?” whispered Lucas.
“That’s correct, Mr. Winthrop. No frogs.”
Lucas looked visibly relieved.
Mr. Bigelow didn’t leave us in suspense as to our destination.
“We’re off to see the wizard—I mean the falls,” he joked, and a collective groan went up around the room.
“Seriously, Mr. B?” said Franklin. “The waterfall?”
“Not just any waterfall, a world-famous waterfall,” Mr. Bigelow replied. “Don’t you read the newspaper?”
Was he talking about the Pumpkin Falls Patriot-Bugle? I wondered. He didn’t seriously expect us to take some podunk newspaper’s word for it, did he? I doubted anyone outside of the Pumpkin River Valley had even heard of the falls.
“The last time the falls froze over was 1912, and they may not freeze again for another hundred years,” our science teacher continued. “This is history in the making, my friends! Grab your jackets, and those of you who have cell phones with cameras, I’m setting aside my no-cell-phone rule for the afternoon. Bring them along—you’re going to want pictures. I guarantee you’ll tell your grandchildren about this someday!”
Fat chance, I thought as we headed for our lockers.
Outside, I was glad to see that the snow had stopped. As we followed Mr. Bigelow toward town, Scooter and Calhoun and some of the other boys started jostling each other. Ms. Ivey, who had come along to help chaperone, was keeping a close eye on them. I noticed Lucas sticking to Franklin and Jasmine like a burr. For protection from Scooter and Calhoun, probably.
“That’s our family’s place,” Cha Cha told me proudly as we turned the corner onto Main Street. She pointed across the street to a large building that stood between a Kwik Klips hair salon (“We cater to student budgets!” ) and Earl’s Coins and Stamps, which had been there for as long as I could remember, and which I couldn’t believe was still in business because really, who collects coins and stamps anymore?
“The Starlite Dance Studio,” I replied, reading the sign. “Cool,” I added politely.
I peered in the window as we passed Lovejoy’s Books. My father was nowhere to be seen, but I spotted Aunt True. She had her back to us and was doing something to one of the bookshelves. Inventory, probably.
The next block contained an antiques store, a laundromat called the Suds ’n Duds, and Lou’s Diner, which smelled wonderfully of fresh donuts.
“Our field trip just might include a stop here on the way back,” Mr. Bigelow said, pausing to sniff the air. “If you all behave yourselves, that is.”
Just then the diner door burst open and Lucas’s mom appeared, looking anxious.
“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Winthrop asked breathlessly. “Are you evacuating?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Scooter elbow Calhoun. Poor Lucas. They’d be making hay with that one.
“Everything’s fine, Amelia,” said Ms. Ivey. She gave her arm a soothing pat. “Just a field trip to the falls, nothing to worry about.”
“Field trip? In this weather?” Mrs. Winthrop wrapped her arms around her light blue waitress uniform and shivered. “Lucas should have an extra scarf.” She dashed inside and reappeared a moment later with a bright red one, obviously hers, and obviously a match to the bright red mittens she’d dropped off earlier, which Lucas was dutifully wearing. Much to Lucas’s chagrin, his mother managed to dodge Ms. Ivey this time, and in a flash he was wrapped up tight as a burrito. “There,” Mrs. Winthrop said, kissing the top of his head. “That should keep you cozy.” Turning to the rest of us, she added, “Be careful, kids—it’s slippery with all this snow.”
The minute the door to the diner closed behind her, the boys at the back of the line exploded with laughter.
“Are we evacuating?!” howled Scooter. “Ooh, Lucas, are you all cozy now?”
“Scooter!” warned Ms. Ivey, marching over to deal with him.
“Poor kid,” I murmured, as Lucas drooped off after Mr. Bigelow.
Cha Cha nodded. “I know. Talk about a helicopter parent! My mother says Mrs. Winthrop really should have a bunch more kids to keep her busy. Lucas is an only child, and she hovers over him, like, well—”
“A helicopter?”
“Exactly.”
We smiled at each other.
The bell in the church steeple struck a single note as we made our way past the Pumpkin Falls Savings & Loan, the library, the post office, and Town Hall.
“That’s where my parents work,” Jasmine told me, pointing to a white clapboard house across the village green. The sign out front said SANCHEZ & SANCHEZ. “They’re both lawyers.”
She shook her head. “There’s an apartment upstairs, but my parents rent it out to one of the college professors. We live on Oak Street, just up the hill from your grandparents’ house.”
We continued on, and Jasmine and Cha Cha started talking about the Winter Festival, which apparently is a big deal this year since it’s celebrating its one hundredth anniversary, plus it’s scheduled for Valentine’s Day weekend so it’s an even bigger deal. As the two of them talked, I spotted a pair of juncos and heard the distinctive chick-a-dee-dee-dee that let me know there was a black-capped chickadee or two flitting through the nearby evergreens. Hearing them reminded me that I needed to put out more sunflower seed and suet in the backyard and make sure the electric heater in the birdbath was working properly. Gramps had left me full instructions on taking care of his beloved feathered backyard visitors.
A few minutes later we reached our destination.
I’ve always really liked the covered bridge in Pumpkin Falls. Whenever we’d come to visit Gramps and Lola, spotting the bridge was a game our family would play in the car after the long drive north from the airport in Boston. Each of us kids would jockey for position, straining for a glimpse of it as we came down the hill and around the final corner toward town. The first one to yell, “I see the bridge!” after it came into view won a dollar to spend at the General Store’s penny candy counter.
Seeing the bridge used to be exciting. Now, though, all it did was remind me that I was stuck in a town tiny enough to actually have a covered bridge.
Still, I had to admit that its cardinal-red exterior looked pretty against the snow-covered landscape. I paused and snapped a picture of it with my cell phone to send to Mackenzie, then followed my classmates as Mr. Bigelow funneled us through the entrance.
“Stay to the right, please!” he told us. “Single file—leave plenty of room for cars.”
Our footsteps echoed through the bridge’s wooden interior. Overhead arched a puzzle of interlaced rafters, and to the right was a solid waist-high partition topped with a lattice of crosspieces, like a row of large Xs.
We spread out along the partition. I leaned against it and looked down at the river, then at the falls.
Which were frozen, just as promised.
It was oddly quiet. Usually you could hear the roar of the Pumpkin River as it tumbled over the falls and rushed underneath the bridge, but now there was silence. Even Scooter didn’t have any smart-alecky comments. A stone’s throw from us, the frozen waterfall spanned the river from bank to bank, white as the marshmallow frosting on my favorite birthday cake.
“Listen up, everyone!” said Mr. Bigelow. He clapped his hands, and the sound bounced off the bridge’s wooden floor and walls. “I want you to start by just observing. Feel free to take pictures if you’d like, sketch if you’d like, jot down notes if you’d like. I’ll give you five minutes!”
Beside me, Lucas pulled out a small notebook and a pencil and began to draw. I glanced over his shoulder and watched him for a minute or two; he was pretty good. Then I turned my attention to the river. Most of it was frozen, and the parts that weren’t were remarkably still—so still that I could see the reflection of the bridge’s red paint. I took a picture of that, too. Directly below us, some water was still flowing between the clumps of ice, and I watched for a while as it swirled lazily around the stone pillars holding up the bridge. Then I glanced over Lucas Winthrop’s shoulder again. He was adding a graffiti-speckled rafter above his sketch of the waterfall.
Curious, I glanced up. The rafters were decorated with names, hearts, arrows, dates—the oldest one I spotted was 1899—and interlinked initials, sure signs that Cupid had been here. Directly overhead I saw SAM LOVES BETTY; JOJO AND CARL; and E & T FOREVER drawn inside a slightly lopsided heart. I took a few more pictures.
I was so busy looking up that I didn’t notice Scooter and Calhoun until they were practically on top of me.
“Whatcha looking at?” Scooter demanded.
“Nothing,” I replied coolly.
He looked up, too, then nudged Calhoun. “Got a pen?”
Calhoun fished in his jacket pocket and produced one.
“Gimme a boost—I’m going to add ‘Truly Gigantic loves Lucas,’ ” Scooter told him, and Calhoun snickered.
“Morons,” I muttered.
Calhoun bent over and laced his fingers together. As Scooter placed a foot in his grip and Calhoun started to hoist him into the air, Mr. Bigelow suddenly materialized.
“Don’t even think about it, boys,” he said. “Besides the fact that it’s incredibly dangerous, defacing the bridge is a very big no-no, and the town will charge you a very big fine.”
Scooter removed his foot from Calhoun’s grasp and held his hands palm up in the classic Who, me? gesture.
Mr. Bigelow squeezed in between us and leaned on the railing, looking out at the falls. Several of my classmates drifted over. “Drink it in, kids, drink it in,” he said. “The minute the January thaw arrives, which should be any day now, this will all be water under the bridge.” He waggled his eyebrows at his stupid pun, and a chorus of groans went up around me. I could tell that my classmates really liked Mr. Bigelow, though. I was beginning to, as well.
“So,” he continued, “who knows why the early settlers built covered bridges in the first place?”
Franklin’s hand shot up.
“Yes, Franklin?”
“To keep snow off the bridge?”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Bigelow. “A buildup of heavy snow could collapse a wooden bridge like this one, which would have been disastrous for a town like Pumpkin Falls, cutting it off from the outside world. Instead, the slope of the roof allows the snow to fall harmlessly into the river.” He looked around. “Anyone else?” None of us rushed to answer, so he continued, “Covering a bridge also protected it from the elements, preventing rot. Our thrifty Yankee forbears liked the idea of extending a bridge’s useful life by a couple of decades.” He winked. “Plus, I wouldn’t put it past them to have figured out that someday covered bridges would attract tourists.”
“So how do waterfalls freeze, exactly?” asked Jasmine.
“Why, thank you for asking, Miss Sanchez!” said our science teacher. “Water freezes at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit—you all know that. But for moving water, it’s a little more complicated.”
He went on to explain that as water cools below the freezing point, the molecules slow down and start to stick together, forming crystals. Ms. Ivey passed around a handout with diagrams showing those stuck-together bits, which were called “frazil.”
“You’ll note they’re roughly one millimeter in diameter,” Mr. Bigelow went on. “Very tiny, but small is mighty in this case. As the frazil clump together, they form snow in the air, ice in the water. Now in the case of moving water, they first accumulate against solid surfaces—like those rocks over there along the riverbank, or the bridge’s supports below us.” He pointed to the top of the falls. “See those icicles up there?”
We nodded.
“Those started as clumps of frazil. And so did that,” he added, pointing to the broad ledge of ice that had formed at the bottom of the falls. It appeared to be holding up the entire mass of frozen water that had once been the waterfall. “Look at all the different formations! Chandeliers of icicles! Undulating folds! And all those nodules and layers and cauliflower lumps! It’s like something out of a fairy tale.” He sighed happily. “Isn’t nature spectacular?”
I fished my binoculars out of my backpack (a birder is never without her binoculars) to inspect the waterfall more closely. Now I could see that the ledge of ice at the bottom was actually an inch or two above the river.
“Water is still getting through underneath that ledge, right?” I asked. “It’s not frozen solid, I mean.”
“Ah, our new student has sharp eyes,” said Mr. Bigelow. “And binoculars! Extra points for bringing binoculars. You are correct, Truly. Water is still flowing through, though at a much slower speed than usual.”
I panned across the face of the waterfall, then stopped. Hanging down from the top of the falls was something that looked like a large, frozen tube. With the aid of my binoculars, I could see a fine spray of mist emerging from the end of it, like clothes out of a laundry chute.
“What’s that?” I asked, handing my binoculars to my science teacher.
“Oh my,” Mr. Bigelow breathed when he spotted it. “Students, you all need to see this.” He passed the binoculars down the row of my classmates. “That, my friends, is very rare! You can actually see the waterfall in the process of freezing from the outside in. At the moment, water is still flowing through it, like a pipe. Eventually, though, if this cold weather continues, it will freeze into a solid column of ice.”
I stood there for a long time, gazing at the waterfall and thinking, oddly enough, of my father. Had his injury frozen him from the outside in? And was the father I’d known all my life still in there somewhere, a trickle of him at least?