The Naked Mole-Rat Letters

by Mary Amato

  “I’ll keep spying on Mrs. Holmes,” Skip announced. “Agent Skip Wallop on active duty!”

  “Can I help?” Nutter asked.

  The two of them ran off to assemble spy gear.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Beth said. “I doubt The Troll is looking for love. She probably doesn’t even know what love is.”

  Beth was staring at me, waiting for me to agree. I didn’t know what to think about The Troll. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about the whole scene with Johnny Nye and about the love song my dad had written to Ratlady.

  As nonshalantly (nonchalantly?) as possible, I got rid of Beth and came up here to write. Now my hand is killing me. I probably have carple (carpul? carpel?) tunnel syndrome.

  As I said, it has been a whirlwind of a day.

  8:45 P.M.

  The whirlwind continues! Things got worse after Beth left. Dad came home from work at 6:20 P.M. and had a fit because the house was a mess. At breakfast he had made us promise to clean the house after school because the Fall Festival music committee was meeting here at 6:30.

  I had forgotten all about it. Every time I looked at him, I just kept thinking about all those e-mails at his shop. My boring, bushy-bearded father was carrying on a secret life. How could I possibly trust him about anything?

  We finished stuffing all our junk into the closet as the doorbell rang.

  “Get it, will you, Frankie?” Dad called from the kitchen. “I’m making coffee.”

  I opened the door. Standing there like an overgrown trick-or-treater was none other than The Troll. Ms. Doris Trolly. I almost screamed. She was wearing a green velvet jogging suit and lipstick. Pink!

  “Hello, Francine,” she said. “May I come in?”

  She introduced herself to Dad, and I was waiting for her to mention the forged note about the fake dentist’s appointment. But she handed him a plate of cheese and crackers and explained that Mrs. Holmes suggested she join the Fall Festival music committee since she had an interest in music.

  “What kind of music?” asked Dad.

  “All kinds!” she said, obviously lying through her fangs.

  “Wonderful!” Dad said. “We’re happy to have you.” He set the cheese and crackers on the coffee table.

  My face turned green.

  The Troll glanced at the red chair hanging from the ceiling and said, “What a fascinating decorating idea.” What she meant was, “I wouldn’t put that in my house if you paid me.”

  The others arrived, and Skip and Nutter and I spied on them from the kitchen. The Troll practically knocked over Nelson Wicks to get the chair next to Dad’s. All through the meeting she kept laughing and placing her hand on Dad’s arm. The Troll, the guidance counselor, was flirting with my dad. She wasn’t looking for love. She was grabbing it by the throat.

  The meeting was over in an hour, but she insisted on staying to help wash the cups and plates. Skip, Nutter, and I ran down the stairs to the basement to continue our spying from there.

  On Dad’s workbench the dulcimer he was making was all laid out, and I was shocked to see how far he’d gotten. He must have worked on it all night. Dad usually makes his dulcimers from blond wood and carves flowers and diamonds and hearts into them. The one he made for my mom, which is now mine, has a vine with tiny heart-shaped flowers made of pearl. This one is a deep brown. Carved into the fingerboard is a parade of animals—a tiny giraffe, a lion, an elephant, and a zebra.

  It was the most beautiful one I had ever seen, and it made me angry to think that he was making it for this woman that he just met. I imagined what I would feel like if I opened a box and saw this. Ratlady will go crazy over it. She’ll hop on the next plane heading west. She won’t care where it stops; she’ll parachute out over Pepper Blossom.

  I ran my finger along the fingerboard, feeling the carved animals like Braille. I imagined smashing it into pieces, stuffing it into the fireplace, and lighting a match. But I couldn’t give it a single scratch. There were four silver tuning pegs lying next to the dulcimer. I slipped them into my pocket. Dad had more supplies at Heartstrings, but if I took these I might slow him down a little.

  Skip motioned to Nutter and me and whispered, “We can hear what they’re saying through here.” He pointed to the heating vent.

  I squatted down with Skip and Nutter.

  We could hear kitchen sounds, then The Troll’s muffled voice, “What an interesting idea for wallpaper!”

  She was probably staring in horror at all the postcards that Mom had put up.

  “My wife had a wonderful sense of play,” Dad said.

  “It must be difficult managing a household on your own.”

  “I’m doing all right.”

  The water turned on.

  “Do you enjoy cooking, Robert?”

  “I enjoy eating.” Dad laughed.

  Skip whispered, “My spying skills are really paying off. Aren’t they, Frankie?”

  “Shhh!” I said.

  “I love to cook!” The Troll continued. “Lasagna is my specialty. But it’s silly to cook a whole lasagna for one person.” She waited, but Dad didn’t say anything. “I know!” she exclaimed. “I’ll make a lasagna and bring you over some.”

  Skip and I looked at each other.

  Nutter whispered, “I don’t like lasagna, do I, Frankie?”

  I shook my head, waiting and hoping to hear Dad say no thanks.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Doris. But we’re doing fine.”

  Miracle of miracles! Good going, Dad!

  She went on. “I didn’t want to mention anything in front of the others, but I have to tell you that I’m worried about Francine.”

  “Frankie?”

  “She has been showing signs of . . . well, stress, perhaps. I don’t know Francine. But from what I’ve heard, she’s never had any problems with behavior . . . until now.”

  Dad was silent.

  “Mr. Haxer is worried about her and—”

  “We’ve talked about the play—”

  “And her other teachers have noticed that she seems to be having trouble focusing. Mr. Peter is concerned that she may have cheated on a math test today. . . .”

  Skip’s mouth dropped open. Listening to Trolly fire off a list of my sins was the thrill of his young life.

  “The librarian said that she hasn’t returned a book that Mr. Haxer really needs. Her science teacher is worried that she hasn’t produced a rough draft of her report.”

  The perfect, smooth, straight-A exterior was starting to crumble. I held my breath, waiting for the bomb about the dentist to drop. But Dad jumped in.

  “Thank you for your concern, Doris. I appreciate it. It was a real blow for Frankie not to get a lead in the play. But that’s all there is to it. I’ll talk to her about it—”

  “That’s the right instinct, Robert.”

  “I’ve been on her case lately. Maybe I’ve been putting too much pressure on her. She takes care of Skip and Nutter after school. I’ve been wondering if I should get some help. If she isn’t getting her homework done, maybe she needs more guidance after school.”

  At the word guidance it sounded like The Troll was starting to pant. “I could pop over after school a few times a week if you like.”

  Skip pretended to vomit, and Nutter started cracking up.

  “Shhh!” I whispered.

  “Really,” she continued. “It wouldn’t be a problem at all. I’m single, you know. I don’t have many responsibilities, other than my work right now.” The Troll rolled on. “Junior high school is a big transition, Robert. Some kids lose their way and get in with the wrong crowd. You really have to stay on top of it. You know, I saw Francine walking after school with Johnny Nye. He is a terrible influence, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ve got to watch your own health, too. I’m sure it’s very stressful being a single father. It isn’t a bad thing to admit that you might need a little help. If you’d like, I’
ll keep a closer eye on Francine at school and schedule some regular counseling appointments with her.”

  She wants to be my Miracle Worker; she wants to save me from myself.

  Dad chirped, “That would be great, Doris.”

  “And if you ever need anyone to talk to . . .” Her voice was as pink and slippery as her awful lipstick.

  “Thanks . . . and thanks for the help tonight. Let me walk you out.”

  They moved out of the kitchen, so we couldn’t hear any more.

  “Come on,” Skip whispered. “We have to sneak upstairs so Dad doesn’t know we were spying.” We ran into my room. Nutter and Skip sat on my bed and pretended to be reading, and I sat at my desk and pretended to work on my report. Dad came up a minute later.

  “Wow, look at you guys, reading and doing homework,” he said. “Quiet as mice the whole time.”

  Skip gave me a secret glance of triumph. Then Nutter blurted out, “Don’t let the army tank come over. I don’t like lasagna.”

  Dad looked at all three of us and burst out laughing. “That’s why you were so quiet. You were spying.”

  Skip socked Nutter in the arm. “You had to tell!”

  “Army tank?” Dad asked. “Who came up with that?”

  Nutter pointed at me.

  “Well, she has a good heart,” he said. “I suppose you heard that she’s concerned about your behavior, Frankie. We need to talk—”

  Nutter stood up. “Talk. Talk. You always need to talk to Frankie, Dad. You’re gonna talk her face right off her head.”

  Dad laughed again and scooped up Nutter. “All right, little Nutter Butter. No talking now. I’m taking you to bed.”

  “I want Frankie to help me with my costume,” he protested.

  “Tomorrow,” Dad promised. As he carried Nutter out the door, he turned and gave me this look that said he’d be back.

  While he read to Nutter, I thought about how awful it would be to have regular counseling sessions with Trolly. She didn’t care about me. She wanted to “help” me in order to get in good with Dad.

  Ten or fifteen minutes later, he came in. “Glad to see you didn’t lock me out,” he said with a smile.

  Very funny.

  “Frankie, I don’t want to ‘talk your face off’ like Nutter said. But Ms. Trolly brought up a few things we should clear up.”

  I thought about suggesting that we clear up some of his little issues, such as ditching meetings and sending secret e-mails and taking secret phone calls and making secret dulcimers, but I realized that I needed to focus on getting myself out of trouble. My brain was going a mile a minute.

  “About the cheating . . . ,” he said.

  I fingered the tuning pegs in my pocket. I could lie and deal with my own guilt or I could confess and deal with Dad’s anger and disappointment. I crossed my arms and looked indignant. “I did not cheat. Mr. Peter has no proof. I was just looking up from my paper now and then to give my eyes a rest. My eyes have been hurting lately. You can either believe me or not.”

  “Fine. I believe you, Frankie. I know you’re not a cheater.”

  I took a breath. That wasn’t so bad. The old straight-A, choir-singing reputation comes through again.

  “Now, about the library book?”

  I jumped in. Better to get this over quickly. “I brought the money in, but I was so busy I didn’t get the chance to go to the library. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  That wasn’t so bad, either.

  He sat on my bed and rubbed his beard. The science report was coming next, “So what about this science report? I haven’t heard a word about it, and Ms. Trolly said it’s due Friday. You have to be using reference materials, illustrations, and everything.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’m almost done.”

  “Really? What’s it about?”

  I panicked, looking around for an idea; and then I saw the naked mole-rat book Skip had left on my bed.

  “It’s about naked mole-rats,” I said.

  Dad grinned, of course. “Really? That’s interesting.”

  “See?” I handed him the book. “I’m using this.”

  “I’ll have to tell that woman I met at the zoo.”

  He was such a liar. He couldn’t even say her name out loud.

  “Can I see your rough draft?”

  I shuffled some papers. “Well, I haven’t written it out yet. But I know a lot. That’s why I was e-mailing her, you know, to get more information. I know how mole-rats work cooperatively to survive, how they live in tunnels in parts of Africa where the soil is very hard and dry, how they form an assembly line to dig, how they eat sweet potatoes and other root vegetables, how they each have different tasks, how the queen is in charge, and how the soldiers defend their territory from predators and even naked mole-rats from other colonies.”

  “Wow!” he said. “That’s amazing.”

  It was amazing. I really didn’t know that I knew so much.

  “Sounds like all you need to do is write it down. You’ve got to come home after school tomorrow and just do it, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Do I need to ask Mrs. Whitehead to come over to help with Skip and Nutter so you can concentrate?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Now I want to talk about Johnny Nye.”

  I turned as red as one of Elsie Nye’s tomatoes and protested that there was nothing going on.

  “I didn’t think anything was going on,” he said, and I turned redder. “I just wanted you to know, Frankie, that I didn’t like the way Ms. Trolly talked about Johnny. She’s assuming he’s bad to the core. Johnny’s had some tough breaks, and he has made some mistakes, but he’s got a lot more going for him than people in this town realize. He essentially takes care of both himself and his grandma. He’s a smart kid, although I bet his report card doesn’t show it.”

  I pictured Johnny fixing up an old guitar, Johnny pulling out that computer and hooking it up, Johnny figuring it all out on his own.

  Dad continued. “You know his grandmother doesn’t even know how to read?”

  I shook my head, but I wasn’t surprised. Did he know that she couldn’t remember things? I wondered.

  “Anyway, I think it’s fine if you’re nice to Johnny,” he continued. “He could use a friend. Just use good judgment and don’t get into trouble.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend or anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “We just happened to be walking down the street at the same time. I came home right after school. You can ask Skip.” (I had paid Skip another dollar to keep the secret about Beth baby-sitting.)

  “That’s fine, Frankie.” He patted me on the knee. “Why don’t you spend a little more time on that report and then get to bed?”

  Things aren’t turning out so bad. The thing about Dad is that he wants to believe that everything is okay. The report on naked mole-rats was a brilliant idea. He really believes that I was just getting information about them from Ratlady. If she doesn’t say more to him, then I won’t get into trouble.

  As for the romance between Ratlady and Dad . . . At least I can keep track of it by logging on to Dad’s office e-mail. Johnny showed me how to do it from home. Tomorrow after school I’ll check all the messages.

  I just need to finish that stupid report. I am going to do it right now.

  10:00 P.M.

  I actually wrote a stunning first paragraph for my science report, and then the most amazing thing happened. The doorbell rang at about 9:30 P.M. I thought it was The Troll, back to flirt some more, so I snuck to the top of the stairs where I could see the front door.

  Dad opened it, and guess who was standing there in the glow of the porch light?

  Johnny Nye.

  “Hey, Johnny,” Dad said. “What are you doing here?”

  Over Dad’s shoulder, Johnny caught sight of me standing there like an idiot in my pajamas. He smiled, and I duck
ed back.

  “My grandma wanted ya’ll to have these.” He held out a paper bag.

  Dad looked inside. “Tomatoes?”

  I thought I was going to faint.

  “We got too many to use,” Johnny said. “And she thought you’d like them.”

  Dad laughed. “It seems everybody in Pepper Blossom wants to bring us food!” I could tell by his voice that he thought it was a strange coincidence for Johnny to drop by at 9:30 P.M. with tomatoes on the same night we were talking about him.

  I was worried that Dad was going to say something about that or that Johnny was going to say something about how I’d been over at the trailer. But Johnny said good-bye and turned around to leave.

  “Wait,” Dad said. “How’s the guitar going?”

  “Been playing so much I got calluses.” Johnny held out his left hand. “Check it out.”

  Dad looked at Johnny’s fingers. “That’s good! I bet it doesn’t hurt to play now.”

  Johnny nodded. The next part came out hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to be saying what he was saying. “I’ve been thinking about maybe signing up for the open mike at the Fall Festival.”

  “That’s a great idea, Johnny. All you’ve got to do is show up with your guitar and sign up.”

  Johnny nodded, still considering.

  “Ever play in front of anybody before?” Dad asked.

  Johnny glanced up at me. “Sort of,” he said.

  “Well I’d love to see your name on the list, Johnny.”

  Johnny nodded again.

  “Hey, you want to see the new dulcimer I’m working on? I’m really excited about it.”

  “Sure.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My own dad doesn’t tell me anything, and he goes and shows the secret dulcimer off to Johnny Nye.

  They left. I didn’t know what to do. I kept staring at the paper bag full of tomatoes sitting by the front door, thinking about everything that had happened today.

  They came back up after about fifteen minutes, laughing and talking.

  “See you, Mr. Wallop. Hope you find those tuning pegs.”

  “See you, Johnny. Tell your grandma thanks.”

  Before he left, Johnny glanced up one more time. I waved and smiled stupidly and ducked back again before Dad could see me.