True (. . . Sort Of)

by Katherine Hannigan

  Chapter 32

  That night at supper Delly didn’t count; she thought about the hideawaysis.

  When Galveston sneered, “What are you doing, planning your next misdemeanor?” she didn’t even hear her.

  Because Delly had ideas. As soon as she got to her room, she got a list going. She talked out loud, like her friend was with her. “I got to fix those railings, because they’re rickety. And you could use a roof over where you sit.

  “We need a blanket, and something for food, and a box with a lock for special stuff.

  “It’s going to be a fortrastle, Ferris Boyd.” She grinned.

  Saturday morning Delly went to work. She was too busy to count, but she asked about everything.

  “Ma, can I take that piece of metal behind the garage?” she inquired.

  “Okay,” Clarice said.

  “Can I have some nails?”

  “All right.”

  “Can I borrow the hammer and saw?”

  Now, to the rest of the world, those things were tools. But in Delly’s hands, they could be Weapons of Gal Destruction. Clarice had a vision of Galveston going down the river in a Delly-built boat. “What’s all this for?” she asked.

  “For my project,” Delly told her.

  “I thought it was about nature.”

  “We’re building stuff, for creatures,” Delly answered, almost honestly.

  “So you’re not doing any hammering near Galveston?” Clarice wanted to be clear.

  “Ma.” She laughed, like Clarice was kidding, and went out the door.

  In the afternoon RB came sniffing around.

  Delly was gathering supplies, putting them in a pile in the garage.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hunh,” she said back.

  “What are you doing with that stuff?”

  “It’s for my project,” she told him.

  “When are you going to be done?” he asked for the twenty-third time.

  She shrugged and put a can of screws on the pile.

  “Don’t you have to get a grade?” RB might be young, but he knew the rules.

  “It’s extra credit,” Delly replied.

  And that’s when RB knew she was sneaking. Because Delly hardly did her regular homework, let alone extra. Her story stank, like skunk’s spray on a hot summer day.

  He squinted hard at her, trying to scare her into coming clean.

  Delly wasn’t worried. She had a friend and a hideawaysis. She had a new start. “See ya,” she said.

  So RB left. But he would not be left behind.

  Chapter 33

  When Delly wasn’t working on the hideawaysis, she practiced asking questions.

  She discovered the Start Big to Get Small Strategy. “Ma, can I have ten bucks?” was the too big beginning.

  “No,” Clarice answered.

  “Can I have five?”

  “No.”

  Then she got to where she wanted to be. “Ma, can I please have a dollar to go to the store?”

  By then a dollar seemed like a deal to Clarice. “All right,” she agreed.

  Delly invented the Wear Them Down with Questions Technique.

  “Dallas, can I have some of that candy bar?” She pointed at the one he was unwrapping.

  “No,” he told her.

  Instead of fighting for it, she asked, “Don’t you want to give me some?”

  He didn’t.

  “You sure?” She stared at him, big-eyed like a begging dog. “Please?”

  That broke him. “Here,” he sighed, and gave her half.

  “Thanks,” she said, and they ate side by side.

  The questions worked with Galveston, too.

  Delly’d been sweating all morning, hauling stuff for the hideawaysis. At lunch, when Clarice got up to make more grilled cheese, Galveston hissed, “You smell like pig perfume.” She waved her hand in front of her face, like she couldn’t stand the stench. But instead of whomping her, Delly whapped her with a question. “Gal,” she whispered, “how’d you like a dead squirrel under your pillow?”

  That silenced her.

  “Ha.” Delly smirked.

  By Sunday evening, though, Delly’s brain was spent from coming up with all those questions. So when Galveston barked, “Delly, these dishes are still dirty. Do them again,” she didn’t have anything left to ask her.

  She tried counting. “One, two—”

  Gal wouldn’t quit. “I said do them again. Now,” she commanded.

  And Delly was a Galveston-seeking missile, ready to blast off and blow. Just before she did, though, she spotted Clarice through the window. Give me something, she begged her brain, before I mess up.

  As Gal came at her, hollering, “Did you hear me? I said—” Delly’s brain spit out the only question it had left. “Galveston,” she shouted, “do you hate me?”

  Galveston’s eyes flashed. Her lips curled in an awful grin. “Yes!” she yelled.

  The “yes” hit Delly hard. It knocked the wind out of her.

  Because, while Delly didn’t like Gal much, she didn’t hate her. Delly loved Galveston like liver and onions on Tuesdays: it was always bad, but it was part of being a Pattison. And she loved that a lot.

  She took little breaths, because the hate hurt too much.

  But Gal wasn’t finished. She planted herself in front of her.

  Delly flinched, like a dog that had been kicked but couldn’t get away.

  Gal squinted her eyes. “I . . .” she growled. “You . . .” she grumbled. Finally, she muttered, “I don’t hate you.”

  “For real?” Delly rasped.

  Gal let out a breath, and Delly could feel the heat of it. “Sometimes I hate what you do,” she mumbled.

  That hit Delly, but not so hard. Sometimes she hated what Gal did, too.

  Galveston kept going. “You’re always getting into trouble. You’re always making Ma upset and getting Dad mad. It’s always about you and your trouble, and I hate it.” It was the truth behind every mean thing she’d said.

  There was a big quiet between them. Then Delly whispered, “Sometimes I hate what I do, too, Gal.”

  “Then why don’t you stop?” she asked.

  “I’m really trying,” Delly told her.

  Galveston thought about that. “I know.” She nodded.

  “Gal, will you . . .” Delly started, but she couldn’t finish. She couldn’t ask her sister to quit tormenting her, to act like she loved her just a little. The no would hurt too much.

  Gal heard her anyway. “Okay,” she said. She looked at Delly, and her eyes had something like love in them, liver and onions love.

  “Okay,” Delly breathed. Because liver and onions was never going to taste good, but she wouldn’t give it up for anything.

  Chapter 34

  Sunday, Brud Kinney was up with the birds.

  He rode down the River Road, listening for the sounds of a boy and a ball. When he heard the thump, thump, thump, his legs pedaled like they were nuclear powered. He dropped his bike in the ditch and ran to the drive.

  The boy heard him. He stopped and held the ball to himself.

  Brud had bought a small pad and a pen at the IGA. He took them out of his pocket.

  Want to play? he wrote.

  The boy got his pen and pad. H-O-R-S-E, he answered. No Touch.

  How about M-O-N-K-E-Y? Brud’s paper asked.

  Now Brud Kinney was no fool. He’d made M-O-N-K-E-Y up, so he could play one letter longer.

  The boy looked at Brud. There was something different in his eyes, like a laugh. He walked away, dribbling the ball.

  Brud didn’t know what that meant.

  The boy stopped where the foul line would be. He raised his arms and sent the ball through the air. It was beautiful. It was a basket.

  He stood to the side of the drive. He was waiting for Brud.

  Brud was so happy his legs wanted to jump and his mouth wanted to wh-wh-whoop. Just shoot the ball, his head said.

 
; So he went to the spot. But Brud had too much happiness in him; he was wild with it. His shot went up, up into the sky, like a satellite. It landed on the garage roof and bounced into the woods.

  Brud fetched the ball. Then he ran behind the garage to unleash some of the happiness. He jumped ten times. He shouted, “Whoooowee!” into his hands.

  That’ll do, his head decided.

  His feet were still bouncing, though, as he walked back to the drive. He passed the ball to the boy.

  Ferris Boyd shot from the same spot and sank it.

  Brud tried again. The ball thunked against the backboard and clanged through the hoop.

  “Y-Yes,” he whispered, and his feet did a little dance. This time his head didn’t try to stop it.

  It was longer till Ferris Boyd finished him off. Not just because it was M-O-N-K-E-Y, but because Brud was better.

  Still, that basketball-loving Brud wanted more. As soon as the game was over, he sprinted to the boy. He stuck his pad in front of him. Again? it read.

  The boy stopped at the stoop. He looked at the note, then at Brud.

  It was a while waiting. Brud didn’t mind. He’d wait forever, if it meant more basketball.

  Finally, Ferris Boyd turned to the drive.

  Brud knew what that meant now. He was too happy again. He bolted behind the garage. “Y-Yahoo!” he hollered into his hands.

  When he came back, his smile was so big the two teeth were beaming. Ferris Boyd had to squint to see him.

  Quit that, his head said, but Brud couldn’t stop.

  After he got M-O-N-K-E-Y, Brud raced to the stoop to try for one more game.

  Just like before, though, Ferris Boyd had vanished. There was nothing but birds and that black cat around.

  That was all right. Brud’d had all morning playing ball with the boy. He waved once at the door, See you next Sunday.

  He rode into town grinning. The two teeth gleamed, almost blinding anybody who looked at him.

  Chapter 35

  Monday morning, Delly packed two extra sandwiches. She put the hammer and nails in her bag, and she carried a couple of boards.

  “Those for your project?” RB asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  At school, Ferris Boyd still kept to herself, and Delly didn’t push it. She could take being alone and counting at school if she had her friend and the hideawaysis after.

  Plus Delly was busy. She did her work; she wrote lists of supplies they’d need for their place; she drew diagrams of it all fixed up.

  She counted when other kids were around, but now the numbers danced to a tune: “I got a friend, and a hideawaysis, too. After school I’m going there, so ya-ah-hoo.”

  At recess she went to Alaska. She brought paper and a pencil. I’ll design a Dellyvator, she decided.

  It had been awhile since Delly and Danny Novello had gone at it. Too long for Novello. He missed her torturous touch.

  He circled Alaska. “Dinky,” he sneered, “I could smell your stink from the steps.”

  She set the paper down and started counting, “One, two, three—”

  But Novello would have her. “I’m going to build you an igloo. I’ll call it Smelly’s Alaskan Stinkhouse,” he shouted.

  Even with the counting, Delly’s fingers curled into fists. She glanced at the Dellyvator drawing. All the plans would be finished with one fight.

  She searched the playground for something to save her. Ms. Niederbaum was nowhere. But there was Ferris Boyd.

  Delly leaped off Alaska. She raced toward the girl who’d shown her a world without trouble.

  And he followed, like a giant gnat buzzing after her.

  When they were ten feet away, Ferris Boyd glanced up and saw them hurtling toward her. Her arms flew in front of her. STOP, they said.

  So Delly did. She flung herself on the ground beside her. “Help,” she begged.

  Ferris Boyd’s arms dropped, and she stared at Delly. She was telling her something, without words.

  Delly couldn’t catch it, though, with him screaming, “They got a chair for you in detention. It’s called Stinky Dinky’s seat.”

  She threw her hands over her ears and closed her eyes. She had one second till she pounded him into tomorrow.

  Then she heard it, under all the noise. She felt it, pinching in her pocket.

  She jumped to her feet and faced him. “Novello,” she hollered, “do you want me to hit you?”

  He was so surprised by the question he could only tell the truth. “Yes,” he howled. “Hit me!” Then he remembered his meanness. “I’d like to see you try, pipsqueak,” he sneered.

  But it was too late, now Delly knew. He wanted her to pummel him.

  “No,” she told him.

  “No?” he shrieked. “You afraid, Smelly? Because you know you can’t do it. You can’t touch me.”

  Delly wasn’t afraid, though. She was free. She walked back to Alaska.

  He trailed her, taunting, “Try it. Come on, Smelly.”

  There was more yelling, then, from Ms. Niederbaum. “Novello, to the steps!” she commanded.

  Delly sat on Alaska, smiling. Not because Novello was imprisoned, although that was nice. Because, for once, she was free of the fight.

  All afternoon she Dellybrated at her desk. If the questions could keep her from pounding Novello, maybe she didn’t need the numbers at all. She banished them to the back of her head. In their place, she had a song: “I don’t need counting; I got questions, instead. And I don’t fight. Yep, I’m doing all right.”

  After school Delly ran to Ferris Boyd. “Hey,” she said softly, and fell in beside her, like they’d been friends forever.

  She waited till they were at the bridge to ask, “Ferris Boyd, did you see? I didn’t fight.” Then she told her, without saying a word, I heard you.

  Ferris Boyd stopped and turned to Delly. Her eyes were still sad, but there was something else in them. Something like a smile.

  It was only a second. Her head went down again, and she was shuffling along the road.

  It was all Delly needed. Ferris Boyd had heard her, too. “All right then.” She grinned.

  Chapter 36

  At the old Hennepin place, Delly was still telling Troubletales. Every afternoon, she’d take her spot on the stoop while Ferris Boyd got the bowl and the ball, and that bawlgram cat came running.

  “Hey, Ferris Boyd,” she’d ask, “how about we skip basketball and go straight to the hideawaysis?”

  But Ferris Boyd wouldn’t hear it. She’d go to the drive and start making magic with that ball.

  “Okay,” Delly’d say, as if she’d warned her, “Troubletale Twenty-two: the Nocussictionary,” or, “Troubletale Thirty-six: the St. Eunice’s spitting contest.”

  And her friend would keep playing, as if Delly could say, I got three heads, and a horn growing out of my back end, and it wouldn’t change anything.

  Later on they’d head to the hideawaysis. Ferris Boyd would settle into her corner with her book and the cat curled beside her.

  Delly’d bring out the food she’d brought to fatten up her pale, skinny friend. She set two sandwiches between them. “Ma says I got to eat more, so I’ll grow,” she told her, which was sort of the truth. She’d eat half of one and groan, “I can’t fit another bite. Ferris Boyd, will you eat it? Or I’ll get in trouble.”

  The girl would stare at the food, then at Delly.

  “Please,” she’d beg, and push it toward her. “Now I got to get to work.”

  While Delly hammered, she’d glance over, and Ferris Boyd would be eating behind her hands. “All right then,” she’d whisper.

  That first week Delly fixed the rails around the hideawaysis. “So no people fall out,” she told the cat, and it flicked its tail at her. She nailed the piece of metal on top of two branches, and Ferris Boyd had a roof. “Now you won’t get wet,” she said. She put the cooler in a corner. She brought a box with a lock, and a blanket. “Oof,” she
grunted as she hoisted them up the tree.

  Friday, when she was finished, Delly walked slowly around the place. She touched the rails, the roof, the bark, and the branches. She sat in the corner across from her friend. “What do you think, Ferris Boyd?” she asked softly.

  The girl gazed at all Delly had done, and her eyes were not sad; they were smiling.

  Delly leaned back against the rail. “All right then,” she rasped.

  The cat walked over to her. It turned in a circle and lay down with its soft back against her leg, like she belonged.

  And Delly Pattison, finally peaceful, fell asleep.

  She woke to the cat’s tail whapping her. “Huh?” She yawned.

  She heard the whistle from the other world. “Chizzle,” she sighed, and crawled to the ladder.

  “See you Monday, Ferris Boyd,” she said. She didn’t ask, because now she knew: she belonged there, too. “And I’ll see you,” she told the cat.

  The cat turned away like it didn’t care, but its tail flicked twice at her.

  Then she was running, through the woods, down the road, and into town, smiling so the wind whistled through her teeth.

  Chapter 37

  Sunday morning, Brud Kinney’s pad was already open as he walked down the drive. He held it up to the boy. G-I-R-A-F-F-E, it read. No Touch.

  Ferris Boyd nodded.

  Brud’s happiness ran him behind the garage. “Y-Y-Yes!” he hollered into his hands. His fists pumped the air five times before he could begin.

  And Ferris Boyd whooped him.

  As soon as he got the E, Brud sprinted toward the boy, trying to get another game before he vanished.

  But the boy wasn’t running away. He was standing in the drive with his pad flipped open. Again, it read.

  Brud’s teeth flashed bright white.

  After he got trounced, Brud turned to the house, expecting to see the door slamming for his good-bye.

  Instead, Ferris Boyd was sitting on the stoop.

  So Brud walked over. He pointed at an empty spot.

  The boy nodded.

  Brud sat down beside him.

  Brud was used to sitting with someone and not talking. He wasn’t used to the other person not talking, too.