ALSO BY JENNIFER L. HOLM
The Babymouse series (with Matthew Holm)
Boston Jane: An Adventure
Boston Jane: Wilderness Days
Boston Jane: The Claim
The Creek
Middle School Is Worse Than Meatloaf
Our Only May Amelia
Penny from Heaven
The Stink Files series (with Jonathan Hamel)
For Lindsey and Shana—
the original Diaper Gang
Contents
1. Rotten Kids
2. Paradise Lost
3. Lucky as an Orphan
4. The Conch Telegraph
5. Can You Spare a Nickel, Pal?
6. The Truth of the Matter
7. Terry and Pat
8. A Big, Happy Family
9. The Diaper Gang Knows
10. The Man of the House
11. Ladies Who Lunch
12. Hard Times
13. Believing in Monsters
14. Lying, Stealing, No-Good Kids
15. A Dream Come True
16. The Rescue Party
17. A Hollywood Ending
18. Paradise Found
Author’s Note
Resources
Web Sites
Acknowledgments
conch
Pronunciation: ’känk, ’känch
Function: noun
1: any of various large spiral-shelled marine
gastropod mollusks (as of the genus Strombus)
2: often capitalized: a native or resident of the
Florida Keys
—Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate
Dictionary, 11th edition
June 1935
1
Rotten Kids
Everyone thinks children are sweet as Necco Wafers, but I’ve lived long enough to know the truth: kids are rotten. The only difference between grown-ups and kids is that grown-ups go to jail for murder. Kids get away with it.
I stare out the window as Mr. Edgit’s Ford Model A rumbles along the road, kicking up clouds of dust. It’s so hot that the backs of my legs feel like melted gum, only stickier. We’ve been driving for days now; it feels like eternity.
In front of us is a rusty pickup truck with a gang of dirty-looking kids in the back sandwiched between furniture—an iron bed, a rocking chair, battered pots—all tied up with little bits of fraying rope like a spiderweb. A girl my age is holding a baby that’s got a pair of ladies’ bloomers tied on its head to keep the sun out of its eyes. The boy sitting next to her has a gap between his two front teeth. Not that this stops him from blowing spitballs at us through a straw. We’ve been stuck behind this truck for the last few miles, and our windshield is covered with wadded bits of wet newspaper.
A spitball smacks the window and Mr. Edgit hammers the horn with the palm of his hand. The no-good boy just laughs and sticks out his tongue.
“There oughta be a law. No wonder this country’s going to the dogs,” Mr. Edgit grumbles.
Mr. Edgit (“You can call me Lyle”) has a lot of opinions. He says folks in the Dust Bowl wouldn’t be having so much trouble if they’d just move near some water. He says he doesn’t think President Roosevelt will get us out of this Depression and that if you give someone money for not working why would they ever bother to get a job? But mostly Mr. Edgit talks about a new hair serum he’s selling that’s going to make him rich. It’s called Hair Today, and he’s a believer. He’s used the product himself.
“Can you see the new hair, Turtle?” he asks, pointing at his shiny bald head.
I don’t see anything. It must grow invisible hair.
Maybe Archie should start selling hair serum. If his pal Mr. Edgit’s anything to go by, most men would rather have hair than be smart. Archie’s a traveling salesman. He’s sold everything—brushes, gadgets, Bibles, you name it. Right now he’s peddling encyclopedias.
“I could sell a trap to a mouse,” Archie likes to say, and it’s the truth. Housewives can’t resist him. I know Mama couldn’t.
It was last May, one day after my tenth birthday, when I opened the door of Mrs. Grant’s house and saw Archie standing there. He had dark brown eyes and thick black hair brushed back with lemon pomade.
“Well, hello there,” Archie said to me, tipping his Panama hat. “Is the lady of the house at home?”
“Which lady?” I asked. “The ugly one or the pretty one?”
He laughed. “Why, ain’t you a sweet little thing.”
“I’m not sweet,” I said. “I slugged Ronald Caruthers when he tried to throw my cat in the well, and I’d do it again.”
Archie roared with laughter. “I’ll bet you would! What’s your name, princess?”
“Turtle,” I said.
“Turtle, huh?” he mused, stroking his chin. “I can see why. Got a little snap to you, don’t ya?”
“Who’s that you’re talking to, Turtle?” my mother called, coming to the door.
Archie smiled at Mama. “You must be the pretty lady.”
Mama put her hand over her heart. Otherwise it would have leaped right out of her chest. She fell so hard for Archie she left a dent in the floor.
Mama’s always falling in love, and the fellas she picks are like dandelions. One day they’re there, bright as sunshine—charming Mama, buying me presents—and the next they’re gone, scattered to the wind, leaving weeds everywhere and Mama crying.
But Mama says Archie’s different, and I’m starting to think she may be right. He keeps his promises, and he hasn’t disappeared yet. Even Smokey likes him, which is saying something, considering she bit the last fella Mama dated. Also, he’s got big dreams, which is more than I can say for most of them.
“Mark my words, princess,” Archie told me. “We’ll be living on Easy Street someday.”
That sounds swell to me, but even I know there’s gonna be a few bumps on the way to Easy Street, and I’m sitting right next to one of them.
“You’re like Little Orphan Annie and her dog,” Mr. Edgit says, eyeing Smokey, who’s curled up in my lap. “You know, Annie’s dog. What’s its name?”
How can someone have opinions on baldness and not know the name of Annie’s dog? She’s the most famous orphan on the radio and in the funny pages.
“You know, the dog that’s always with her …”
I look out the window.
“The one that’s always barking …”
“Sandy,” I say.
“Right, Sandy,” he says with a pleased look. “What does Sandy say, again?”
“Arf,” I say.
“That’s good! Sandy says arf!” Mr. Edgit chortles. “Does your cat say meow?”
I roll my eyes.
“What happened to your cat, anyhow?” he asks with a sidelong glance at Smokey. “She got the mange?”
“She got burned,” I say, smoothing my hand over Smokey’s ragged patches of fur.
“That why you call her Smokey?”
“No,” I say. “The name came first.”
“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t stay with that old dame,” Mr. Edgit says. “Place was a mansion. Looked like something Shirley Temple would live in.”
Shirley Temple is this kid actress everyone’s calling “America’s Little Darling.” She has dimpled cheeks and ringlet curls and is always breaking into song or doing a dance number at the drop of a hat. Everyone thinks she’s the cutest thing ever.
I can’t stand her.
Real kids aren’t anything like Shirley Temple and I should know. Because Mama’s the housekeeper, we get free room and board. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except the rest of the house usually comes with kids. And they’re never nice to the housekeeper’s daughter.
There was twelve-year-old Sylvia Decker, who gave me her old doll and then told her mother that I stole it from her. We didn’t last very long there. And then there was Josephine Stark, who told all the kids at school that it was my job to clean the toilet. No one would play with me after that.
The worst, though, were the Curley boys—Melvin and Marvin. They thought it would be funny to light poor Smokey’s tail on fire and watch her run around. Mr. Curley didn’t believe me when I told him what his boys did, and he fired Mama on the spot. Like I said, kids are rotten.
Mama’s promised me that someday we’re going to live in our own home. We’ve got it all picked out, too. It’s a Sears mail-order house, from a kit. The Bellewood, Model #3304. This is what the brochure says:
The “Bellewood” is another happy combination of a well-laid-out floor plan with a modern attractive exterior. The design is an adaptation of a small English cottage.
There’s a living room, a kitchen, a dining room, two bedrooms, and a bathroom that comes with something called a “Venetian mirrored medicine case.” I don’t know what it is, but it sure sounds fancy. Still, we’re a long way from living in the Bellewood.
Mama says she’s lucky to have a job with Mrs. Budnick considering how tough times are. I don’t know how lucky I am, though. Mrs. Budnick shook her head when Mama brought our things over to her house.
“You didn’t say anything about a child. Children are noisy. I can’t abide noise,” Mrs. Budnick said, tapping her foot.
I asked Archie if I could stay with him.
“Princess,” he said, shaking his head, “I live in a rooming house with a bunch of other men. I don’t think it’s exactly the kind of place a young lady should be, if you get my meaning.”
So now I’m on my way to Key West to live with Mama’s sister, Minerva, who I’ve never met. Mr. Edgit’s a pal of Archie’s, and since he was already going to Miami to meet with a fella about Hair Today, he offered to give me a ride. Also, he owes Archie a bunch of money. I guess Hair Today ain’t exactly an overnight success.
Mama thinks me going to Key West is a swell idea.
“You’ll love it, baby,” Mama told me. Mama’s good at looking at the sunny side of life. Her favorite song is “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries.”
I blame Hollywood. Mama’s watched so many pictures that she believes in happy endings. She’s been waiting her whole life to find someone who’ll sweep her off her feet and take care of her.
Me? I think life’s more like that cartoon by Mr. Disney—The Three Little Pigs. Some big bad wolf’s always trying to blow down your house.
Ahead of us, the pickup truck is swerving wildly. The kids in the back are clinging to the side.
“What’s that fella doing, anyway?” Mr. Edgit asks.
“I think his tire’s gone flat,” I say.
A moment later, the pickup truck pulls off to the side of the road in a cloud of dust.
We slow down beside the truck. There’s a worn-looking lady in the front seat staring straight ahead, a drooling toddler asleep on her lap. The fella behind the wheel is rubbing his eyes.
Mr. Edgit calls out the rolled-down window, “You need help there, buddy?”
“Do we look like we need help?” the boy in the back asks.
Mr. Edgit shakes his head. “Bunch of fools, this whole country,” he says, and we start to move again.
I lean out the window, looking back. The boy blows a spitball, but we’ve pulled away already. It falls short, landing in the road.
2
Paradise Lost
I’ve never been to Easton, Pennsylvania, but according to Mr. Edgit, I’m missing out.
“Best thing about Easton?” Mr. Edgit says. “We didn’t go in for Prohibition like the rest of the country. You could always get a drink in Easton.”
What is it with folks always talking about where they’re from? You could grow up in a muddy ditch, but if it’s your muddy ditch, then it’s gotta be the swellest muddy ditch ever.
Mama’s the worst. She’s always going on about how Key West is paradise—it’s beautiful, the weather’s perfect, there’s fruit dripping from trees. To hear her talk, you’d think the roads are paved with chocolate, like something out of that dumb song Shirley Temple sings:
On the good ship lollipop,
It’s a sweet trip to a candy shop
Where bonbons play
On the sunny beach of Peppermint Bay.
It turns out that getting to Key West is nearly as impossible as getting to Peppermint Bay. There’s no road between some of the keys, which are little islands, so we have to wait on a ferry to take the car and us over. It’s hours late because of the tide.
“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Edgit grouses. “I don’t owe Archie a penny more after this trip.”
When we finally pull into Key West, there’s not a bonbon in sight. Truth is, the place looks like a broken chair that’s been left out in the sun to rot. The houses are small and narrow, lined up close together, and most of them haven’t been painted in a long time. There’s trash piled everywhere. It’s so hot and humid it hurts to breathe.
“What a dump,” Mr. Edgit says.
But it’s the green peeping out everywhere that catches my eye—between the houses, in the yards and alleyways. Twining vines, strange umbrella-type trees with bright orangey-red blossoms, bushes with pink flowers, and palm trees. Like Mother Nature is trying to pretty up the place. She has a long way to go, though.
We drive around looking for Curry Lane, which is where Aunt Minnie lives, but Mr. Edgit’s about as good at following directions as Hair Today is at growing hair. Finally, we park next to a little alley so that Mr. Edgit can study the hand-drawn map Mama gave him.
“I just don’t understand where this Curry Lane is,” Mr. Edgit says, scratching his bald head.
I wish Archie was here. He never gets lost. And he’s been just about everywhere. We’ll sit with a big map and he’ll point out all the places he’s been.
“See Chicago? Folks are smart there. And they like to look good, too. Sold a crate of hair pomade in one day,” he’ll say, or “That little town in North Dakota? Stingiest place I’ve ever been. Folks there wouldn’t buy a button if their pants were falling down.”
A barefoot boy with big ears is looking furtively down the alley. He’s wearing overalls with no shirt underneath.
“Hey, kid,” Mr. Edgit calls out the window. “Can you tell me where Curry Lane is?”
“You’re looking at it,” the boy says, pointing down the muddy alley.
“That’s Curry Lane?” I ask, and the boy nods.
“Which one’s the Curry place?” Mr. Edgit asks.
“They’re all Currys, mister,” the boy says. “It’s Curry Lane.”
Mr. Edgit gets out of the car and grabs my suitcase. “Come on, Turtle,” he says. “At least we’re in the right place.”
I pick up Smokey and follow him down the lane. Mr. Edgit stops in front of a house that’s so small you could probably sneeze from one side to the other. There’s a boy who looks my age rocking lazily on a porch swing, his feet resting on a sleeping dog. In front of the house is a beat-up child’s wooden wagon. Somebody’s painted on the side of it:
WILL WURK FOR CANDY
“Excuse me, son,” Mr. Edgit calls to the boy.
“What are you selling, mister?” the boy asks, flexing grimy bare feet. He’s wearing one of those newspaper-boy caps set low on his forehead.
Mr. Edgit brightens. “Well, since you asked, I do happen to have some Hair Today back in my automobile.”
The dog lifts its head and growls low in his throat. It’s the funniest-looking dog I’ve ever seen, like someone crossed a dachshund with a German shepherd. It’s all tiny body with a big head.
“What’s it do?” the boy asks.
“Makes your hair grow,” Mr. Edgit says, pointing to his head. “It’s guaranteed to work in one month or your money back.”
The boy snorts. “Guess you
ain’t a satisfied customer.”
The dog leaps up, barking like mad. Smokey looks at him, like she can’t be bothered. She’s never been very scared of dogs, just kids.
“Beans! What’s going on out there?” a voice shouts from inside the house.
A heartbeat later, the screen door slams open and a woman in a faded striped dress is standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. She looks like an older version of Mama, except her face is tanner and her hair’s pulled back in a flyaway bun.
“Hush, Termite,” she orders the dog, who stops barking with a whine. Then she turns to Mr. Edgit. “Who are you?”
“He’s just some salesman, Ma,” the boy says.
“I’m looking for Minerva Curry,” Mr. Edgit says.
“I’m Minnie Curry,” she says, her eyes widening when she sees me. “Why, if you aren’t the spitting image of my sister, Sadiebelle!”
Folks have always told me that I look like Mama. My hair’s brown, same as hers, but it’s cut short in a bob with bangs, like a soup bowl turned upside down. Mama keeps hers long as a good dream, because that’s the way Archie likes it.
Our eyes are different, though. I think the color of a person’s eyes says a lot about them. Mama has soft blue eyes, and all she sees is kittens and roses. My eyes are gray as soot, and I see things for what they are. The mean boy on the porch has green eyes. Probably from all the snot in his nose.
“That’s because she is Sadie’s daughter!” Mr. Edgit says.
“I’m Turtle,” I say.
“Turtle?” the boy, Beans, says. “What kind of name is that?”
“At least I’m not named after something that gives you gas,” I say.
“Where’s your mother?” Aunt Minnie asks, looking around.
Mr. Edgit answers for me. “In New Jersey. Where else would she be?”
“Who are you?” Aunt Minnie asks.
Mr. Edgit holds out a business card. “I’m Lyle Edgit. You can call me Lyle.”
Beans hoots with laughter. “Idjit? Your name is Idjit? That’s a scream, pal!”
“It’s not Idjit, kid,” Mr. Edgit says, his lips tight. “It’s Edgit. Got it? Edge-it!”
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