Nekomah Creek

by Linda Crew

  He started up the stairs but I hooked my hand through a big hole in the back of his shirt and yanked.

  Lucy and Freddie shrieked.

  Dad pretended to fall back down the stairs so the babies could jump on him, too.

  “That’s right,” I said, encouraging them. “Just rip! It’s okay!”

  In about six seconds that T-shirt was nothing but a neckband and sleeves with some ropey loops hanging from it.

  Dad played beat for a minute while Freddie jumped up and down on his bare back. “Oof! Oof! Oof!” Then he rolled and escaped.

  Laughing and shrieking, we took off after him. I was standing on the arm of the sofa, ready to leap off, when Mom yelled, “Quiet!”

  The doorbell was ringing.

  Dad looked at her. “Who in the heck …?”

  It’s not like people just show up on your porch a lot out here in the woods.

  Two bounces and I was down, heading for the door.

  “Robby, no! Wait just a—”

  Too late. I’d already flung it open. Standing on our front porch was Mrs. Van Gent and her husband, in spy-type trench coats!

  “Well, hello there, Robby, I—” She stopped and stared at my shredded father.

  The needle screeched across the record as Mom killed the Lone Ranger.

  “Something tells me,” Mrs. Van Gent said faintly, “there’s been a little mix-up about our dinner.”

  Mortified. I’d heard that word. Now I didn’t just know its meaning. I felt it. Dad’s red face got three shades redder. For a moment I thought he might do what I felt like doing, which was run upstairs and pull a blanket over my head.

  But he hardly missed a beat. He smiled at Mrs. Van Gent, caught his breath, and turned to me.

  “Robby,” he said. “Where are your manners? Find the lady a kazoo!”

  15

  Bellyful of Trouble

  “Now you’ve done it!” I yelled at Dad as soon as Mrs. Van Gent and her husband had scurried back to their car.

  But Mom and Dad weren’t paying any attention to me.

  “I don’t believe it.” Mom sank onto the sofa. “I don’t believe that just happened.”

  Dad had this dumb grin on his face.

  Freddie of Arabia stood at the window yelling, “Good-bye, Yady. Good-bye, Yady …”

  “I have never,” Mom said, “in my whole life, been so embarrassed!”

  But then she started laughing, excited-embarrassed more than mortified-embarrassed. She jumped up, shocked into action I guess, and started straightening the room. Which was totally dumb. It was way too late now.

  Dad shook his head. “The look on that woman’s face …”

  “It’s not funny!” I said.

  “It’s not?” Dad pulled off the tattered T-shirt. “Then how come we’re laughing?”

  “Because you don’t understand. You guys don’t know how serious this is. You have totally blown it, Dad!”

  “Me? Hey sport, you helped with the shirt.”

  “I know, but you’re the one that always gets things whipped up. I’m just a kid. I can’t help it. You’re the dad. You’re supposed to be in charge!”

  “Well, I am. I passed out the kazoos, didn’t I?”

  “Da-ad! Just think how this looked to her!”

  “Hmmm.” Dad rubbed his chin, squinting at me but talking to Mom. “Guess we’re into that sensitive stage where any little thing we do will embarrass him.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and flung my arm to take in the whole pitiful scene. “You call this any little thing?”

  “Hey, okay.” Dad put his flannel shirt back on. “Take it easy. I’m sorry, all right?”

  Lucy ran up to him with her fish puppet and started nipping at his leg. “Fishy fishy fishy!”

  Mom crossed her arms over her chest and looked around the room. “We really can’t blame him for being embarrassed.”

  “Guess not,” Dad said. He snatched Lucy up, tossed her on the sofa, and gave her bare tummy a good tickle. She giggled and shrieked until he let her wriggle away. “But nobody ever died of embarrassment, Robby. In a week or two you’ll have forgotten all about it.”

  “Are you kidding? I won’t forget this if I live to be a hundred.”

  “Now don’t be too hard on Dad,” Mom said. “After all, it was your counselor who got the date wrong, not him.”

  I plopped on the sofa, thinking, So what? The point was, she saw us like this.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught Lucy tiptoeing over to the door of Mom’s studio. She turned the knob.

  “Mo-om,” I said in a warning voice.

  Lucy pushed open the door.

  “Hey!” Mom darted over and scooped Lucy up with one arm. “Bill? Did you see that? She opened the door.”

  Dad blinked. “That’s what she did, all right.”

  “I mean, she opened the door by herself. It was shut tight.”

  Slowly, they both turned and looked at me.

  Mom’s voice was loaded with apologies. “Oh, Robby.”

  “I tried to tell you,” I said, “but nobody ever believes me.”

  “I’m so sorry, Honey.”

  Yeah, great. Now I was so upset about everything else, I couldn’t enjoy this apology one little bit.

  “I can’t go to school,” I told my parents Monday morning. “I think I’m sick again.”

  “Do you suppose he’s having a relapse of the flu?” Mom put her hand on my forehead, TV-commercial style.

  “Could be,” Dad said, studying my face. “Feel like you’re going to throw up?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No, it’s not that. My stomach just hurts.”

  I don’t know why I felt like I was trying to get away with something. I wasn’t lying—my stomach really did hurt.

  Maybe it was because I knew perfectly well it was Monday and Monday meant Mrs. Van Gent. I did not want to have to face that lady.

  Maybe it was because as soon as they said I could stay home, my stomach felt better.

  I had a lot of time to lie there and think that day while I pretended to be sick, and here’s what I thought: You’ve heard about every cloud having a silver lining? Well, the one good thing about this disaster was that at least I could get my diorama back.

  Before, I had to stay on Mrs. Perkins’s good side. But what would it matter now? The damage was done. I was sure Mrs. Van Gent had already told her what she’d seen at our house Friday night. By now the government probably had all the gory details too.

  I might as well get the diorama for Dad. He could keep it as a memento of the great times we’d had before he blew it.

  16

  Ambush!

  When I showed up at school on Tuesday, I half expected everyone to be talking about my family being a bunch of jerks. But before I even got into the building, I found out we were not the big news.

  Orin’s dad was.

  “Doctor says he’s lucky he didn’t get killed,” Orin was bragging by the bike racks.

  By noon recess, everybody in our class had heard about Elvis Downard’s logging accident. Orin had thrilled us with the grisly details several times.

  “That old fir just barber-chaired on him,” he said, using his hands to show how the tree had snapped at a funny angle. “Dad says he shoulda knowed something bad was up. He couldn’t sleep the night before, see, and his hands and feet were cold. Loggers all know that means trouble’s ahead.”

  I have to admit, I was listening. Standing in the foursquare line, pretending to watch the game, I was actually running a little movie through my head: Accident on Douglas Mountain. In a weird way it sort of fascinated me to picture Elvis Downard gutting it out, the pain of that tree pinning his leg. I shivered. Pretty soon now Orin would get to the part where the leg bone was sticking through the skin …

  Gee, I thought. I wish I had a dad worth bragging about. Hey, guys, did you hear about the time my dad sliced his finger making guacamole? Blood? Oh lemme tell ya, we’re talking two, m
aybe three Band-Aids …

  After break I went up to Mrs. Perkins’s desk. She was counting up the Thanksgiving money we’d all turned in that morning. Mine was mostly from collecting returnable cans along the road.

  “Mrs. Perkins, I’ve thought about it and I’m very sorry but I can’t let you have my diorama for Mrs. Appleman because I want to give it to my dad.”

  She stopped counting. “Now hold on, Robert. When I asked you before …”

  “You didn’t really ask me, Mrs. Perkins. You told me. I didn’t feel like I had any choice.”

  “But Robert, it’s such an honor.”

  Right then Orin Downard swaggered in. Well, so what if he overheard? Orin making fun of me was the least of my worries.

  “I made the diorama especially for my dad, Mrs. Perkins, and it just wouldn’t be right to give it to somebody else.”

  Yeah, I know, I wasn’t making much sense. I was mad at Dad, right? But still …

  “Ain’t this touching,” Orin said. “Got a hanky there, Darrel?” He faked a couple of sniffs. “Think I’m about to bust out bawling.”

  Mrs. Perkins slid the yellow envelope of money into her desk drawer. Then she looked up at me and shook her head.

  “For-e-vermore. Robert Hummer, you sure do take the cake.”

  I drew myself up. “Mrs. Perkins?” I said. “I really wish you’d call me Robby.”

  The wind rushed by my ears as I coasted down the road on my bike that afternoon, keeping far to the right to let the school bus pass. By the time I reached the first little bubbling creek that spills into the main creek, the sun had broken through the clouds, making sparklies of the raindrops on every twig and tree branch.

  I was starting to feel a little less gloomy. At least I was getting away from the school. At least I was heading home.

  And most important, I had the diorama in my back basket. No matter what else happened, this one thing was going to be the way I planned it. My dad was going to have the present I made for him.

  And then, a rush of air as another bike swooped past. I swerved. When I’d steadied myself I saw it was Orin.

  “Ya ya!” he yelled, pedaling away, holding something triumphantly over his head.

  My diorama! He’d snagged it out of my back basket!

  “Hey! You gimme that back!” I stood up to pedal, following him around the bend to the bridge. “Orin, come on! That’s not funny!”

  Through the dark tunnel of the bridge, I saw a figure silhouetted against the pale green light at the end.

  Orin crossed ahead of me, threw down his bike, and tossed the boot box to the figure.

  Bumpbumpbump. I pedaled furiously over the planks after them.

  “Gimme a break, Orin.” My voice echoed against the old timbers. “You’re gonna wreck it.”

  “It’s for his daddeee,” Orin sing-songed, dancing around.

  Out the other side, I jumped off my bike. The figure was Cody Riddle. He tossed the box back to Orin.

  I shut my eyes. I could just imagine the little deer coming unglued, rattling against the sides, the sea gull on a thread banging crazily.

  “Orin, please?” I hated the wimpy sound of my voice.

  “Please?” he mimicked me.

  I hated him. I wished I were bigger than him. I wished I could grab him and pound him. Having to beg Orin Downard for what was mine—it killed me!

  “Okay,” he said, “here it is!”

  But instead of tossing it to me, Orin hauled off and sent the box in a flying arc over the creek.

  “No!” I watched it splash into the gurgling water.

  I scrambled down the bank, sliding through the wet ferns, keeping my eye on the box as it floated like a little ark, twirling in the eddies and bumping against a mossy rock, the rush of water holding it there for an instant.

  I waded into the iciness up to my knees and fished it out. Standing on a rock at the edge, I held it up to the light and peeked through the eyehole.

  That was Nekomah Creek all right. Nekomah Creek after an end-of-the-world flood. All the paint had run, the parts made of tissue looked like wet toilet paper. I tried the battery-powered lights—shorted out.

  Above me at the bridge, Orin and Cody were laughing their heads off.

  Hot tears sprang to my eyes. My throat ached. This is where I should have raised my fist and yelled I’ll get you for this, Orin Downard. I’ll get you for this if it’s the last thing I do! That’s how it would have gone in a movie or a book.

  But this was stupid, crummy, real life. So I just hugged the ruined box to me, climbed the slippery bank, and got on my bike.

  “Hurry on home,” Orin sang after me in his nastiest voice. “Hurry up and tattle to that big tough daddy of yours!”

  They didn’t chase me, but I could hear their stupid laughing at my back all the way down the road.

  17

  Pumpkins Every Time

  I shoved open our front door.

  “I hate Orin Downard!” I shouted. “I hate hate hate him!”

  Mom came out of her studio. “Honey, what’s wrong?” She took a closer look. “Robby, your feet are all wet. You’re all muddy.”

  “Just look at this!” I flung down the soggy remains of my diorama and told her what Orin had done.

  “Oh, dear.” She stooped and picked it up.

  “And I was going to give it to Dad for his birthday.”

  “Well …” She peeked through the eyehole. “Maybe we can fix it.”

  “No, it’s ruined. It’s just totally ruined.” I swallowed hard. “And it was really neat, too. Even Mrs. Perkins said it was the best one in the school.”

  “I’m sure it was wonderful.” She held it up to the light. “I can tell that even now.” Then she set it down and let out a big disgusted sigh. “What is the matter with that kid, anyway?”

  “He just hates me. And I don’t even know why.”

  She looked out the leaded windows in the direction of the Downards’ place. “Maybe today he was upset about his dad’s accident.” She turned back to me. “You heard, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, everybody did. How’d you find out?”

  “Oh, you know how fast news like that gets around Nekomah Creek. So. Orin took it pretty hard?”

  “Oh, Mom, are you kidding? Orin loved it—bragged and spouted logger talk all day. No, he just wrecked my project for the fun of it, that’s all.”

  “Now, now …”

  “And I’m going to get him for this, Mom. I’d like to beat him up.”

  “But Robby, what good would that do? It wouldn’t fix your diorama.”

  “I know, but it’d make me feel better.”

  “Think so, huh?”

  I nodded stubbornly. Then I realized something funny was going on. Mom and I were talking and nobody was interrupting.

  I looked around. “Where is everybody?”

  “The kids never did settle down for much of a nap, and since I’d be here when you got home, Dad thought he’d take them to the library and then grocery shopping.”

  “Oh.” I’d been so upset, I hadn’t even noticed the minivan was gone.

  “Now let’s get these wet shoes off you. Sit down by the fire here and I’ll fix you some hot chocolate. When you’re warmed up we can drive in to The Palette for supplies to make a new diorama.”

  “Start it all over?” I let out a big sigh. “I just couldn’t.”

  “Start something else, then. Come on, how about it?”

  Usually a trip to the art store perks me right up, but not today.

  It was dark and raining hard by the time we chugged our way home around Tillicum Head.

  Mom glanced at me. “Think maybe you’ve still got a touch of the flu?”

  I shook my head.

  “You feel okay, then?”

  I shrugged.

  We drove a little farther. Weird, having Mom to myself—no sounds but the rumbling engine and the squeak of the windshield wipers. I took a sideways peek at her face, faintly lit
by the dashboard lights. Now that I had a chance to talk, I couldn’t bring myself to mention what was really bugging me. Instead I tried to edge in around it.

  “Mom?”

  “Hm?” She kept her eyes on the curvy, rain-slick road.

  “This is really dumb, but sometimes I feel two different ways about one thing.” I was thinking how I half admired Elvis Downard and half hated him. How I sort of liked Mrs. Van Gent but was scared of her too. How I loved the way Dad acted but also felt embarrassed by him. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Sure. That’s what grown-ups call having mixed feelings.”

  “Oh.” Mixed feelings. So there was an official name for this? Part of me was relieved. Maybe I was normal. On the other hand, if it was normal to be confused, did that mean I’d feel this way forever? I watched the string of orange reflectors snaking toward us along the center of the road. Oh, great! Now I was having mixed feelings about mixed feelings!

  “Well, one thing I know for sure,” I said. “I’d still like to beat up Orin Downard.”

  “Robby—”

  “And I wish Dad could beat up Elvis.”

  Mom sighed.

  “Well, Orin’s always bugging me about that. I never want to tell Dad this, but Orin’s always saying, ‘Nyeah nyeah, your dad’s a wimp. My dad could pound your dad any day.’ ”

  “That is so silly.”

  “I know, but … I can’t help it, Mom! Sometimes I wish I had the kind of dad who would be bigger and tougher than all the other dads.”

  She glanced at me. “Robby, this isn’t the stone age. We don’t rate fathers on which one can beat up the others. What do we need with that? Wouldn’t you rather just have a dad who loves you, a dad who’s a lot of fun?”

  “But Mom, you always act like Dad wants to have too much fun.”

  “Oh, I know …” She laughed. “But really, is there ever such a thing as too much fun?”

  There is if your counselor sees it, I thought darkly.

  “I’m sure your dad’s right with all his talk about priorities. You kids will remember those pumpkins all your lives. You won’t care that the shed was always a mess.”

  “But you care.”

  “Well, there you go—mixed feelings! But actually—and this might surprise you—if you gave me a choice, I’d go for those pumpkins every time.”