“There anything you two want to tell me?”
They exchanged looks. Wayne shook his head.
“Because you can trust me, you know. I’m the last one who gets to judge anybody.”
“We are trusting you, remember?” Diggy pointed out. Then he frowned. “Is your friend backing out of our prank?”
“No, no, he’s still good.”
“What’s going on?” Wayne said. “Just tell us already.”
“Another steer got shaved.”
“Did the cops call you, too?” Diggy shouted. The steers mooed, and he automatically patted a rump.
“Another one?” Wayne asked.
“Why do people keep thinking it’s us?” Diggy said.
“Pop’s truck was spotted leaving the scene,” Graf explained.
“As if we could sneak it away. That’s what makes the prank—”
“And a tall kid and one with orange hair.”
“I’m tall!” Diggy protested.
“So if you two are in trouble and need some help, I’m your man. No questions asked.”
Diggy didn’t know what to say. It was crazy to think that someone was out there shaving steers in the first place—it was too weird a thing to do. Then to have people think he and Wayne had done it, something absolutely in no way possible … Now Graf was out here, offering his help. Diggy didn’t know whether to be ticked that Graf believed they had done it or glad that he wanted to help them no matter what.
Wayne cleared his throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
Graf looked taken aback, then cleared his throat, too. A couple of times. “Sure.”
“We didn’t do anything, though. It wasn’t us,” Wayne said.
“You sure?” Graf asked.
“Of course we’re sure!” Diggy bellowed. “Where did this one happen? The last one was in Goodhue County. We couldn’t get that far and back again without getting caught.”
“We can barely drive around the block,” Wayne pointed out reasonably.
“You can barely drive. I could get us there, no problem.”
Wayne stared at him. “Are you trying to get us in trouble?”
Diggy huffed. “I’m just saying. Don’t lump me in with you being a crappy driver.”
Wayne threw up his hands, then grabbed a comb to brush Fang out.
“They’re looking good,” Graf said, nodding at the steers.
He hung around while the boys set up the steers for the night. They talked some about the prank they had planned, but Diggy was paranoid Pop would come into the barn and made them stop.
That night, he had trouble sleeping. Every noise sent him to the window to see if someone was trying to get into the barn to shave their steers. He only calmed down when it occurred to him that if someone was trying to set up him and Wayne, their steers would be the last ones shaved.
He hated that other 4-H’ers were getting tagged like that, though. It was early enough that the steers’ hair could grow back and show fine. But that wasn’t the point. It was a question of fairness. Those other kids had worked as hard as he had all winter and were getting ready to add even more hours to their days, practicing for the show ring, meticulously planning feed, and grooming their steers. They deserved a fair shot at Grand Champ. And Diggy wanted a clean win.
Diggy promised himself he would find out whose steers had been shaved and make a point of saying hi to them at the show and wishing them luck.
ON APRIL 1 DIGGY WOKE WELL BEFORE DAWN, WRAPPED HIS BLANKET AROUND his shoulders, and sat in his bedroom doorway. No way was he missing Wayne’s first April Fools’ Day.
Wayne took forever to wake up, though. Diggy was tempted to shout at the kid to get him moving. Finally, he heard the usual morning scufflings, and then Wayne walked through his doorway—and straight into a wall of Saran Wrap.
It half fell over him, so one arm was stuck at his side, and his face and hair were plastered down like he was prepping to rob a bank.
“What the …” he mumbled, the words muffled by plastic. “Diggy!”
Diggy held his stomach and tried not to pee laughing while Wayne struggled with the clinging wads of plastic wrap.
Pop came out and shook his head. “I’m sure the box says it’s not a toy.”
Diggy pointed at Wayne. “You should see your face.”
Wayne glared at him, then slowly smiled. “You should see yours.”
Pop peered at Diggy, then smiled, too. On his way to the bathroom, he ruffled Wayne’s hair. “Good one.”
“What?” Diggy protested, the laughter gone. He felt his head and body. “What did you do?”
Wayne shrugged and wadded up the last of the plastic wrap into a ball he threw at Diggy.
Diggy shouldered his way into the bathroom, where Pop was peeing. “Kid,” he warned, but Diggy saw his face in the mirror. He was covered with red, blue, and green streaks on his face, in his hair, and all over his hands and clothes.
He groaned. “The Kool-Aid trick.”
Wayne had sprinkled the colorful powder in Diggy’s bed while he slept, and he had rolled around in it all night.
Pop flushed the toilet and gave Diggy a shove. “Out. Now.”
“But I’ve got to shower!”
“Later.” He shut the door and turned the water on for himself.
Diggy shushed Wayne, even though Wayne hadn’t said anything, and pressed his ear to the door. “Wait for it,” he whispered.
Wayne watched with a puzzled but interested expression. It seemed to take forever, but they finally heard Pop take his turn saying, “What the … Diggy! What did you do to the soap?”
Diggy guffawed. “Fingernail polish!” he shouted through the door. He thumped Wayne’s shoulder and headed downstairs. He checked himself out in the mirror by the front door, shaking his head. “You did pretty good for an amateur.”
“Thanks. Did you check outside yet?”
Diggy half fell trying to get to the kitchen window. “I was too busy watching for you,” he muttered. “I didn’t think to yet.”
They looked out. Pop’s truck was gone.
Diggy did a jumping kind of soundless dance, punching his fists into the air and smiling enough to break his face. It hurt trying to hold the laugh in his chest. “I can’t believe they pulled it off!”
He made himself stand still and took several breaths. He ran his hands up and down his face. “Okay, okay. Poker face. We’ve got to be straight when Pop comes down, or he’ll know something’s up.”
Wayne watched him, his expression less than confident. “I hope you don’t actually play poker.”
“Say anything you want today, Wayne,” Diggy announced magnanimously. “Your idea is working.” He rubbed his hands together. “This will be the best April Fools’ ever.”
He looked up at the ceiling. “How long does it take to shower?” he hollered at Pop. He couldn’t wait to see Pop’s face.
“What did you do with fingernail polish?” Wayne asked.
Diggy shrugged the question away. “Paint the soap with it, it won’t lather. It was a secondary prank to throw him off track.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
They heard the water cut off, and Diggy pushed Wayne toward the cabinets. “Get some cereal out. We have to look normal!”
“Poker face, remember?”
“Move!” Diggy clattered out bowls and spoons and nearly tore off the refrigerator door getting the milk out. The rush ended up being totally unnecessary. Their bowls were empty again by the time they heard Pop on the stairs. “Does he always take that long getting dressed?” Diggy pondered to himself.
Wayne squinted at him. “You think he’s planning something?” he whispered.
“Definitely,” Diggy said, then sat up straight in his chair. “Morning, Pop.”
Pop frowned at him.
Wayne made a face at him, too. He mouthed silently, “Poker.”
Diggy bit his lips and made his face as flat and normal as he could.
Wayne shook his head.
Pop turned on NPR while he made his coffee before joining them at the table. He looked out the window, but from where he sat, he couldn’t see where his truck should have been. The truck that was gone. The truck Graf’s friend had towed away last night, somehow doing it without waking up Pop.
Diggy couldn’t believe the plan had actually worked. If Pop didn’t get up and look outside soon, Diggy might burst.
He opened his mouth, not sure what he meant to say—something to get Pop to the kitchen window—but got kicked under the table instead. “Ow!”
Wayne glared.
Pop eyeballed them. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Diggy said, way too earnestly. Pop was clued in that something was up. Diggy wished he could kick himself under the table.
Fortunately, the phone rang before Pop could grill them.
“What are you doing?” Wayne whisper-shouted. “You’re going to blow it!”
“I know!” Diggy said. “I’m sorry. I’ll get it together, I promise.”
Pop leaned in the doorway, still on the phone. He stared at them, not a drop of good-natured suspicion left on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Diggy asked.
“Hang on a sec,” Pop said to the person on the phone. He set it down, then walked to the kitchen window and looked out.
Finally! But something was wrong. Pop gritted his teeth, jaw perfectly tight. He returned to the phone.
“It’s not here,” he said. Though he spoke to whomever was on the other end, he stared at the boys. “Do you think that’s necessary?” Diggy got a sick feeling in his stomach. This was serious. “I’m sure it’s a mistake.” Pop nodded. “Fine. Thanks for warning me.” He hung up.
He stayed in the doorway, arms crossed. “So, where’s the truck?”
This was supposed to be the moment. The funny. The prank unveiled.
Diggy’s mouth tasted bad. “April Fools’?”
“Mr. Johnston thinks it’s in a ditch near Kasson. Out by where another kid’s steer got shaved.”
Diggy leapt to his feet. “No way! We had it towed. It was your April Fools’!”
Wayne stood, too. “Really.” He raised his hands, palms up. “We wouldn’t take your truck.”
“Yet it’s gone,” Pop pointed out. His tone was far too reasonable. Diggy knew he was seriously ticked.
“That was the prank.”
“And how do two teenagers get a truck towed in the middle of the night without me hearing a thing?”
Diggy chewed his lip. He didn’t mean to, but he glanced at Wayne.
“My dad,” Wayne admitted. “He has a friend who tows cars.”
Pop rubbed a hand down his face. “Harold.”
“We made him,” Diggy argued. It wouldn’t be fair for Graf to get in trouble, too. “We begged him.”
“The cops are on their way.”
“What?” both boys gasped.
Red and blue lights flashed in the driveway.
DIGGY AND WAYNE RUSHED TO THE WINDOW. A POLICE CRUISER SAT IN THE DRIVE.
“Holy crap,” Diggy said. He blinked at Wayne. “Holy crap.”
Wayne was white and wide-eyed.
“Pop,” Diggy said, “I swear. We didn’t take your truck or shave any steers. You’ve got to believe us.”
Pop eyed them, not actually angry but not necessarily convinced, either. “I’m trying to,” he admitted, “but they seem pretty sure.”
The front doorbell rang. Diggy could have jumped out of his pajama bottoms. “Don’t let him in!”
Pop grimaced. “This won’t get resolved if we leave the officer on the doorstep. Then he’d know you’re guilty.”
While Pop answered the door, Diggy paced around the kitchen. “What do we do?”
Wayne somehow got even paler. “We can run for it.” But the statement was ludicrous. The kid couldn’t even blink. Running was out of the question.
“Boys,” a new voice said.
Diggy and Wayne froze. When they made themselves turn to face the officer, they practically creaked.
“So, we’re going to take a ride,” the cop said. “Downtown.”
Pop made some kind of sound, almost like a snort, but his distress was real. He finished clearing his throat. “Is that necessary, Brandon?”
The cop shook his head. “Sorry, Pop. Procedure is procedure.”
Diggy frowned. “You know Pop?” Hope bloomed. “Then you know we’d never get away with something like this. He’d never let us!”
“Mr. Lawson,” the officer said to Diggy. “Mr. Graf. If you’ll come with me.”
“I’ll have to ride with you,” Pop said.
“Yup. Minors have to have a legal guardian with them. Can’t talk to them otherwise.”
It was like one of those cop shows on TV. Diggy couldn’t believe it was real, that this was happening to them. “Pop?”
Pop shook his head. “Just go with him, boys. We won’t get this straightened out until we get to the station.”
He headed for the front door. The officer waited until Diggy and Wayne passed before following them out.
Getting into the back of the police car was like a weird dream. The situation was so unreal, Diggy stopped being scared. He stopped feeling anything. He waited to wake up.
The closer they got to town, however, the more his thoughts crowded in on him.
They were riding in the back of a police car. They were going to the police station. The police thought they had crashed Pop’s truck into a ditch and had been shaving show steers all over the state.
Diggy elbowed Wayne, leaning in so they wouldn’t be overheard. “You don’t have to be here.”
“I am here,” Wayne pointed out.
“Seriously. You thought shaving the steers would help them out, grow better hair. You don’t know anything except what you’ve seen me do. You can say it’s all me.”
“You think I’d do that?” Wayne burst out, though quietly.
“I think you don’t need to get in trouble if you don’t have to. This is serious stuff, Wayne.”
“Forget it. They said it was two guys. I’m the other one.”
Diggy wanted to protest, but he was too grateful. He didn’t particularly want to be in this alone. “We’ll figure something out,” he promised. “We didn’t do what they said. There’s got to be some way to prove it.”
Wayne nodded, pretending he was confident. Diggy tried to do the same.
Both of them failed. By the time they hit the station, they were shaking.
The officer opened the door for them, not saying anything as he led them into the station. “The cells are in back.”
“The cells?” Diggy and Wayne squeaked.
The officer kept going, and the boys followed, not knowing what else to do.
Diggy saw Graf, then July and a bunch of other Johnstons, Crystal and Jason, and some other people. Had they all been arrested, too?
“April Fools’!” everyone shouted, laughing and pointing.
Diggy punched Wayne’s arm. Hard.
“Why are you hitting me?” Wayne yelled.
“Were you in on this?” Diggy yelled back.
“No!”
Diggy turned on Pop. “This was you!”
Pop grinned, then didn’t try to hold back the laugh. “If you had seen your faces.”
Diggy looked at Pop, looked at Wayne, scanned the crowd of faces, smiled automatically at July, figured the guy next to Graf was the tow-truck friend, then looked back at Pop.
“This might be the best prank ever,” Diggy said, awed.
“But what about the kids shaving steers?” Wayne asked.
Diggy thumped him again. “There weren’t any shaved steers. It’s all part of the joke.”
Wayne blinked many, many times.
“What’s all over your face?” Crystal asked Diggy.
Wayne and Diggy burst out laughing at the same time.
APRIL 1 WAS A BIG DAY FOR TWO REASONS. AFTER
THE APRIL FOOLS’ SHENANIGANS, it was time to start the steers on finishing rations. Playtime was over. It was day one of the countdown to the State Fair.
All winter, the steers were kept on alfalfa-grass hay, gaining a little more than a pound a day. With finishing rations, they gained about three pounds a day, going from eight hundred to twelve hundred and fifty in five months.
Joker would, anyway. Fang had continued to lag behind and was almost a whole fifty pounds lighter than ideal. Wayne wanted to get him on full feed right away and was stubborn and snotty enough about it that Diggy would have let the kid do what he wanted, if it wouldn’t have hurt the calf. But too much grain too fast meant stomach problems, sometimes even permanent damage. Diggy wouldn’t let Fang suffer for the rest of his short life because his owner was a meathead.
The month of April was spent in weeklong intervals. The first week, they substituted a quarter of the usual hay, about five pounds, with the finishing ration, a grain mix with a protein and mineral supplement. The next week they bumped it up to half. By the third week, the steers got about fifteen pounds of finishing rations and five pounds of hay. The last week, they added another five pounds of finishing rations, the hay remaining at three to five pounds—whatever their steers ate to clean up their feed bunks between meals. Fang tended to eat only three pounds, while Joker chewed through five, which was a lot better.
By the end of the month, the steers looked like they had been puffed up with air and were as awkward as when they had first come home.
“It’s like they forgot how to walk,” Wayne complained.
The way he jerked on Fang’s lead, it wasn’t any surprise the calf didn’t follow. “You know they’re sensitive to moods. You’re being impatient, so he’s getting stubborn.”
“I’m not impatient.” He jerked again. Fang leaned away from him.
Diggy wasn’t willing to leave Fang stuck dealing with Wayne’s crap. “What’s wrong with you?”
“He looks scrawny next to Joker!”
“Big deal. For one, he’s going to bulk up fast now. And two, not that it matters for you, because your chances of placing at the fair are as good as you winning the Indy 500”—Diggy snickered, Wayne shot him a glare, and Diggy finished—“a lot of times the Reserve Champ is the lightweight crossbred. If Fang ends up in that category, and I’m not saying he will, he’s still got a shot at winning a purple.” He emphasized, “A light purple.” The dark purple was for Grand Champ. He meant that one to go to Joker.
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