By invitation or not, getting there only took the time to sing the national anthem twice in a row. I didn’t even fancy up the notes or anything, and there I was.
June and Franklin lived at the end of a dirt driveway that started with an impeccable bed of impatiens, and the red ones formed a massive M in the middle of a brilliant field of white.
Except not anymore.
The white impatiens had withered down to almost nothing, like a storm had barreled through and swallowed up all the sunshine. And the M was long gone—only specks of sad pink were left. Queen Anne’s lace crowded around the edges of the bed, and that weed stood guard and watched over the impatiens bowing back down to the earth.
At least the weed was beautiful, and had a noble kind of job.
The house was way down the winding dirt driveway, looking like it had gotten the wind knocked out of it. Vines weaved up and around the porch like they were trying to tackle the columns to the ground, and it seemed like they were winning. What had been a bed for marigolds or squash or something had so many weeds in it that even the weeds had weeds. And our porch swing, our place for lemonade and oatmeal raisin cookies and watching the morning dew dry up, hung all alone, creaking and croaking.
“Whoa.” I stepped up onto the porch, careful not to crush the little white blossoms that were trying real hard to bloom around the steps.
Ridge Creek had other houses that looked like this, like the people were too busy having spaghetti or playing checkers and weren’t all that interested in flower beds and porch swings. And I’d always thought that was just fine, that the inside of a home was more important than an overgrown outside—that it didn’t really matter as long as you had one.
But this was unusual for June Mattingly, with her perfect makeup and freshly pressed dresses. It was like seeing her insides spilled out all over her outside—everything in shambles and an unstoppable growth of something you didn’t ask for. Something that might have been sorrow.
That’s when I noticed the front door, and my toenails itched to see something so familiar: a Christmas wreath, fake like our greens on the Grill, and covered in cobwebs. It was like time had stopped ticking the minute Franklin died. The greens on Garland’s Grill collected a lot of dust on the road, but even those looked merrier than this mess.
And I didn’t mean to break into June’s house, but when my fist hit the front door with the force of something like mad, the handle jiggled and it spilled right open. And after I’d fallen through and gotten myself upright and sturdy again, there I was, standing in the front hall. I’d never really thought about why I’d never been past the porch swing, and Garland had always told me to mind my manners and be polite and so I’d never asked.
Pictures and mementos covered the walls from the ceiling to the floor. They didn’t look like much to me, but if they were important enough to be nailed to a wall, then I guess that was something. We didn’t have much on the walls of the Rambler, ’cause it got too dangerous when we were on the road. Sure would be nice not to shove your favorite things into a safe behind the driver’s seat and get to look at your memories whenever you wanted.
I saw keys that looked like they belonged to the barn of a giant rather than the house of a human. Yellowed newspaper clippings and church bulletins were pinned up, the print too faded and small to understand what important moment was captured forever. Bunches of dried flowers hung toward the floor, petals frozen and wrapped up in red ribbons. Everything was covered with the thinnest layer of dust, not much more than the slightest whoosh of a warm breeze.
But it wasn’t the things that caught my eye so much as the people. It was hard to read the faded old pictures, but I tried.
An earlier version of June smiled from behind dusty glass in a frame—the same brown skin tinted pink at the cheeks, and a smile with some earlier match to Christmas Nutmeg. But her eyes had a different kind of sparkle—familiar, but fresh.
Franklin looked like Franklin whether the picture was from last summer or last decade, whether he was riding a lawn mower or gardening at the end of his dirt driveway. He looked like Franklin whether he was dancing with June or rocking a baby girl.
That startled me—his strong, weathered hands holding something so small and fragile. June and Franklin looked at that baby girl like she was the sun and they wanted to spin around her forever.
June was a mother.
I hadn’t known.
I ran out after that, slamming the door so hard that dust fluttered off the greens, but I didn’t even look back to make sure the wreath stayed in place. This time I didn’t worry about trampling the tiny blossoms. My bones ached with something unfixable, like they knew the clouds were coming and wanted to buckle under the pressure.
I reached the spot where the M was supposed to be and picked a handful of Queen Anne’s lace, and that’s where I stopped.
“Derby, hey.”
Betsy and Lollie Plogger stood right there in front of me, right at the end of the winding dirt driveway, right by the Mattinglys’ mailbox shaped like a sun.
“What are you doing here?” I was mad that they’d caught me and madder that they knew these same steps.
“This is June’s house, right? My mom wanted to send her this pie,” said Lollie.
“It won’t fit in this mailbox, will it?” Betsy opened and closed the sun twice, shutting it much too hard each time. And then she marched down that dirt driveway, toward what June hadn’t wanted even me to see.
“Oh,” I said, catching up. “I’ll take it to her—I’m on my way right now.”
“On your way? Didn’t we just see you coming from there?” Betsy nodded toward the house, and I was surprised she’d been so observant. “What did you do, bring her a bunch of weeds? At least we brought a pie.”
“Lollie, I can take it.” I tried to take the tin from her arms, but before I could, Betsy stopped.
“Well, isn’t this a shame,” Betsy said, with none of the sadness I felt when I saw the same mess. “Come on, Lollie. We don’t want to walk through poison ivy or whatever else might be crawling around in there.”
“Here, Derby.” Lollie handed me the pie. “Tell her my mama’s been thinking of her.”
And so I sat on the steps of June’s front porch with an apple pie in my lap, watching the weeds wave around in the hot breeze, not even sure what I was waiting for. Chickadees from somewhere nearby called out a question that I didn’t have the answer to. Those birds didn’t know they were supposed to be anything but cheerful. But once their song was burned into my ears and the sun blazed noon, I figured it was time to go.
All that wishing the night before, and the only thing I had now was a foil pie pan about to blister my knees. Plus a whole lot more questions.
Fifteen
I LEFT the pie on the porch. The only place that made sense to go was back to the stadium, and so I slipped through FILLING and BELLIES because it was closest to the bullpen, closest to Marcus.
I could tell a real storm was on its way because the last slivers of the thick morning air didn’t have anywhere to escape to, and it drew out the sweat from my face. The clouds hung low and gray and awful, like they were settling in for a story. Soon enough there’d be nothing but mugginess and noise—rowdy Rockskippers both throwing heat and complaining about it.
That soon enough came real quick, when the clanking and cursing and a motor that sounded less in tune than Miss Houston’s bad notes interrupted the quiet.
“Marcus Theodore Williams Emmett!”
There he was, head stuck under the hood of Franklin’s cart as if it were just another day fixing up busted cars at the body shop. His arms were caked with red mud and dirt, and each clank I’d heard was Marcus kicking the cart. At least those clanks covered up the curses.
“This crusty old thing won’t start up.” Marcus ignored the way I’d hollered all of his names like I was his mama or something.
“Here,” I said, and used all the muscle I could sque
eze into my arms to lift that hood so Marcus could tinker with the guts.
“This can’t happen before the second game of the season. Franklin would never . . .”
“Maybe it’ll get rained out anyway.” I didn’t want that to happen, but it did feel like that was the type of weather that best suited our moods.
I thought about all of the mess in June’s front yard, the mess that wouldn’t exist if Franklin was there to take care of it, the mess that must have reminded her every time she stepped outside. And I thought about my own family’s mess, the one with wheels, the one that reminded me every day that we had a table for four and were only three.
I’d been there watching Marcus try to fix that engine for who knows how long—and that’s when I remembered my promise to Triple. “The high-five,” I said.
“Derby, not right now,” said Marcus. “I’m kind of busy.”
“No, Marcus—it’s Triple. I ditched him before I even got to the creek.” I kicked Franklin’s cart myself, but it didn’t feel as good as cursing might have. “Can I have some old grass clippings? Peter could use some.”
“Peter?”
“It’s Triple’s . . . Triple’s new champion turtle.”
“You know, Lefty, they’re not just old grass clippings. The turf industry is way more complex than some old lady’s gardening club.”
It was like standing in front of Franklin Mattingly himself, like he’d stood his ground right here in Marcus, right in the bullpen at the James Edward Allen Gibbs Stadium. I inhaled a deep breath of fumes and fertilizer, but before I could say anything, Marcus rambled on.
“Did you know that Carlton Bell and Javy Avelar and Samson Brickhouse all like the pitcher’s mound raked differently? Did you know it matters? A turf specialist makes sure his team can play to win.” Marcus stomped down on that rake. “Twisted ankles on divots in the outfield? That’s on me, Derby.”
“Did he teach you how to mow the creek ripples in the outfield?” I hoped for me and June and all of Ridge Creek that the answer was yes.
“You know, I think when Franklin first created those ripples he was just out joyriding on his mower. You know, for the pure love of grass and turf,” Marcus said. “It was the rest of us that pictured our place for skipping rocks right here in the field.”
It was funny, the way Marcus was all of a sudden such an expert in something so important to baseball when he didn’t even want to play it. And that’s when I realized.
“That’s why you’re the Skipper, Marcus,” I said. “That’s why Franklin named you that.”
“Why’s that?”
“You know that’s what they call the manager of a ball club, right?”
Marcus looked at me like I’d asked him to plant daisies in the outfield.
“Seriously, Marcus? You really have been ignoring everything Lump’s been teaching you about baseball all these years, haven’t you? No wonder he dropped his glove in left field and bolted that day.”
“The skipper is the manager?” Marcus’s voice was so small I had to stare at his lips to understand for sure what he said.
“He’s the leader, the strategy-thinker-upper, the boss man. In charge of all this . . .” I waved my arm toward the rest of the broken and beautiful stadium. “That’s you.”
Marcus’s face crumpled into a look that mixed sheer happiness with needing to throw up, and I let him have a minute. This time it wasn’t because I was one of those friends who understood the quiet, but because something had caught my eye as I swept my palm out toward home.
The Rockskippers hadn’t shown up for work yet, and if Ferdie was around, he was doing a pretty good job of ignoring us. I had thought Marcus and I were the only ones there. But high above the field in the bleachers, in the closest thing we had to the nosebleeds and right where the sun set every night, sat . . . somebody.
Marcus mumbled something about the Skipper and the ripples and if I didn’t mind could we just meet up later after he finished his very important job. I didn’t pay him much attention or answer him or even take that handful of grass for Peter. I was too busy trying to figure out what Garland, who never, ever entered the stadium, was doing up there.
Sixteen
THERE wasn’t any more time to wonder about Garland, because I had to see about Triple. I ran and I ran and I pulled in air and pushed it out and tried to ignore how breathing felt like swallowing a sack of knives.
The sweet honeysuckle gate let me through, and a clap of thunder shattered the sky right when I reached the other side. The rain didn’t stretch to there—the treetops were the only thing above, and they kept things nice and safe and still.
Except then there was Triple, all alone on the banks of the creek and at the other end of my broken promise. He kneeled over Peter, who was about as still as the rock he was sitting on. I tried to calm my nerves and my brain and not scare either one of them by getting too close too quick, but Triple must have heard me.
“We’re busy.” He didn’t look up.
And then that storm did roll in, through my words and out my soul. “Triple, that dumb turtle is slow as molasses ’cause he’s supposed to be, and a championship day for a turtle involves swimming, sunbathing, and probably a good handful of worms.” I threw a rock as hard as I could, right into the shallow part so it splashed all of us—Triple and Peter and me. Even Twang was there, balanced on a rock, just waiting for his turn again.
I don’t think even Betsy Plogger would have done that. It wasn’t a real good way to say sorry.
Triple stared at me and I stared right back. If his arms had been any longer than seven years, I bet he would have pushed me in. Instead, he did something worse. He ignored me. He looked down at Peter and got back to business like I wasn’t even there.
“Triple—” I hoped he could hear the tone in my voice that said I am here and I am sorry and I love you very much.
But nothing.
“Look, I’m so sorry. I should have been here earlier, ’cause I said I would be. And I’m just—”
“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “You said that already.”
It had taken a whole bunch of years for choppy water to create the curves on those rocks we stood on, but it took only a morning to dig a deep rut between the two of us.
And then, because June had done it to me first, I thought the mama thing to do would be to hug him, to squeeze him good whether he wanted it or not. Peter and Twang were between me and the rock closest to Triple, but with Garland’s Grill and living on a moving vehicle, navigating tricky spaces was usually something I did real good.
Triple still wouldn’t look at me, so I took the biggest leap I could without a running start. And I misjudged the length of my legs by about a summer or two, so rather than landing on the rock with my feet, I landed on it with my face.
My chin smacked it, and for a split second I saw sunglasses and stars and pies and birds, but once those birds fluttered away and the pain moved in, I was wet and cold and hurting. But Triple, he was there. He stuck out his skinny arm and dragged me from the shallow water to the slippery shore.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I was somewhere between whispering and wailing, and somehow the rain had pierced through the trees and poured on everything, not caring what it touched.
“Derby, you’re bleeding!” Triple yelled.
What I’d thought was rain wasn’t, and my sleeve streaked red after I ran it across my chin. I opened and closed my jaw to be sure it was still screwed on tight, which made Triple gasp like it would crack clean off.
“I’m all right. It’s okay, Triple.” I pulled him down next to me. He stuck Peter in his lap, Peter, who seemed to like the pitter-patter of the rain.
Grit and sand burned inside the cut the creek had given me. The muddy water was all I had to wash it out with, but Garland had taught me about getting things done. So I did, and we were quiet for a bit.
“Peter’s a good turtle,” I said after a while, and when I did, he crawled from Triple’
s lap to mine.
“Even if he’s not, Charlie still hasn’t shown her face down here yet. She might be all out of practice,” said Triple.
“Or turtles,” I said. Triple laughed a little at that but not all the way, so I could tell he wasn’t finished with being mad. “Marcus can help us feed him real good too,” I continued. “We won’t tell Charlie that the best turtles have this newfangled vegetaaaarian diet.”
And so we sat there on a wet rock underneath a wetter rain. And when our conversation and the rain dried up, we figured it was time to go back to the Rambler and maybe do the onions.
Triple stood up with Peter in his hands. “Do you have Twang?”
“Don’t you have Twang?” I asked.
I’d been too worried about a broken promise and a scraped-up chin, overgrown weeds and Garland in the nosebleeds. All of those things had blinded me from keeping safe the very thing that Triple loved most.
I think we both saw it at the same time—down where the creek opened up into the river, past where Garland said we were allowed to wade. Twang’s papertowel tube bobbed in and under the creek’s current, mad like the storm. I must have kicked Twang when my feet flew out from under me. Anyone else would have thought it was garbage, but Triple and I watched his heart and soul and what used to be our mama’s sandals float away right downstream.
“You wrecked everything,” Triple said, so quiet it sounded like the wind blew his words.
And then he tucked Peter under his arm and walked away, up to the honeysuckle and Queen Anne’s lace, alone.
Seventeen
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