The Battle of Junk Mountain

by Lauren Abbey Greenberg

  His face clouds with suspicion, but he lets me in anyway. The tent feels about ten degrees warmer inside. A tartan blanket covers the ground picnic-style with food, books, and crinkled maps strewn about. An army cot is pushed to one side, which makes me wonder if he does, in fact, sleep here every night.

  “This is some setup,” I say.

  He shrugs, unimpressed. “My dad gave me the tent before he dumped me off here. One of those guilt gifts, you know?”

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “Back home in New York. My parents are divorced, and I usually spend the summer with my dad.” He lowers his eyes. “Until now.”

  “Do you, um… have to be out here?” I ask.

  “What do you mean ‘have to’?”

  I can’t think of a gentle way to say it, so I do what I do best: blurt. “Are you allowed in your grandfather’s house?”

  His eyebrows touch. “What kind of question is that? Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know, people have funny rules sometimes.” I clear my throat. “Like take off your shoes when you come inside, or… don’t come in at all.”

  “That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says.

  I fiddle with my bracelet, wishing I kept my mouth shut. Nothing good ever comes from rumors.

  “Forget it. It’s not important,” I say. “I need to talk to you is all.”

  His face softens as he gestures to the blanket. “Have a seat.”

  The cramped quarters make me feel a little claustrophobic. I lean against the flaps and almost fall right through.

  “Are you hungry?” He offers me a tin plate.

  I pick up what looks like a thick cracker. “What is this?”

  “Hardtack. Soldiers used to eat it all the time. I made a batch this morning. It’s only flour and water. A lot of reenactors eat it to feel authentic.”

  I gnaw on a corner. It tastes like an ancient brick.

  “You can dip it in water if you want to soften it.” He offers me a steel thermos.

  I hand the plate back to him. “No, thanks. Hey, listen, I think I found something you might be very interested in.”

  He takes my uneaten hardtack and rips off a monster bite. I’m surprised his teeth don’t shatter.

  “What’s that?” he asks with his mouth full.

  “Five bullets… from the Civil War.”

  He sets the plate aside and brushes the crumbs off his thighs. “Show me.”

  I unwrap the newspaper and place it on the ground between us.

  Linc pulls out a shoebox from under the cot and riffles through the contents until he finds what he’s looking for: tweezers and a magnifying glass.

  “They were part of some lady’s dead husband’s collection,” I say as he inspects each one. “She wanted to get rid of everything, so she sold them to me for only six bucks, but I think they could be worth a lot of money.” I pause. “What do you think?”

  Linc taps his finger on his chin. “It depends. Were they fired or were they dropped?”

  “I never dropped them!”

  “No, what I mean is did they drop out of the weapon?”

  I shrug. “How the heck would I know?”

  He examines one with three rings at its base. “This one could be the .58 caliber Union Minié Ball, but then again it could be a Sharps .52 caliber.”

  I lean in, eager to absorb every word.

  Linc removes his cap and scratches his fuzzy, blond head. “Antiques really aren’t my specialty. What you need is an expert opinion. Let me do some research, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay, but promise you won’t tell anyone. If these are valuable, I don’t want anyone honing in on my prize.”

  He crosses his heart. “Hope to die.”

  I start to get up, but Linc stops me. “Wait… What if I told you I had a secret, too? Would you keep it?”

  His intense stare makes me nervous, but I sit back down and nod. From his front coat pocket, he pulls out a little package of blue cloth, the same one that fell on the floor at Quayle’s Market. He unhooks the safety pin at the top, and the fabric falls away to reveal a large bronze star attached to a red, white, and blue ribbon.

  “This is a real live Medal of Honor,” he says. “It was given to my great-great-great-grandfather in 1884 for his service in Gettysburg. I told you about his arm, but what I left out was that after he was hit, he continued to care for his wounded soldiers.”

  Ornate details embellish the medal. A bronzed eagle hangs from the ribbon with its wings spread. In its talons are two cannons atop eight cannonballs.

  “Only fifteen hundred of these were given out to the bravest of the brave, and my ancestor was one of them.” Linc stares off into space, and from the dreamy look on his face, I wonder if he’s imagining the moment, maybe even pretending he was the one who received the medal.

  “Can I hold it?” I ask, snapping him out of his dream.

  “Better not. It’s a family heirloom, really rare, worth a ton.” He wraps the medal back in the cloth.

  “Wait, I don’t get it… What’s the secret part?” I ask.

  A sheepish look crosses his face. “Well, it’s not exactly mine. I sort of…”—he clears his throat—“took it from my grandfather.” “You what?”

  He lowers his voice. “It’s complicated. There was a fire in his old house up in Belfast, and only a few things survived, including this medal. A miracle, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Grandpa says he’s going to give it to a museum because technically it’s not his—it belonged to my grandmother’s side of the family—but that’s stupid. If he doesn’t want it, he should give it to me.”

  “So, let me get this straight—instead of asking for it, you thought stealing was a better option?”

  “It’s not stealing; it’s a temporary borrow,” he snaps. “I take it out in the morning, and before I go to sleep I put it back in the desk drawer where he keeps it. You don’t know him. He’s not the easiest person to talk to.” He grabs my arm. “Promise me you won’t say anything. If Grandpa knew I was walking around with it, he’d kill me.”

  I wonder if he’s serious. Like Cranky would really kill him. Poor Linc. No wonder he lives in a dream world of Civil War battles. It’s probably the only way he can cope with the battles that must be going on in that house every day.

  “Swear on it,” he says. He offers me his pinky, and I interlock my scratched up one with his.

  Promise.

  • CHAPTER 15 •

  IS THIS DRAMA REALLY NECESSARY?

  A few days later, Poppy invites me to hang out on the pebbly beach that frames the north end of the cove. Low tide peaked several hours ago, but even though the tide is coming back in, there’s still a swatch of exposed sea floor left to explore. It’s like this big muddy treasure chest chock-full of shiny black mussels, scurrying hermit crabs, and shimmery sea glass. Poppy and I love to collect sea glass, which is broken glass that the sea has tumbled smooth and soft. Any piece we find that’s thumb-sized or bigger gets added to our stockpile. Our plan is to make jewelry out of it one day and sell it online. We’re going to call our company Shoppy, a combination of our names—it’s a lot better than Payne.

  My eyes scan the ground. If you’re not paying attention, it’s easy to miss the glass among the sand, pebbles, and broken shells. So far, all I’ve found is a cobalt shard tangled in a nest of seaweed. Technically it’s not big enough for Shoppy, but I can’t resist its deep, dark color, so I pocket it anyway.

  Poppy hasn’t found anything either, but maybe she’d have more success if she’d concentrate. Ever since a bunch of teenage boys started splashing around in front of her neighbor’s house, she’s done nothing but stare at them or fuss with her bikini straps or redo the messy bun on top of her head. It’s really annoying. We’re supposed to be collecting sea glass. That was the plan. All the fun drains out of a plan when you’re the only person who cares.

  We retreat to our towe
ls and dive into the banana-nut bread her mom baked for us. Poppy leans back on her elbows and lifts a knee into a perfect beach pose.

  “Are you wearing makeup?” I ask when she removes her sunglasses. A light pink shimmer dusts her lids.

  “Well, you never know when someone’s going to take a picture and post it. You have to be ready.”

  I’m definitely not ready in my oversized Camp Red Rock T-shirt with the stretched-out collar. Who dresses up to go to the beach?

  We eat our muffins in silence, and for the first time, the quiet feels uncomfortable. Every time I think of something to say, my inner censor strikes it down. A moment of panic seizes my body when I realize Poppy doesn’t know about my so-called new job. I’m definitely not ready to tell her. Not only would she freak if she knew I spent an afternoon with Cranky, but if she hears that Linc threw up on my shoes and attacked me with a lobster, I’ll never hear the end of it. I don’t even want to tell her about the ancient bullets I found. If I did, I’d have to admit everything about Bea—how she can’t part with her stuff, how she needs money, how living with her has started to feel like drowning.

  “I almost forgot. I made you something.” I loosen the drawstrings on my bag and dig out a finished friendship bracelet. It’s a simple Chevron pattern, but I love the way the black threads pop against the pastel blue and pink. I expect her to stick out her wrist so I can tie it on, but instead she grips mine.

  “OMG. Your boyfriend’s here.”

  She flicks her head toward the group of boys. Gio stands on a boulder a couple feet above the water’s edge. Wearing his Cod Café uniform, he’s the only one not in a bathing suit. The other boys kick water at him and goad him to jump in. Gio mimics a diving stance and pretends to launch. Someone from the pack clucks like a chicken. He backpedals a few steps; maybe he changed his mind. Then without warning, he flings himself into the water fully clothed. The boys whistle and cheer.

  When he surfaces, Poppy waves her arms over her head. “Gio, over here.”

  My stomach twists into a pretzel. I cover her mouth with my hand, which she pushes away.

  She spits. “Gross, you got sand in my mouth.”

  “Cut it out, Poopy.”

  As soon as the words slip out, her eyes narrow into slits, and I instantly regret it. She’s mad at me.

  I lower the lid of my baseball hat to hide my heated face. Why does she want to embarrass me? I never, ever, said I liked him. Not once. I happen to mention his name one time and she acts like I want to marry the guy.

  “Land! Land!” we hear someone scream from the far end of the beach. Linc runs through the water, splashing everyone nearby while Cranky tugs the yellow kayak onto shore. Linc crawls onto the sand and kisses the ground. Then, like a mosquito to an ankle, he spots me instantly.

  “Shayne!”

  Ugh. Why now? His little costumes never really bothered me before, but suddenly he looks like such a freak with his hat and canteen. How does he not get beaten up every day at school?

  Linc stands in front of us in a wide stance like he’s trying to steady his sea legs. Poppy’s eyebrows scrunch while I busy myself with the important task of separating grains of sand.

  He points to the horizon. “Did you see us? We paddled all the way to the end of the cove. For some reason, I wasn’t scared this time. Wonder why?” He pats his front pocket and winks at me.

  The stupidity of it all hurts my brain. Not only are his winks painfully obvious, but he thinks that kayaking with Cranky’s precious medal is a good idea. What if he capsizes and dumps it into the water? For someone who thinks he’s so smart, he is completely dumb.

  “I’m Linc, by the way.” He salutes Poppy, which makes me wish quicksand would silently suck him away from here.

  She puckers her lips into a sour face. “Can you move? You’re blocking my sun.”

  He scooches out of the way and flops down next to me.

  “I meant farther than that,” Poppy mutters.

  Linc ignores her and talks out the side of his mouth. “I have information.” Again with the winks.

  I clear my throat. “Not now.”

  “What?” Poppy asks, even though she can barely tear her gaze away from the boys on the dock.

  Linc starts to say something, but I elbow him in the ribs and mouth the words shut up.

  “But what about that thing?” he says.

  Poppy turns to us with an eyebrow raised to the sky. “What thing?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

  “Yes, you do,” he says.

  Poppy wraps a protective arm around me. “We’re kind of busy right now,” she says to Linc. “Maybe you should go back to your side of the cove and play dress-up by yourself, or whatever it is that you do.”

  Her insult stabs him like a bayonet at Gettysburg. Linc jerks to his feet, sending sand everywhere. “Never mind,” he mumbles before looking me square in the eye. “I suffer from amnesia. I forgot everything I was going to say.”

  His shoulders hang as he lumbers back to the other side of the cove. Poppy shakes her head and exhales a big what-ever before her focus drifts back to Gio and the gang.

  Part of me wants to say something to her to get back in sync, but the quiet stays wedged between us while I think about my hidden treasure sitting in my drawer, gathering dust.

  I totally blew it.

  • CHAPTER 16 •

  SALTWATER CURES ALL WOUNDS

  For our first official lobster boat tour, I stand beside Cranky as we welcome aboard ten customers—three couples and a family of four. I was hoping Linc would be here, as well, so I could apologize for acting like a jerk the other day, but Cranky told him to stay home. He didn’t want to risk him barfing all over people’s shoes.

  It’s a perfect day for cruising Casco Bay, with sunny skies and calm wind. As he did on our run-through, Cranky drives us to Gunners Cove and gets to work hauling one of his traps. All eyes watch the water for the trap to surface. Inside are two baby lobsters plus one that looks to be a keeper. Cranky tosses the little ones overboard and examines the biggie. When he turns it over, we see a tail covered in what looks like thousands of tiny black pearls. He explains to the group that they’re eggs; we’ve caught a female lobster, and she has to go back. It’s the law.

  Hovering seagulls screech as they compete for the old bait bag remains dumped into the sea. As I reach for some fresh herring refill, Cranky says, “That’s okay, Lobster Bait, you’ve passed initiation.” He tosses me a pair of black rubber gloves.

  Lobster Bait, huh. Not the seafaring nickname I was hoping for, but if that’s what it takes to get gloves around here, fine by me.

  The next two traps come up empty, but the third has three big lobsters inside. The customers clap as Cranky pulls a gigantic one out of the trap. Water drips off its gleaming brown shell.

  “Ready to get back on that horse?” He offers me the banding tool, which looks like a pair of pliers with a thick yellow rubber band wrapped around the top.

  I shake my head furiously. “You do it.”

  He grabs my wrist so quickly that a frightened squeak slips out my mouth. A woman with binoculars around her neck leans in, frowning, but I smile at her to let her know I’m fine. Cranky’s eyes may be hidden behind his dark wraparound sunglasses, but I can feel them boring into my skull.

  “Now listen up,” he says to me low and quick. “You may think, ‘Oh, a lobster hurt me. I can’t handle it. Boo-hoo.’”

  “I didn’t say that,” I hiss.

  He holds up his hand to shush me. “Or, you can show ’em who’s boss. If there’s one thing you should know about it me, it’s this: I’m not big on quitters.”

  The lobster stares at me with its beady little eyes and snaps its claws as if to prove a point. Sure, I remember how bad it hurt to get pinched, but I also remember this lobster’s friend, the one I ate at dinner the other night.

  “Give me that,” I say as I take the bander from Cranky. O
ne squeeze makes the rubber band stretch open. I slip it over the lobster claw, twist the tool, and release. The claw is closed, banded, and done. I must have looked relieved, because everyone applauds.

  Take that, you crazy crustacean!

  As we head back to the wharf, Cranky cuts the engine so the group can take pictures of Pemaquid Point Lighthouse. Maine has a ton of historic lighthouses up and down its coast, but this particular one is classic, perched on a high cliff with its dark lantern and stark white tower. This lighthouse is so famous that its image is featured on the back of the state quarter.

  Cranky and I lean against the lobster tank he keeps on deck, already halfway full with today’s catches.

  “Have you been a lobsterman your whole life?” I ask.

  He scratches the gray stubble on his chin. “Pretty much. I tried landscaping for a little while, and one summer I drove a cement truck. But my father was a fisherman, and his father before that. So eventually, I settled into the family trade.” He cocks an ear to listen to the marine radio, full of chatter. “Coast guard’s busy today.”

  “Why? What’s happening?” Sea breezes fill my nostrils with a fresh, clean smell.

  “Sounds like someone ran his boat aground into a sandbar.”

  I snort. “What an amateur.”

  He doesn’t laugh along with me. “Boating’s not easy out here, that’s for sure. You’ve got to navigate around hundreds of buoys, you have to remember to check the tides, and then there’s the weather. Fog can appear and disappear quicker than a magic act.”

  Hearing the word fog makes my insides churn.

  “If you don’t know what you’re doing, it’s easy to get into trouble,” he says.

  “My grandpa had an accident in the fog,” I say softly. “A fatal one.”

  Cranky looks at me sideways.

  “Another boat collided with his, and it knocked him over the stern. He fell into the water and hit his head on a rock. It was a freak accident. Could have happened to anybody. At least, that’s what everyone tells me.”