by K. A. Holt
“It’s not vandalism,” I say, and my usual irritated-with-Mom feelings start rising to the surface. She gives me a look like she’s not sure she believes me, but then goes into minute detail about grants and permissions and land ownership and all sorts of things that sound super boring. While she’s talking, it hits me. I know exactly what to do with the art project. I know exactly how to turn it into something public without having to jump through all those hoops.
“You look excited,” Mom says, interrupting herself in mid-sentence. “I had no idea you have such a passion for small-town bureaucracy.”
I jump up and kiss her on the forehead. “Thanks, Mom!” and I run back to my room to start planning.
All I need is a saw that can carefully slice concrete, the ability to lift super-heavy slabs, some kind of flatbed truck … aaargh. I drop my head on my desk. This isn’t going to work at all. But there has to be some way … if I can figure out how to move the artwork from the woods and get it to the fountain, this will be the best prank ever in the history of pranks.
I slip on my jacket and tiptoe downstairs. I ease the kitchen door open as slowly as possible so it doesn’t squeak, and walk as lightly as I can across the porch, down the little stairs, and onto the driveway. I look over my shoulder. No one is chasing after me, so I think my escape worked. I jog down the street until I see the lights of the town square, and I slow to a walk. It’s pretty late, so not many people are out.
I sit on the edge of the broken fountain and give it a long, hard look. It’s tiered, kind of like a cake, with a small circle on top in the shape of a very shallow bowl, a larger circle-bowl in the center, and then the big basin at the bottom. Shooting out of the top bowl is a giant bird with its mouth wide open. I guess years and years ago water shot out of the bird’s mouth and cascaded down into the lower circle, where it overflowed into the basin. The basin is about knee-deep and maybe twelve feet in diameter.
I briefly imagine having some kind of magical skills to break up and transport the art project to the fountain, and then reassemble it in the basin of the fountain. I sigh. Yeah, there’s no way I’m going to be able to do that. For one thing, the art wouldn’t fit. For another, I don’t think there’s any way to move it. For another, even if there was a way to move it, it would weigh like 5,735,385,753 pounds.
BUT. What if I re-create the art, and add a little something extra?
I look around to see if anyone can see me, but the town square is deserted. I climb into the empty basin, rub my hands together, and reach up onto the middle circle, pulling myself up and hanging on by my elbows for a second. Then I heave myself up until I’m standing on it. I can just barely peer into the bird’s mouth, but it’s really dark in there. I think I can see some kind of piping going way down, which would make sense. The pipe would have to recirculate water from the basin up into the bird’s mouth so that it would shoot out and keep the fountain going. What if … My mind is really spinning now. As long as the piping from the basin to the bird’s mouth isn’t broken, or there’s room for a hose, I might be able to … My heart leaps and I laugh out loud. If I can manage this prank, it might be the best prank ever AND it might be the perfect public art to complement the project in the woods. I leap down into the basin, hop over the edge, and run to Twitch’s house.
It’s late, so I don’t bother going to the front door. I throw a handful of pebbles at his bedroom window like he did to mine. A few seconds later, the window rises and he looks down at me. He’s wearing a T-shirt that’s ripped along the neck.
“Amelia? What are you doing down there?”
“I just had the best idea!” I whispershout up at him.
“It’s eleven o’clock at night!” he whispershouts back. “Have you not heard of phones?” But he’s smiling, so I know he isn’t mad.
“Come down here for a second!” I say.
He gives me an exasperated look but closes the window. In a minute, he’s standing in the grass next to me and I’m asking him if he has any paint left over. His smile grows wider and wider as I explain how we can turn the fountain into a mirror of the art in the woods. “I love it,” he whispers. “I’m sure we can do it. We have to tell the rest of the crew.”
I nod and smile, so excited.
Twitch holds up a finger. “I think we can text them, though. Let’s not get busted the first night out, okay?”
I nod again and pull my phone from my pocket. Twitch tells me everyone’s numbers and I send out a group text. We both watch as my phone blows up with responses. Everyone is in.
This is going to be the best prank in the history of eighth-grade pranks.
The next few days are a blur. Twitch’s crew and I have spent hours in the town library, and our hands are cramped from so much work with scissors. We’ve gathered all the paint we need, and now we’re all lying on the floor in my bedroom trying to take a quick nap before the sun goes down. Tomorrow is Prank Day and we’re going to need the whole night to finish. Tomorrow is also the day they film Trailer Takeout, because of course. I’ve barely seen Mom or Dad in days. I have no idea how they’re going to be able to see my prank and how I’m going to get down to the trailer for the contest. We’ll just have to wing it, I guess.
I’m not sure if anyone has actually slept at all, but we’ve been quiet as the light has moved from the top of my window to the bottom of it, casting the room in a light orange, evening glow. Mom knocks on the doorframe (the door is open because GIRLS AND BOYS IN ONE ROOM AHH NIGHTMARE SCENARIO), and she’s holding a big brown bag covered in grease stains.
“Sausages and fries?” she asks. “Before the big night out?”
We all sit up, looking kind of groggy. Mom sets the bag on the floor in the middle of us and puts down a roll of paper towels. She disappears and comes back with a twelve-pack of soda and a smile.
“I hope Amelia has told you all thank you for helping her this week,” Mom says, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Oh, Mrs. Peabody,” Desiree says with a genuine smile. “Amelia is the one who has been helping us.”
Mom doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, so she gives me a quizzical look as she backs out of the room. Then she disappears down the stairs.
“Music?” Twitch asks, hooking his phone up to my speakers. Something bouncy and thwumpy plays, and we all get up and dance while we eat our sausages and fries. It’s all so silly and spontaneous … and fun.
“Hey!” I shout. “Am I having a party right now?”
“I don’t know!” Jake shouts back. “It kind of feels like a party.” He offers up his soda and we all yell, “Cheers!” as we crash our cans together.
I set down my food and drink and pull Clara’s letter from my pocket.
4) Throw an awesome birthday party on the lake. (Invite everyone, make sure the boat is working, have enough ice cream for the whole town, make sure everyone knows it’s YOU, Most Beautiful Queen of the Universe, in charge.)
I look up at everyone laughing and dancing in my room. It’s no one’s birthday, and we’re definitely not at the lake, and sausages are not ice cream, and yet … this totally counts as a party. I cross number four off the list.
“What’s that?” Mom stares over my shoulder. I hadn’t heard her come back in my room. She’s holding a box of cookies, but she sets it down on my dresser as she leans closer.
“Is that … ?” she says, her voice quiet.
“Clara’s,” I finish for her. “Mrs. Henderson accidentally gave me Clara’s letter at the beginning of the school year instead of mine. I’ve been trying to do all the things she never got to do.” The music is still thumping, but no one is dancing anymore.
“Oh, Amelia,” Mom says. “Oh, honey.” She grabs me up in a hug. And suddenly everyone is hugging us. It’s an enormous group hug with lots of sniffles. After a few minutes, we break apart and I hand the letter to Mom so she can see it better. She reads over it, then takes my pen and scratches off number one, the part that says “be nicer to Mom an
d Amelia.”
“Looks like you’ve completed the list,” she says, kissing me on the top of my head.
“Hey, guys,” Twitch says. “I hate to interrupt, but it’s eight o’clock. We need to get going!” We all scramble around to grab our supplies. I’m the last out of my room, with Mom beside me. She hugs me again and says, “You’re a wonder, Amelia.”
Those are really nice words to hear.
The sun is just starting to rise, painting the sky in beautiful orange and pink streaks, when we finish. The fast-drying paint is a little bit sticky still, but not enough to smear. We’ve checked and rechecked the tubing, and set up the table next to us with golden paper, pens, and scissors. The Clara Peabody Memorial Stardust Fountain is ready for business.
We’ve painted the inside of the fountain a deep, dark blue, just like the project in the woods. The edges of the basin are painted red and jaggedy white, just like the project, too. And as for the stars … my fingers are crossed that it’s going to work.
People are starting to gather around the fountain now, because everyone in town gets up early on Prank Day to see what’s new and crazy. It’s a town tradition, and I think some people look forward to it more than Christmas. You never know what’s going to come from the minds of eighth graders given free rein, and as long as it isn’t destructive or dangerous, everyone cheers us on. I hope they don’t count painting the fountain as destructive, but I guess we can always paint it white again if they make us.
I look at Twitch, who nods. Desiree and Henry give me a thumbs-up, and Maureen and Jake smile encouragingly. I lean down to the hole next to the fountain where we’ve rigged our tubing and a small but super-strong fan. At the end of the tube I attach a huge plastic bag filled with golden stars cut from fancy paper. I put the fan (still turned off) in the other end of the bag and secure the edges so none of the stars can fall out. The crowd is bigger now, murmuring and looking at the painted fountain.
I flip the fan’s switch and it turns on with a forceful whir, blowing the stars from the bag up through the tubing. I’m afraid they’ve all jammed up in there and gotten caught, but then stars begin to shoot out of the bird’s mouth, gold catching the early morning sun and glimmering bright.
Everyone in the crowd sucks in their breath at the same time as the beauty of the gold stars flutters overhead. Maureen is by the bag now, filling it with more and more stars. They’re flying out of the bird’s mouth and into the air, some landing in the fountain, but others landing in people’s hair or on their shoulders or their shoes. It’s like snow, but with stars. I can’t help but laugh out loud with the joy of the moment. It worked! My idea worked!
I hear someone say, “What’s this?” A woman is looking at a star and trying to make out the words we carefully wrote on each of them.
“Every star has a name on it,” I say. “Each star is for a person who lived here in town at some point in history but has now passed on. If there’s a person you’d like to add, we have a table here with pens and papers and scissors. You can make your own stardust for the people you love. They don’t have to have lived here, they can be from anywhere.”
Mrs. Grant hands me a paper cup of hot tea and puts her arm around my shoulder. She squeezes tight. “This is beautiful, Amelia. Just beautiful.”
I reach into my pocket and hand her a star. On it, I’ve written Rosalie in my best handwriting. Mrs. Grant takes the star and kisses me on the forehead. She goes to Maureen and puts it in the bag so that it can fly out of the bird’s mouth, making Rosalie part of our stardust morning.
I see my parents in the crowd, and I feel this huge relief that they made it! I was so afraid they might miss the fountain because of the contest. Their faces are pointed at the sky, small stars falling all around them, smiling. I go over to them and hug them both. “I fixed what you broke, Dad.”
Dad’s eyes fly open. “How did you—”
“You told Clara, and she told me,” I say.
“That stinker! She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”
“Well, technically, I guess, she didn’t,” I say, digging in my pocket for her letter. I show it to Dad. His face goes from happy to happysad as he reads it. He carefully folds it up and hands it back to me.
“Mom told me you had this, but I didn’t know she mentioned the fountain.” His eyes are shiny bright.
“So, how did you break it?” I ask.
“We filled it with concrete,” he says. “It was a dumb idea. We thought watery concrete would come out of the bird’s mouth and harden so there would always be a stream of ‘water’ coming from its mouth. Instead, we mucked up all the piping. But it looks like you fixed it?” His bright eyes are now big with wonder.
“No,” I say. “We couldn’t get anything to work with those pipes, but there was enough room next to them to snake in some tubing of our own.”
“Quite ingenious,” Mom says.
I smile. The stars continue to fly around us.
Mom and Dad both grab me up in a big hug. “We hate to do this, Amelia, but Mom and I need to run,” Dad says, looking at his watch. “Filming starts in half an hour and I’m sure everyone down there is freaking out that we aren’t already there.”
“We’ll see you later?” Mom asks.
Before I can answer, Taylor runs up to us, out of breath. “You did all of this? Whoa, Amelia, it’s gorgeous!”
“I had a lot of help,” I say, gesturing to the crew. “These guys made it all possible, for sure.”
Mom and Dad wave as they run to Old Betsy. I wave back.
“It’s stunning,” Taylor says, lifting her face to the falling stars. “Amazing.”
“Where’s your prank?” I ask. “What did you do?”
Taylor waves her hand dismissively. “Lacy wanted to find a bunch of chickens and let them loose in Town Square and have a ‘Running of the Chickens’ day, like the running of the bulls in Spain. But the chickens all just stood around pecking the ground, and none of them would go anywhere.”
“Points for effort?” I say with a laugh.
Taylor laughs, too. “No points for anything. Except, all the chickens are still alive—and well fed. So, I guess maybe points for that?”
Hours go by as people wander over and marvel at the stardust fountain. Some people smile big, some cry a little. It’s kind of like a giant bonding moment for the whole town.
Mrs. Grant brings over drinks and snacks, and I remember—bam—I need to get down to Pits ’n’ Pieces!
“Do you guys think you can keep helping out for a little bit?” I ask everyone. “I have to go help with the TV show stuff.” And even though I know they all have to be just as tired as I am, everyone shouts out, “You bet!” and “No problem!” and “Good luck!”
Mrs. Grant jangles her car keys. “William, can you take Amelia to the lake? And not wreck my car?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Twitch says, his face very serious. Mrs. Grant points at her car parked in the alley by the General Store. It’s about a thousand years old and looks like it’s held together with duct tape.
“I’ll try not to wreck it any more than it’s already wrecked.” Twitch winks at her and she slaps his arm before she hands over her keys.
“I mean it!” she says. “Not a scratch.”
“Do you think they’ll let us keep the fountain like this? Forever?” I ask Mrs. Grant, even though I know she doesn’t know. “Like a monument to everyone’s loved ones?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Grant says. “But you should definitely ask.”
She kisses my cheek, and then Twitch and I run to the car.
“How’s that potato salad coming along?” Dad asks. The TV show crew are outside the trailer taking video of the line. I finish stirring the big pot, cover it with plastic wrap, and push it into the fridge. “It’s going to be great. Best potato salad ever.” I’ve never made potato salad before, but Dad was insistent that today was the big day … today was going to be the first day of my potato salad reign.
Mom is in the cramped corner mixing cookie dough at Dad’s request, which is hilarious because I’m not sure she’s ever actually worked in the trailer before. Sure, she helps Dad stock stuff and set things up and whatever, but she always said she’d never set foot inside the trailer as an employee. “This is your thing,” she’d say, pointing at Dad. “Yours.” But today he weirdly asked for help cooking, and the two of us said okay. I guess we both know how important this is to him.
Dad strokes his beard nervously. “I know I keep saying this, but if we win this thing, it could really change our lives. I would probably have to start a real restaurant, or buy a few more trailers and put them in other towns. Our popularity would skyrocket. And so would my workload.”
I look at him and tilt my head to the side, like he does to me when he isn’t sure he understands what I’m saying. “Do you want that, though?” I ask. “I thought you liked having the small trailer and experimenting with flavors and stuff. I didn’t think you wanted to go corporate, or whatever.”
Dad tugs his beard some more, wrinkles getting deeper at the sides of his eyes as he smiles at me. “How did you get to be so smart?”
“Must be in the genes,” Twitch says, coming up the small stairs into the trailer. He goes to the sink in the back and washes his hands. “The crowd out there is huge. I thought you might need a hand.”
“The crowd in here is huge,” Mom says. And she’s right. Four people inside this trailer is super-close quarters.
“Tell you what,” Dad says. “Let’s all agree right now that it doesn’t matter if we win. The only things that matter are flavor and fun. Deal?”
Twitch and I both smile big. So does Mom. “Deal,” we all say together.
“Jen, why don’t you give me the cookie dough and go outside to take orders.” Dad takes the bowl from Mom, who’s face goes slack with relief.