Ida stumbled out of the crowd and into Blue. Her rainbow hair was sticking up in all directions, and her purple pajamas were rumpled. “They shoved me right out of the room!”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her bare heels and ran toward the entryway. Blue, hoping she had a plan, followed. They dashed out the front door and around the other side of the house. When they jumped off the porch, the grass was wet with dew underfoot.
Blue didn’t have long to wonder about where they were going. Ida stopped just outside Ma Myrtle’s bedroom window.
They stood on top of a coiled garden hose to see what was happening inside. Ma Myrtle was there, standing on the seat of an armchair so that she could see over the pack of Montgomerys pressing in around her.
“Is she going to tell everyone how to find Munch?” Blue asked. He wondered if he should go get dressed. Or call Tumble. What if it was tonight? The moon was due to be a waning sickle according to the calendars, but it hadn’t risen yet.
He shifted his weight on top of the hose and wished he could hear what was going on. “Can you open the window?”
“Maybe.” Ida hunched over for a moment, and when she straightened, she had a garden trowel in her hand. “If it’s not locked, I think I can. . . .”
She dug the tip of the trowel under the window, ignoring the fact that the metal was biting into the painted wood. When she had it in place, she balled up her fist and brought it down on the handle. Once, twice. The window lifted just enough for the two of them to make out the din from inside.
“By the way,” said Ida, “watch out for bats. And opossums. And raccoons. Raccoons are the worst. I had to have rabies shots the last time one got me.” She looked down at her feet. “And I didn’t have time to put on my snake boots.”
“I’ll keep them away from you if I see any,” Blue promised.
They listened as hard as they could, and finally, the relatives quieted enough for them to pick out Ma Myrtle’s voice.
“I’m sure you don’t like being woken at three in the morning,” she said, holding a hand over her chest like she was pledging allegiance. “But I hope you will understand time runs differently for an old woman who is ringing death’s doorbell.”
“Oh, poor Granny Eve,” breathed Ida.
Their grandmother was sitting on the foot of Ma Myrtle’s bed. She looked pale and worn out.
“My dear Evie says I should stop holding the family in suspense,” said Ma Myrtle. “She says it’s time I do what I mean to do.”
The room broke out in excited whispers.
“Well, that’s the truth,” Ida muttered.
Ma Myrtle held up a hand to quiet the relatives, then said into the silence. “In eighteen days . . .”
Blue was gripping the windowsill so tightly his knuckles hurt.
“. . . you will all be a part of my Grand Revue!”
Eve looked at her sharply.
“What?” said Blue. Ida was trembling so hard he could feel the hose underneath them vibrating. “She’s not telling us which crescent moon will be red? Or how to find the alligator? Or—”
Ma Myrtle lifted her arms into the air triumphantly. A couple of people clapped, but Blue could tell they didn’t understand any better than he did.
Ma Myrtle’s lips pursed. “The Grand Revue,” she said, “will be a display of our family’s many aptitudes. A day of merriment and mirth in honor of my life! It will stave off the sadness you will no doubt endure when I leave you.”
“Oh, Granny Eve looks mad now,” whispered Ida. “I think Ma Myrtle’s changed the plan on her.”
Blue was counting in his head. Eighteen days. Ma Myrtle was supposed to die in nineteen days.
“Dear, sweet Ma Myrtle,” said Chelsea, hovering near her chair, “what is a Grand Revue?”
“It’s another talent contest,” Howard said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Of course.”
Chelsea’s face brightened at once. She was no doubt already planning a new lineup of songs and dances for her son.
“The Grand Revue is not a talent contest,” Ma Myrtle said. “It is a festival. A celebration! A showcase of everything that makes this family great.”
“Yep,” said Howard. “It’s a talent contest.”
“At the GRAND REVUE,” Ma Myrtle said, talking over him, “all of Murky Branch will witness what our family can do. And I will announce the name of the champion who has proved himself or herself worthy of a new fate!”
“Ida,” said Blue.
His cousin turned to look at him. In the light from the window, he could see that she was close to tears.
“You’ve got to do it,” he breathed. “Before the Revue.”
“What?”
“It’s the only way to convince her to call the whole thing off,” Blue said. “If we can break your fate—”
Ida shook her head. “No. I told you I can’t—”
“A Grand Revue?” said Blue. “In this family? People are going to end up burned and electrocuted and trampled and who knows what else!”
Ida bit her lip. “And . . . it will keep all of the relatives here for weeks. When all Granny Eve wants is some time alone with her mother.”
Blue hadn’t quite thought of it that way. But Ida was right. Granny Eve must want a chance to say good-bye to Ma Myrtle.
“We can do this,” he said, watching her with bated breath. “I know we can.”
“You say we,” she murmured at last, “but what you really mean is me.”
“You’ll do it?”
She slumped against the wall of the house and sighed. “I really hate gerbils.”
TWENTY-FIVE
WAITING
The next few days were a blur of activity.
Invitations went out to everyone in Murky Branch, welcoming them to attend Ma Myrtle’s Grand Revue. It would, the invitations said, include live music, a poetry recital, fireworks, victuals, a three-legged race, and a swamp cake–eating contest. Among other entertainments. The general consensus in town was that it would be a catastrophe, and also the most spectacular event of the year.
Tumble had encouraged Ma Myrtle to include the swamp cake contest. If Operation Gerbellion failed, then Howard would be their last chance.
“All he has to do is beat Bagget Flat at eating his own famous swamp cakes. Ma Myrtle will love it, and she’ll tell Howard how to find the alligator. Then he can tell your grandmother, and that will be something at least.”
Blue thought it was a good idea. The twins were happy to have a backup plan. All of them agreed that it was only fair for Howard to contribute his strange talent to their effort.
All of them except for Howard.
When he saw the invitations, he yelled so much about being forced to perform against his will that he made Ida burst into tears. Which made Jenna threaten to sic the Gerbellion on him.
He had retreated to his room, locked and electrified his door, and refused to come out except at mealtimes.
The rest of them continued their preparations without him, but Blue made a point of kicking Howard’s door every time he walked by. Just to let him know what he thought of his behavior.
As for the Wilsons, not much had changed. Tumble’s mother was still repairing everything she could get her hands on, though she had finally agreed to hire roofers to fix the leaks. Her father had finished his coconut-shampoo jingle and started working on a new one for a company that made road flares.
The Wilsons had always carried road flares in their RV in case they drove up on a car that had broken down, but the samples the company sent them were spectacular. They were nearly as long as Tumble’s arm, and when her father lit one to see how it worked, it burned for more than half an hour. The flame was guaranteed not to go out even in the heaviest of rainstorms.
Tumble added one to her emergency backpack. She
thought Maximal Star would definitely approve.
Jenna trained the Gerbellion.
Ida trained herself not to fear gerbils.
Blue called his father and got no answer.
Tumble slept in the RV every night, and every morning she sneaked back into the house.
Her mother opened the mailbox one day to find a letter in a star-studded silver envelope. She put it on Tumble’s bed. Then, after a moment’s thought, she picked it back up.
Silver stars winked up out of the Wilsons’ trash can.
And the moon, passing out of its crescent phase and growing fuller, gazed down on the heart of the swamp. Waiting.
TWENTY-SIX
A KNACK FOR TROUBLE
Tumble perched on one of the low posts of Goat Flat’s dock, and watched her mother tinker with the jon boat motor. It had taken three hours and a lot of muttering, but she seemed to think the motor would work.
Goat had hovered over the whole process, thanking Tumble and her mother every few minutes, while Millie asked Tumble not-very-subtle questions about Howard.
When Tumble mentioned that Howard was going to defeat Millie’s father in a swamp cake–eating contest, she clapped her hands together and spun in a happy circle.
“Oh, Daddy will be so excited!” she said. “He’s always said you can judge a person’s quality by their appetite.”
“Well,” Tumble said dubiously, “I guess that makes Howard really high quality. You should come by and help us all with the gerbils. He’ll be there.”
Tumble figured setting Millie up with Howard might be worth one half of an x. It wasn’t terribly heroic, but she was so close to her goal that she couldn’t afford to be picky about the projects she took on.
“Lily, focus,” her mother said. “What’s this piece called again?”
Tumble stared at the whatchamacallit. She didn’t care much about motors, but they had been playing this game all afternoon, and it seemed to please her mother.
“The chokey?”
“Close. The choke. And what does it do?”
“You have to pull it out to start the engine,” said Tumble. She slapped at a mosquito that had just bitten her arm.
“When it’s cold,” her mother said.
“Right,” said Tumble. “When the engine’s cold you have to choke it.”
Her mother had started to complain about how much time she spent over at the Montgomerys’, so when she’d invited Tumble to come with her today, it had seemed best to go along.
And except for the mosquitoes and the fact that the back of her neck was sunburned, it had been okay. There wasn’t much planning left to do for Operation Gerbellion, anyway. It was scheduled for the next day, with everything already arranged.
Besides, Goat was so glad they’d come.
“This is wonderful!” he said breathlessly. “Just wonderful, Mrs. Wilson!”
Tumble and her mother exchanged glances and tried not to laugh.
Goat sounded like someone who was watching a baby being born instead of someone who was having his favorite fishing boat repaired. He had taken Tumble down to the sandbar earlier and shown her the aluminum canoe that he had been using to catch fish ever since his motor quit.
“It’s tippy,” he’d said. “You don’t want to take a dip in the Okefenokee. Dangerous stuff. No thank you, ma’am.”
He had looked sadly at the narrow, silvery boat. “And sometimes my old ticker just doesn’t want to do so much paddling.”
He’d also shown Tumble his chest freezer, which was filled with fish and swamp cakes. Goat said any Flat that didn’t love swamp cakes deserved to be disowned. He gave her a pint bag full of frozen blueberries to eat while her mother lectured about chokes and propellers.
“And what’s this?” her mother asked again, pointing to a more mysterious part of the outboard.
Uh-oh. Tumble decided that the best course of action was to change the subject. “How do you know so much about boats anyway? They can’t be much like RVs.”
“Very different. But a motor is a motor, and I’m happy to get my hands on it.”
Just like she was happy to get her hands on plugs and light fixtures and soggy-rotten carpet.
“But how did you learn it all?”
“We’ve all got our own thing, I guess,” her mother said, sitting back on the dock and reaching up with a dirty hand to take the last blueberry from Tumble. “Grandpa Laffy is good at running his business. Your aunt Susan had such a wonderful talent for singing. I’ve always had a knack for repair work.”
Tumble gasped and fell off the post.
“Lily!” Her mother was on her feet in a blink.
“I’m okay!” said Tumble, scrambling upright before Millie or Goat could try to help. Her teeth hurt from cracking together when she hit the dock. “Just lost my balance, you guys! Nothing weird!”
Her mother grabbed her chin and peeled her eyelids back as if invisible brain injuries might speak to her from inside of Tumble’s eyeballs.
“I’m good,” said Tumble. “Seriously.”
She felt bright with understanding. Her mother fixed things. Tumble couldn’t believe she’d missed it. And if LaFayettes still had talents, that meant Blue was right. Tumble wasn’t fate free after all.
But Blue thought her gift was heroism, and Tumble . . . wasn’t sure. Fixing things was easy for her mother. As much as she wished it were different, being a good hero was tough for Tumble.
“Lily, are you sure you’re fine?”
“Mom, what’s my knack?”
“What, sweetie?” Her mother was doing that cheek-stroking thing she always did when Tumble was hurt.
“You’ve got a knack for fixing things,” said Tumble, stepping back. “What have I got a knack for?”
Her mother laughed. “Getting into trouble obviously! My little damsel in distress.” She said it fondly. “You’re going to have a bruise on your chin after that fall.”
Getting into trouble.
It was like her mother had hit a switch. All of the brightness left Tumble in an instant. The bleachers. The shoplifter. Almost falling out of the Montgomerys’ pecan tree. Jason.
Jason.
Tumble reached into her pocket to wrap her fingers around the plastic bag. “That can’t be it,” she said, shaking her head. “Mom, that can’t be my knack.”
Her mother smiled. “Of course not, sweetheart. I was only teasing. You’re so smart. You’re good at so many things.”
Damsel. In. Distress.
The words settled in Tumble’s gut.
And unlike Blue’s assurances that she was a hero, they had the feel of rock solid truth.
TWENTY-SEVEN
MUNCHGOMERY
“You’ve reached Alan Montgomery! Please leave a message. He’ll get back to you almost as fast as he drives.”
Blue didn’t leave a message.
Sometimes the unanswered calls made him feel hot all over, like someone had poured him full of gasoline and lit a match. Today, he couldn’t find that feeling. He couldn’t find much of anything on the inside except for a sick heaviness.
He trudged back upstairs, trying to think of things that made him angry. He wanted that heat to burn away the worry. Even the lime-green paint spilled on the banisters wasn’t enough to make him mad. He tripped over one of Chet’s cowboy boots, but it was hard to be angry with a three-year-old. He caught a whiff of the smelly cousin’s stench on the second floor, and tried to work himself up over that.
But Blue couldn’t hate someone for something they couldn’t help.
Out of habit, he stopped to give Howard’s door its usual kick.
Everyone knew that Ma Myrtle wanted to see Bagget Flat beaten at eating his own swamp cakes. Howard actually had a talent that could help them out, and instead of using it, he was being selfish.
>
The little smiley face painted on Howard’s electrified doorknob grinned. Annoyance sparked inside of Blue. He kicked the door again.
Selfishness, he thought. That’s it. Howard won’t share his room. He won’t do his part to impress Ma Myrtle.
He kicked the door harder. A stinging ache radiated out from the stitched-up gash on his shin. That did it.
Here Blue was, fighting so hard against his fate that he had thirty-nine stitches running up his leg. And Howard was hiding out in his own private room because he was too stuck-up to eat a few stupid pancakes.
Blue switched to his good leg and gave the door a solid kick that made his bones shake. The door rattled in its frame.
“Hey!” Howard shouted from inside the room. “Stop it!”
Blue kicked again. His foot was going to be bruised. And it was all Howard’s fault.
“Don’t make me come out there, Blue!” Howard shouted. “I’m not kidding.”
Blue kicked one more time.
Crack.
There was a splintering sound. Blue couldn’t see the damage, but he knew the sound meant he was winning. He was breaking down Howard’s door.
Howard shouted something Blue couldn’t hear over the fire that had suddenly roared to life inside of him. The fire wanted him to do it. It wanted him to turn Howard’s door into kindling.
He backed up all the way to the wall opposite Howard’s room. It was going to be like in the movies. He was going to throw his whole body at the door and explode into the room in a shower of wood chips. He lunged forward.
Just as a furious Howard yanked the door open.
Blue smashed into his cousin instead of the door and the two of them flew backward into the room.
Blue leaped up, ready to defend himself from Howard’s wrath, but Howard was scrambling across the floor to slam the door shut behind them. And he didn’t look angry. He looked panicked.
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