Dead Possums Are Fair Game

by Taryn Souders

  I dropped my head in my hands and sighed.

  As I got ready for bed that night, I looked around my room. My bedspread was wrinkle-free, and my desk completely clear, except for my bright turquoise pencil cup. I’d dusted each of my turtles after dinner and made space on my dresser for the new one I knew Aunt Willa would bring. While I hoped she wouldn’t mess things up too much, the throbbing vein in my forehead said I didn’t really believe I would get off that easy. I told myself to relax and thought of all the fun things Aunt Willa and I would do: hours of girl talk, pedicure parties, maybe even a photography lesson or two. Plus, she was an adult, so I was sure she’d keep the room tidy. What could go wrong?

  CHAPTER SIX

  ABOUT-FACE

  a∙bout-face

  noun ǎ-bowt-fays

  —a reversal of attitude, behavior, or point of view

  I met up with Jolina and Lucille at the back gate the next morning. They were deep in conversation about a new kid joining our class.

  “How do you know he’ll be in our class?” Jolina asked.

  “They’re our new neighbors who moved in yesterday,” Lucille explained. “I got a chance to meet the whole family. He told me his parents just enrolled him, and his teacher is going to be Ms. Carpenter.”

  “Who moves and enrolls their kid in a new school when there’s only three weeks left in the year?” I asked as we started walking across the field. I scanned the ground, but thankfully there were no dead animals to be seen.

  “His parents are in the military and transferred here from somewhere in Texas.”

  “Oh, so he’s an army brat,” said Jolina.

  “Jolina! That’s not nice,” Lucille sputtered, brushing her messy red curls back from her face. “Why would you call him a brat? You haven’t even met him.”

  “No, you goof. I don’t mean he’s an actual brat. That’s just an expression. It means military kids have a sort of spunkiness and knack for adjusting to new places.”

  I laughed at her. “You always sound like a dictionary.”

  “My grandpa was in the military.” She held out her arm with the charm bracelet she always wore. There were so many things attached to it, I wasn’t sure what all was there. “See the anchor charm? That represents the Navy. He was a submariner during World War II—before he married my grandma.”

  “So, what’s the brat’s name?” I asked Lucille.

  “Umm,” Jolina interrupted. “That’s not quite the right way to use the word—that really is insulting.”

  “His name is Jonathan,” Lucille said.

  I shuddered and my foot involuntarily stomped the ground. Jolina gave me a funny look, but I chose to ignore it.

  “Just wait ’til you see him, Ella. He’s cute and has this great Southern drawl,” Lucille said.

  I looked at Jolina; we both rolled our eyes. Lucille had more crushes than she did freckles.

  “At the moment, I don’t care if he’s cute or not. I have bigger issues—like the math fair. Although,” I mimicked my mom’s voice, “I am going to ‘make a conscious effort to have a better attitude.’” I made bunny-ear quotes with my fingers.

  Jolina knocked her shoulder against mine. “Well, just between us, you aren’t off to a great start,” she said.

  I laughed. “Yeah, I guess not. I’ve got time to improve though. But hey, guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Mom told me my Aunt Willa is going to stay with us for a whole month while her place gets renovated.” I adjusted my backpack on my shoulders. “The only bummer is I have to share my room with her. I just hope she doesn’t move things around.”

  Jolina turned to me. “Ella, you’re really particular about your room. Are you going to be able to handle this?”

  “It’ll be fine. After all, she’s an adult—how much damage can Wacky Willa do?”

  Lucille’s mouth dropped open. “You call her Wacky Willa to her face?”

  “Sometimes.” I laughed at her shocked expression. “It’s okay—she gave herself the nickname.”

  “She’s a photographer, right?” said Lucille.

  “Photojournalist,” I corrected.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask her. I just know she’s pretty insistent she’s not just a photographer.” I kicked a rock out of my way. “I wish I could be like her. Go to new places. See unusual things. Eat bizarre foods. Not do any dumb math!”

  As we neared the playground, Lucille nudged me in the ribs. “Look over by the picnic tables. See the boy with blond hair wearing the green T-shirt? That’s Jonathan. I’ll introduce you.”

  We walked over to where Jonathan perched on top of a table. He looked a little lonely as he gazed at the student-filled playground, but perked up when he saw Lucille approaching. She raised her arm and waved. He smiled and waved back.

  “Hey Jonathan! I want to introduce you to my two best friends. They’re also in Ms. Carpenter’s class.”

  “Nice to meet y’all,” he replied, climbing down from the table. He was slightly taller than I was, with a wiry build and dark brown eyes.

  “Lucille tells us you just moved here from Texas,” I said. “That’s where my grandparents live. What part are you from?”

  “Fort Sam Houston—it’s near San Antonio. My dad’s a doctor, and the fort is a medical training base.”

  The four of us chatted until the bell rang and then we escorted Jonathan to the classroom. Ms. Carpenter found a seat for him near Lucille.

  When it was time for morning math, we divided into our groups to work on the math fair; Ms. Carpenter brought Jonathan over to us.

  “Since there are only three people in your group and you have already established a rapport with Jonathan, I’m going to put him in your group,” she said.

  Lucille waited until Ms. Carpenter walked away. “What does she mean we’ve ‘established a report’?”

  “Not report. Rapport—the t is silent,” Jolina said. “It means we have a friendly relationship and we’ll probably all work well together.”

  I was happy because more people in the group meant more brain cells working on our project. That increased my odds of getting a good grade. Plus, Jonathan’s dad was a doctor, which meant he must be mega smart. Maybe Jonathan was mega smart, too. The school day had just started, and it was already better than the day before.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PHOTOJOURNALISM

  pho·to·jour·nal·ism

  noun foh-toh-jur-nǎ-liz-ĕm

  —journalism in which written copy is subordinate to photographic presentation of news stories

  I rushed home after school, hoping Aunt Willa had already arrived. I threw open the front door. “Aunt Willa? Are you here?”

  “She was, but she went back to her condo to get more stuff!” Mom yelled. “Come to your room. I need help moving your dresser.”

  “Moving my dresser?” I tossed my backpack toward the dining room table and sprinted down the hall to my room.

  I skidded to a halt and gripped my doorframe in horror as I stared into my room. It looked as though it had been trashed by a posse of two-year-olds. Three beat-up suitcases were piled haphazardly on my bed. The rumpled blankets reminded me of my wadded up sheets of math homework. On my desk sat a heavy-duty black camera bag. My cup of sharpened pencils had been knocked over and pencils lay scattered across the desktop and on the floor. Aunt Willa’s signature safari hat hung on the back of the chair. My bathroom door, which was next to the bed, was barricaded with a camera tripod and a crooked stack of plastic tubs. My desk, which normally was against the wall, was shoved into the corner and the dresser stood in the middle of the room. Mom rested against it, panting slightly. “I’ve made room in your closet for your dresser. We need to put it there so we can bring down the extra mattress to put on the floor.”

  “What extra mattress?”

  Mom pointed up. “There’s an old twin mattress in the attic. Dad will bring it down when he get
s home.”

  I grimaced.

  “Don’t worry. It’s been wrapped in plastic—no spiders. Give me a hand with your dresser. It’s too heavy to lift by myself, and it isn’t sliding very well on the carpet.” A strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail, and she brushed it away from her face.

  I went to the other side of my dresser, and we weeble-wobbled it into the closet.

  “Whew!” Mom plopped on my bed and caught the top suitcase as it slid onto her lap. “What a workout.”

  I sat next to her and looked around. “Hmm … wow. She sure brought a lot of stuff. You said she went back to get more?”

  Mom laughed at my concerned expression. “She didn’t want to leave all her expensive camera equipment at her condo—not with all the dust and dirt that would be made during the renovation.”

  I looked at my dresser stuffed in the closet. “Where did you put my turtle collection that was on the dresser?”

  “I’ve boxed it up for now and put it on the shelf in your closet. I’m afraid it’s in the far back and barricaded by some of Aunt Willa’s things. She brought you a new turtle, but it’s in the box with the others.”

  “Oh.” I felt the vein in my forehead start to throb again. I had been looking forward to seeing what the new turtle looked like, and now I’d have to wait at least a month until my room was back to normal.

  My things were being moved.

  Already.

  Without my permission.

  Even though the only furniture left was my bed and desk, my room looked trashed with all of Aunt Willa’s stuff. I knew with another mattress it would feel cramped and maybe even uncomfortable. I guess I hadn’t really thought about how having a roommate would work.

  Of course, I had my bed and, naturally, Aunt Willa would need a place to sleep. The spare mattress in the attic seemed like a good option. No doubt Aunt Willa had slept in worse conditions when she traveled. A mattress on the floor would probably feel like sleeping on clouds to her.

  The front door slammed.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  I jumped up from the bed. “Aunt Willa!” I yelled.

  “Ella Bella!” she yelled back.

  We collided in the hallway. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tight. I gave her a mongo bear hug. She wore what she called her “uniform”—khaki cargo pants and short-sleeve shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a braid in an attempt to control it, but frizzled bits poked out all over, making her look like she stuck her finger in an electric socket. I kept my arm around her as we walked back to my room.

  “So,” Aunt Willa said, “I hear we’re going to be roomies.”

  “Yeppers,” I said. “You don’t snore, do you?”

  “Nope. Chewy’s the only one who snores,” she teased. At least, I hoped she was teasing.

  “Where is Chewy anyway?”

  “He’s out back, chasing squirrels. I’ll bring him in at night, but he’ll spend his days outside.”

  Mom pushed herself off my bed and shuffled toward the door. “I’m going to check on dinner. We’ll eat in about an hour.”

  Aunt Willa took a step back. “Let me take a look at you.” She reached out and gently touched my hair. “Your hair is darker now—and it’s past your shoulders.” She slid next to me and measured her shoulder against mine. “Ah-ha! Just as I thought—you grew. You’re much taller than I remember.”

  “And you’re tanner than I remember,” I said.

  She lightly smacked the top of my head. “I was on assignment in Africa.”

  “Whoa, cool! Where in Africa?”

  “All over,” she said, walking to the desk.

  “What were you taking pictures of?” I asked.

  “Just wildlife this time.” She opened her camera bag. “Elephants, rhinos, that sort of thing.”

  I sat down on my bed and shifted her luggage off to the side. “That reminds me, I promised my friend Lucille I’d ask you what the difference is between a photographer and a photojournalist.”

  “That’s easy.” Aunt Willa stopped rummaging through the camera bag and reached for a leather-bound folder. “This is my portfolio. It’s where I keep the photographs I’ve taken so I can show them to others. In a nutshell, as a photojournalist, I try to educate or tell a story with my pictures.” She pulled one out and handed it to me. Mounds of garbage, many of them bigger than my house, filled the black-and-white photograph. Birds circled overhead and in the distance a bulldozer pushed more trash. What caught my eye the most was a boy who looked to be about my age with three or four dark specks on his face—I’m pretty sure they were flies. He stood next to the trash heap closest to the edge of the photo. All he was wearing was a pair of torn shorts. He didn’t even have shoes. His grimy hands clutched a torn rag full of half-rotted food. He looked into the camera with an empty stare. I could practically smell the stench from the landfill and feel the emptiness in the boy’s stomach.

  Aunt Willa shook her head. “Poverty is never a nice story, but it’s still one that needs to be told,” she said. She took the photograph from my hands and then pulled out a pizza flyer. Pepperoni was front and center. “This is an example of what a commercial photographer does. They use their photographs for advertising and publicity. And there’s also personal photography like for weddings and such. One isn’t better than the other; they’re just different. And I am proud of the stories I tell with my camera.”

  “I think I can remember that,” I said quietly. The image of the hungry boy lingered in my memory.

  Mom popped her head through the door. “Dad just pulled into the driveway. I’ve asked him to bring down your mattress.”

  Aunt Willa spun around and smiled at me. “Your bed is almost here!”

  “Wait. My bed?”

  Mom nodded. “Yes, dear. We thought we’d let Willa take the real bed since she’s been roughing it in Africa for the last couple months.”

  Aunt Willa shot me a sideways look. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No … No, of course not,” I stuttered … and lied. This time I could feel the vein in my forehead pop out.

  “You’re a sweet girl,” Aunt Willa said. She kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll come and help with dinner.” She and Mom headed down the hall to the kitchen.

  “I’m going to change out of my school clothes,” I called after them, shutting the door and resting against it. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. It was a trick Mom taught me to do when I felt upset. It gave me time to think before reacting—or at least that’s what it was supposed to do. I opened my eyes, looked around the room, and decided I should probably count again, maybe even to twenty.

  I turned toward my dresser, remembered it was in the closet, and opened my top drawer for a clean shirt.

  My top drawer was empty.

  My second drawer was empty, too! I slammed it shut.

  I pulled on the third drawer. It didn’t budge. I jerked harder and smacked my funny bone on the closet door. The drawer opened an inch. I gave one hard tug and the drawer spewed out socks, underwear, and T-shirts—things that were supposed to be folded and in the top two drawers. I investigated the last drawer. It was also overstuffed with clothes. Apparently, Mom forgot to tell me she’d made room for Aunt Willa’s things in my dresser. I hadn’t planned on that. Of course, I hadn’t really planned on giving up my bed, either. It wasn’t that I minded giving up my bed for Aunt Willa; I just wish Mom had asked me first. I closed my eyes and counted to one hundred.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHEW

  chew

  verb choo

  —to crush, grind, or gnaw (as food) with or as with the teeth

  —to injure, destroy, or consume as if by chewing

  After I changed clothes, I grabbed some sheets and made my bed—er, my mattress—and joined Mom, Dad, and Aunt Willa in the kitchen.

  “I bet you’re looking forward to some good home-style cooking for a change, right Willa?” Dad said.

  “Oh yeah,” Aunt Willa sa
id. “I’ve sure missed American food.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. Tonight it’s barbequed chicken and potato salad.”

  We gathered around the table, Dad said the blessing, and we dug in. Aunt Willa told us stories of hiding in bushes for hours, sometimes days, waiting for a rhinoceros or leopard to show. And there was the time she saw hyenas and a whole bunch of crocodiles fight over a dead hippo.

  I turned to Aunt Willa. “Remind me to tell you my dead possum story later. For some reason, I think you’ll like it.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I’m curious.”

  After we’d stuffed ourselves, Mom brought out a pan of dark chocolate chunk brownies and sent Dad to the kitchen to make coffee. “I just read somewhere that dark chocolate can help prevent heart disease and improve brain function. So I say these brownies are health food,” Mom said.

  I sure wasn’t going to argue. If eating brownies could help me get an A on the math project, I’d eat the whole pan. In exchange for an extra brownie, I offered to clear the table and wash the dishes.

  I still hadn’t finished my homework, so after cleaning up, I spread my school stuff out on the living room rug and worked as Mom, Dad, and Aunt Willa drank coffee and talked. I’d completed both my spelling and social studies work when I heard scratching at the back door.

  “It sounds like Chewy wants in now,” Aunt Willa said.

  “I’ll get him,” I said, jumping up.

  I’d barely opened the door when Chewy barreled through, knocking me over. He bounded into the living room, ears flopping up and down. I picked myself up, locked the door, and went back to join the others.

  Chewy had sniffed out Aunt Willa’s location and plopped himself down in front of her. His butt was right on top of my notebook and his wagging tail sent my pencil flying across the room.

  “Chewy, get off the notebook,” Aunt Willa said, pulling on his collar. He stood long enough for me to grab my stuff. I scowled at the sight of my wrinkled assignments and ran my hand over them to try to smooth out the papers.