By now nearly everyone was out. Only Mrs. Steinbott’s door was shut tight, her porch graveyard quiet. That wasn’t right.
Mo crossed the street, meaning to knock on her door, but somehow kept on going, up the driveway, into the backyard, to stand beneath the plum tree. The tree’s broken branch hung down, motionless now the wind had stopped. Mo touched the raw place where it had cracked off, and then, lifting the branch, she tried to fit it back into place. No sooner did she let go than it swung loose, and this time it came away altogether, falling to the ground among the sad, unripe fruit.
But in a sudden rush of wings, a blackbird flapped by, circled, and sat on a branch above her. Squawk. It drew Mo’s eye to a cluster of plums that had managed, despite the drought, to grow to nearly normal size. Mo realized she was hungry enough to eat a horse herself. Up on her toes, she picked one, then bit into its dusky skin. Not sweet as it should be, but good enough. Mo picked another one and ate that, too. Just as she was about to toss the pits on the ground, the bossy bird cried out again, and Mo remembered the backyard of Corky’s, and that restless cardinal looking for a place to settle. That sorry yard, not a tree to its name, blank as a piece of paper no one ever bothered to write on. Squawk! The blackbird fixed her with a round, knowing eye.
And here came another one of Mo’s thoughts.
She wiped the slimy, golden stones on the leg of her wet shorts and carried them inside. Down in the basement she pulled a pair of shorts from the laundry she’d done just this morning, a hundred years ago, and changed into them. Upstairs she carefully sealed the twin pits inside a Baggie, slid it into her pocket, and gave it a pat. How did people live without pockets? She pictured Mercedes sealing that astonishing photo safe and snug inside her jacket pocket.
Mercedes. Mo couldn’t wait to tell her her new idea. But first she had to make sure Mrs. Steinbott was all right.
What a day! Drawing a deep breath, she headed back outside. Along the fence, around the corner of the house, past the roses. To the foot of the steps leading to Mrs. Steinbott’s porch.
Where Mo stopped. And rubbed her eyes.
Dark and light, tall and minuscule. They sat side by side in the porch chairs like queens of opposing kingdoms who had, at last, crossed the wide river dividing them and shaken hands. Just behind them stood the peace treaty herself. Mercedes.
“There you are,” she said to Mo.
Dusk nibbled at the edges of the street, where Taur Baggott darted by, emitting his spooky alien noise. A smooth melody rippled out from Ms. Hugg’s. Mo’s father, back from the store, had commandeered Mr. Duong’s grill and was busy flipping burgers and turning brats. “Bush leaguer!” Mo heard him exclaim, and she knew he was telling everyone what he’d found out about Buckman. Mrs. Baggott dragged lawn chairs out into the street, while Mrs. Petrone spread a flowered cloth over a picnic table. Voices rose, people laughed.
“Come on,” said Mercedes. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Out on Fox Street, the jubilant commotion rolled on. Up here on Starchbutt’s porch, a small, still space opened out.
Mrs. Steinbott’s little claw reached for Mo’s hands. “See? I’ve got…I’ve got family.”
Mo nodded, and Mrs. Steinbott’s fingers curled tight over hers.
Da reached across the space between them and caught up Mrs. Steinbott’s other hand.
“We mean to make up for all that time we foolishly wasted.” Da shook her head. “Come to discover Gertrude and I have both had our notions, all these years. Thinking back, we’ve both come this close to the truth.” Her long fingers signified a tiny pinch. “But we shied away. Isn’t it funny how you can know something and refuse to know it at the same time?”
Mo nodded again. It was exactly how, at this very moment, she felt about Fox Street. Look at it! So familiar and so unknown at the same time.
Da tugged Mercedes close. The four of them made a circle as lumpy and hopeful as one that a little kid might draw.
“Too. Good.” Mrs. Steinbott swallowed, watery blue eyes glittering. “You! You made this happen!”
Da beamed at Mo.
“Her name’s Mo Wren,” she said. “But what’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
The (Dead) End
THE EVENING MIST wreathed Fox Street in a delicious coolness the likes of which it hadn’t felt for weeks. Everyone had eaten barbecue till they were ready to burst, and now Mrs. P was pressing pizzelles on people. Walking through the near dark toward the Green Kingdom, Mo heard a car horn toot and turned to watch a big silver car nose its way down the street. Three-C, it had to be. What would he make of Mercedes coated in mud, and Baby Baggott’s diaperless butt, and the guys from the Tip Top dancing in the street? And what about Monette? What would she do when she discovered Da, Mrs. Steinbott, and Mercedes all waiting for her? Maybe she’d already decided to tell her secret. Maybe that was what she’d come to tell Merce, the reason she’d come home at last. Mo hoped so. Any minute now, there was going to be a whole lot of exclaiming and explaining and crying and laughing up on that spotless Steinbott porch.
Mo knew she’d hear all about it, first thing tomorrow. She hoped she’d be able to help Mercedes think it all through.
She patted her pocket, where the twin plum pits waited. Her idea was for her and Merce to plant them on the very same day, at the precise same hour, Mercedes in her backyard in Cincinnati and Mo…wherever. She’d visit Merce’s tree, and Merce would visit hers. The trees would grow up together, the exact same age, with the very same parent.
Tomorrow she’d tell Merce all this. Tomorrow, she had the feeling, a lot of things would be happening. But for now, the Green Kingdom stretched in front of her, rustling with its quiet secrets. For now, Mo was all alone.
“Surprise!” Dottie leaped up from behind the guardrail.
It was no use claiming she hated surprises. Besides, did she? Mo knew she’d have to think that over later, along with so many other things. And besides again—even though she hated to admit it, Mo wasn’t sorry to see her little sister. “May I ask what you think you’re doing here?”
Dottie threw her hands over her head, spun around, and bowed to the street. “The dance of joy!” she proclaimed.
Dottie danced till she was dizzy, then leaned into Mo. Mo plucked potato chip crumbs from her hair.
“Mo? I really do remember stuff.”
Mo’s arms made a circle around her sister. All up and down Fox Street, fireflies drifted up from the grass. Mo saw Taur Baggott nab one. She steeled herself, certain he’d squish it, or stomp it, or pluck off its wings.
“We’re always going to be sisters, right?”
“Right.”
“Till deaf do us part.”
Up on Paradise, a siren wailed, then abruptly stopped, as if it had changed its mind.
Down in the Green Kingdom, the trees rustled, holding their own thoughts secret. Hidden among them, a fox watched the night fall.
And in between stood Mo Wren, in between not just the two poles of her beloved dead-end street, but in between so many things her head spun, as if she herself had just performed the dance of joy. Mo was tempted to shut her eyes tight, so she wouldn’t have to see what she was going to have to give up, one day soon. Instead she looked. She looked at it all, people and houses and darkly shining street—she looked at it hard.
And then, wonder of wonders, as if he’d fallen under the spell of the day’s many goodnesses, she saw Taur Baggott stretch his fist toward the sky. He uncurled his fingers and let that tiny bit of life go. The firefly’s light meandered skyward, blinking but determined, and Mo pointed to make sure Dottie saw, too.
About the Author
Tricia Springstubb has been a teacher and a children’s librarian. Like Mo, she has a red-haired sister, lives on a really cool street, and loves quiet, green places. She has seen a fox once in her life and will never forget it. Tricia is the mother of three daughters and lives in Cleveland Heights,
Ohio.
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Credits
Jacket art © 2010 by Heather Ross
Jacket design by Sarah Hoy
Copyright
For invaluable insights and unwavering belief in this story and in me, my deep appreciation goes to Donna Bray and Sarah G. Davies. For being my champions and comrades, the incomparable Tahoe Girls—Mary Grimm, Susan Grimm, Mary Norris, and Kris Ohlson—deserve many thanks. An overdue thank-you to the Ohio Arts Council for its support. But for Paul, after thirty-seven years of love and sustenance, no words—he can read my mind and heart.
WHAT HAPPENED ON FOX STREET. Text copyright © 2010 by Tricia Springstubb. Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Heather Ross. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Springstubb, Tricia.
What happened on Fox Street / Tricia Springstubb.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Fox Street means everything to Mo Wren, who is nearly eleven, and so she is very upset when a land developer offers to buy her father’s house, especially since she has not yet found the fox she is sure lives in the nearby ravine.
ISBN 978-0-06-198635-2 (trade bdg.: alk. paper)
[1. Neighborhoods—Fiction. 2. Real estate development—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Best friends—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction. 6. Family life—Ohio—Fiction. 7. Ohio—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S76847Wgm 2010 2009053563
[Fic]—dc22 CIP
AC
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition © July 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-201112-1
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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