Uncertain Summer

  “You’re kidding, right?” I dug some of the sticky stuff from underneath my nails.

  “I can tell you like him.”

  I didn’t deny that I liked Tim, but I sure wasn’t confirming it either. “He’s more into you. You two are both teenagers, and you’re the pretty one.”

  “You think?” After an awkward pause, she added, “You’re pretty too, even if you don’t always show it.”

  “Thanks, I suppose.” I went back to work and took out another chunk of wallpaper. Even if things weren’t the way I wanted them to be, Shawna was right—my life had been moving on, too. “For Shawna who I lost contact with, but who is here now.” Rip!

  We shared a small smile that reminded me of the old days.

  The spicy smell of cinnamon drifted into the room by the time we finished.

  “You’re lucky,” Shawna said, stretching out on my bed that now took over the center of the room. She made a point of inhaling loudly.

  I flopped next to her to stretch out my back. Shawna might’ve been talking about the rich smells wafting from the kitchen, but I had a feeling she meant something deeper. “Yeah,” I agreed, even if I don’t always consider myself the luckiest of people. Winning the million dollars would change all that, of course.

  Once I rested for a minute, I gathered the flowery shards of wallpaper into a ball. My room looked bigger since the walls were incredibly plain now. Before I dumped the wallpaper into a large trash bag, I studied the roses and the innocent pink color one last time. I no longer felt like the little girl who pretended to like it. There was a lump in my throat so big it kept me from swallowing for a moment.

  Good thing that sensation didn’t last for long because we had apple rhubarb popovers to devour.

  When we walked into the kitchen, Emmett scooted behind Mama. No wonder—he sported Mama’s frilly pink cupcake patterned apron. “Cupcake Cutie,” the apron read.

  “You almost look as pretty as your sister does in her new dress, Emmett,” Shawna said.

  “I thought so myself.” Mama pointed to her apron. “There’s no way I was going to let him wear this one when he’s grounded.” She was wearing the one Papa had given her for Christmas that said, “While I have this apron on, I’m the boss. Any questions?”

  “What? Real men wear aprons,” Emmett said.

  “Sure,” Shawna said, “aprons with cupcakes on them.”

  The popovers were tasty enough to win top prize at any county fair, and if the people at FoodieLand ever paid attention, they’d amaze the judges.

  After our tasty snack and changing into Papa’s ratty t-shirts, all four of us tackled the paint job. I hesitated to take off the necklace to keep paint from getting on it, but I wasn’t too worried about Shawna nabbing it anymore.

  I loved dipping the roller into the paint and spreading the cheerful buttercream color. The wall went from looking shabby to glistening new in a matter of a few strokes, of course with texture from some wallpaper pieces that wouldn’t come off as well as the residue. Wet droplets of paint sprinkled my hand and arm.

  Mama blasted the radio, singing along to an old song about how “these boots were made for walking” as she painted the opposite wall. Normally, this would’ve embarrassed me, but I set my roller down in the tray of paint and grabbed a handful of pencils off of my desk so she could use them as a pretend microphone. Even Emmett got into the music, two-stepping with a paint brush. Shawna laughed so hard she put her hand on her stomach like it hurt.

  The only way I would’ve felt any luckier in that moment is if Tim, Gramps, and Papa could’ve been there, too. And Gram.

  After we cleaned up, the paint smell in my room was heavy, so Mama diced an entire onion, set it in a bowl, and added some water. “Trust me, it’ll take some of the paint smell away.”

  Go figure an onion could get rid of stink. Much stranger things had happened this summer.

  “Chuck Norris would be making that onion cry right now, wouldn’t he?” Shawna said when we set the bowl on my desk, obviously remembering what Mama had said during her audition.

  “Just after he popped a wheelie on a unicycle,” Emmett added.

  We cracked up. Everything felt right at that moment though things were about to get more complicated.

  17

  Since the boys had properly served their time, I called Gramps to schedule our own private tour.

  A deep voice answered the line at the marina. “Raleigh’s Tours. This is Raleigh speaking. What kind of tour are you interested in?”

  “Hi Papa, it’s Everdil. Why aren’t you showing Dierk around?”

  “He gave me the morning off. Wait … how do you know my client’s name?”

  I pretended to sneeze to give myself a moment to think of an appropriate cover. It wasn’t the most original lie, but I said, “I thought you mentioned it. Anyway, is Gramps there?”

  “Sure, hold on,” Papa said, letting the Dierk thing slide.

  “What’s going on Everdil Pickle?” Gramps asked as soon as he came on the phone.

  “Shawna’s only here for a short time this summer and she really wants to go on a tour. I just happen to know the perfect tour guide …”

  “The perfect tour guide, huh?” Gramps asked. I could tell he was smiling. “You’re talking to the guy who would do anything for his favorite granddaughter. How about a tour tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Perfect. I love you, Gramps!”

  “Back atcha, Everdil Pickle.”

  Since we’d have to wait until tomorrow for the boat tour, today would be perfect for the park. But first, Shawna wanted to stop by to see her mom and grandmother and bring something yummy like I’d mentioned. Emmett and I were on board, but they chose to whip up a fresh batch of popovers to bring instead of something packaged like what I had in mind.

  “How can I help?” I asked.

  “Don’t cook anything,” Emmett said. He proceeded to tell Shawna how I ruined eggs and once cooked a pot of rice that was somehow crunchier after I cooked it than before.

  “Only Chuck Norris could do that,” I said.

  “No, he can cook minute rice in a second flat.”

  Just like the kitchen had warmed up both from the oven and the summer heat, Shawna seemed to have warmed up to Emmett as she stood close to him rolling out dough like she was his sous chef. I did dishes.

  Mama was back at work, though it would’ve been nice to have her around. We could’ve filmed an audition and tried to get Emmett on one of the shows, too. He’d learned his baking soda lesson and would be one heck of a competitor.

  Tim showed up on time and kept his hand over his face, but he couldn’t hide the shiner on his cheek. The bruise on his hand had deepened to a darker shade of purple.

  While Shawna and Emmett set the popovers in the oven, he asked me, “Need some help?” Shawna glanced at my direction and gave me a knowing look, but I shook my head in denial.

  “Fine then,” Tim said, misunderstanding my head shake.

  “No, you can help,” I said, shoving a wet plate at him. He dropped it on the floor. A piece of the edge chipped off, but the plate was still functional … enough. “Sorry, Tim.”

  Emmett and Shawna thought this was hilarious. I focused on washing while Tim dried the dishes so I wouldn’t have to look at any of them. By the time the popovers cooled off, so had I. This batch rivaled the ones from the day before.

  “Great job, Shawna,” Tim said with a plop of sticky apple filling stuck on his chin.

  “Thanks,” she responded, and for a moment I thought she was going to take full credit for baking the popovers, but she added, “this was Emmett’s doing. I can’t get over what a good cook he is.”

  Tim’s eyes widened. “Emmett, you made these?”

  Unless it came to our family, Emmett normally brushed off his love for cooking like crumbs from a messy coffee cake, but not this time. “Really. Shawna helped a lot, though.”

  I smiled at him and could almost picture my brother all grown up�
��he’d be buff and taller than Papa by that point, though not freakishly Bigfoot tall. He’d play football for the NFL, but he’d also run his own restaurant like that old guy, John Elway. I saw an episode about him and other stars who owned restaurants on FoodieLand. Okay, maybe that daydream was a stretch, but he had potential.

  “You should’ve seen Emmett wearing his mom’s cupcake apron,” Shawna teased.

  “Oh man, I missed that? You should wear that to football practice next season,” Tim said.

  “You’re just jealous.” Emmett play-tackled Tim.

  Once the boys stopped roughhousing, Emmett placed the popovers on a paper plate and covered them in foil before loading them in his backpack.

  Emmett carried the backpack so carefully you would’ve thought it was loaded with a baby inside, or a bomb. I suppose I carried my camera case the same way.

  We’d borrowed Gramps’ bike for Shawna to use, but she was so wobbly on it that I let her take mine instead. I kept my own helmet though, and somehow, Shawna managed to even look pretty with Gramps’ bulky helmet protecting her skull. Tim looked goofy in his—the helmet mashed his shaggy hair onto his forehead. His legs were so long that his jeans were now an inch too short and looked even shorter when he sat on his bike.

  “Expecting a flood?” I asked him. Served him right for teasing me after I tripped at his house a while back.

  “No,” he answered, but it came out like a squeak instead. He cleared his throat and said no again, and this time his voice sounded normal.

  As we set off to Shawna’s mom’s house, I lagged behind. Gramps’ bike peddles were stiff, and I had to use much more force to get the bike to move forward than I was used to. Plus the bike seat sat up higher as did the connecting bar.

  Tim, Emmett, and Shawna sped on ahead, acting like chummy stooges who had no idea they were ditching the fourth.

  “Wait up!” I called out, but they didn’t hear me. Or worse, they didn’t care. It wasn’t long before they were completely out of sight.

  As I rounded a bend on Old 134, a long and sharp whistle rang out, kind of the noise you might expect from a howler monkey at the zoo, only different and deeper. It echoed off of the road and the many surrounding trees. Emmett, Shawna, and Tim had to be messing with me.

  “Ha ha!” I hollered. “You guys are funny!”

  But then a knocking sound followed another whistle, like a rock being pounded against a tree trunk. It reminded me of the noises we heard the night of the birthday boat incident.

  My skin prickled. Maybe this was something more than a practical joke. I stopped pedaling and wiped sweat from my face. Common sense told me to move along, but I pushed that part of my brain aside.

  I’d check things out for a moment and then catch up to the others. I knew where they were going and had a feeling they’d eventually come back for me. I maneuvered my bike off the road and rested it against a tree, hanging my helmet off the handlebars. The woods stretched on for miles and miles, so I waited for another whistle to determine which way to explore. The bizarre noise made me battle with common sense again.

  After hesitating, I followed a trail created by some sort of off-road vehicle. I held the camera in my hand. The oils and the sweat from my palm left a film on the preview screen.

  Papa had taught me to pay close attention to my surroundings to avoid getting lost on a hike, and that’s exactly what I did as I made my way deeper into the woods. I mentally noted the location of a rotting log on the ground, a group of vines dangling from a branch, and a bird’s nest way up in a tree. The trail curved to the left ahead, but a loud knocking noise emerged from the right.

  The trail was convenient, but if I had a chance of spying Bigfoot, I needed to follow the sounds. I glanced around to memorize my location. A tree stood out that looked as though it had been split and charred by a bolt of lightning. I’d find it after checking things out and then would return to my bike and get on my merry way with hopefully a million-dollar worthy photograph.

  A booming knock followed a short, shrill whistle. And then, BANG! The unmistakable sound of a gun. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. Is that how Gram felt before her heart attack?

  A hunter had to be close. Had he bagged Bigfoot?

  That common sense voice screamed for me to leave, but again I muted it to find out what had happened.

  The brush was particularly thick to climb through, and after a while, I came upon a clearing with a tall deer blind and piles of corn scattered about. About forty feet or less away, a bloody body was sprawled out on the ground. It wasn’t large enough to be Bigfoot, but what in the world was it?

  I inched my way closer to get a better look. I knelt down so I could identify the dead animal as a deer. Even with the hot temperature, heat rose from the carcass in waves, bringing a putrid stench with it. The scene didn’t look like your typical hunt. Besides being shot, the deer’s throat and stomach had been slashed open, and an antler had been sawed off. I gagged.

  My father hunted, but when he killed a deer, he didn’t toss the body aside and take only parts. He’d prepare the meat and help Mama cook meals from it. This had to be the work of a poacher. Dierk Robinson! He wasn’t on the lake with Papa, and maybe he was taking out deer for fun the way he’d slaughtered the rhino.

  A motor droned in the distance, and I caught a glimpse of an older truck, though it was too far away to see what color it was. I couldn’t be sure where the truck was heading. Normally, my camouflage colors weren’t a problem, but if I’d worn something brighter, it would’ve been harder for Dierk or whoever was out here to mistake me for an animal.

  What was I supposed to do? Stay put and stand tall, or run for my life out of the woods? It might not have been the right move, but I crouched down behind the brush. The overgrowth hid me, but it also masked my view.

  Not being able to see nearly made me hyperventilate. The hunter might’ve had me in his sight at this exact moment.

  Bigfoot tearing me apart limb by limb had to be the one of the worst ways to die. Getting mistakenly blasted with a shotgun had to be a close second. If Dierk made the mistake of shooting me, he’d never tell anyone. Would he bury me out here? Maybe the team would find my bike off of Old 134, and they’d wonder the rest of their lives what happened to me. My eyes burned, but I couldn’t give in to the urge to cry. Not when it would only draw more attention to me than my irregular breathing already had.

  I tried to come up with my own Chuck Norris fact. It didn’t come to me right away, but here it is: death doesn’t flash before your eyes. That was just Chuck Norris doing a roundhouse kick.

  BANG!

  I jumped and expected to feel sharp pain.

  The gun blasted again before I realized that the truck had turned around. The poacher must’ve moved on to kill something else, probably at the location of another deer blind or trap. I exhaled until I became paranoid that maybe the hunter had shot at one of the others if they’d come looking for me.

  I nearly lost my popover from earlier. Once the wave of nausea passed, I crept out of my hiding place, ready to help my brother or Tim or Shawna if something had happened to them. As exposed as could be, I headed into the clearing to find my way back.

  I’d observed my surroundings earlier, but where was the path? The charred tree? It might’ve been for the best to avoid the poacher’s route had it not meant I was lost.

  18

  I’d originally walked to the east to enter the woods, and I’d have to walk back to the west. Like a fool, I’d forgotten the new compass at home.

  The sun was so high it didn’t provide any clues. I listened for any other gun blasts. The woods were oddly silent.

  I’m not sure if I’ve ever prayed so much all at once. I said a prayer of thanks that I hadn’t been killed … yet. I also prayed I’d make it out of there alive and that Emmett, Tim, and Shawna were all okay.

  I walked a ways before another whistle sounded, this one lighter in tone. I almost dropped to the ground, but like I’d be
en compelled to follow it before, I followed it now. A twig snapped. Then leaves rustled. I couldn’t see anything, but I let the whistles guide me.

  My adrenaline pumped as I hiked, keeping me from noticing I’d been climbing a hill until I reached a lookout. I could see Old 134!

  While the location of my bike wasn’t obvious from the lookout, freedom was near. Dierk probably wouldn’t dare shoot something this close to the road to risk being discovered, would he? I wasn’t going to stick around long enough to find out.

  I raced downhill.

  I could’ve kissed the gravel when I reached the road even though I still had to find my bike. I peered over my shoulder in case someone or something was coming after me, but the only person on the road right now was me, and I walked an entire layer of the sole of my sneakers off before I found Gramps’ bike.

  While it had been a struggle to bike earlier, the remaining nerves helped me push through the difficulties. In fact, my legs pedaled numbly. I glanced to the side of the road looking for pools of blood or something worse than the mutilated deer. I tried to push all the thoughts about what might’ve happened to my brother or my friends out of my head before I crashed the bike or got sick.

  Common sense told me to head to Shawna’s mom’s house, and no way would I disobey now. Time seemed warped as I biked the remaining distance to the house. And when I got there, I saw the best sight I could’ve imagined resting against the garage—one girl’s and two boys’ bikes.

  My tank top suctioned to my skin like a damp rag, and my hand wobbled as I rang the doorbell. Ms. Minnoe swung the door open in a dramatic gesture. “Everdil! There you are! Come in, dear.” My sweatiness didn’t stop her from wrapping her thick arms around me and guiding me inside.

  “Where have you been?” Emmett said in a deep voice that reminded me of Papa’s when he got mad at us. He sat on the couch near Shawna sipping a glass of lemonade, completely clueless about what I’d just been through.