and secure my position!”
Violet O’Pinion had spent most of the afternoon watching people arrive for the party she couldn’t attend. She at least wanted Biscuit, her tiny fluffball of a dog, to go. She let her dog out and watched her prance around the Problim yard with the other neighborhood dogs, until it got too dark. Then Biscuit had become obsessed with digging near a camellia bush beside the gate. The dog had something long and white in her mouth as she scampered back to Violet’s house.
Did she find a bone? Violet wondered.
Biscuit shook off in the decontamination doggy hallway, passed through the detox door, and then pounced into the room. She pranced around with the stick in her mouth as if she’d been playing fetch. Violet grinned as she took the stick and reared back to toss it across the room.
But then she realized that it wasn’t like other sticks—it felt heavy. And it looked different up close. Twiggy and white—almost like a bone—with strange, golden edges. She put it in a flower pot, filled it with dirt, and watered it. She imagined it sprouting leaves someday.
“This is a hard place to bloom,” Violet said to the plant. She loved the sound of her voice without the helmet. Her room was the only place in the world she didn’t have to wear it; the air was perfectly controlled. And her dog was hypoallergenic, both thanks to her dad. He’d do anything for her, she knew that. And she knew he only wanted to keep her safe.
But Violet was the kind of girl who couldn’t stop her heart from dreaming, and dreaming is so rarely a safe occupation. The most obvious proof was her walls: she’d covered them in maps of the world. Her father had painted her room pink, but since Violet had never really liked the color pink she covered the walls with pages from atlases and maps—old ones, new ones, storybook maps even. She had so many maps, there wasn’t a spot of pink left.
She looked at those worlds constantly. And she dreamed.
She dreamed of doing cartwheels on the Great Wall of China.
She dreamed of having high tea with the princess of England and then playing soccer beside the Thames. And riding gondolas in Italy. And being a cowgirl in Montana. And what it might feel like to stand on the edge of the Rocky Mountains and shout her name into the vast, blue, beautiful world. Without a helmet. Without anything holding her back.
And while dreaming gave her comfort, it had never helped her leave her tower.
Not until the other day, when the fog out the window bloomed like roses and animals, and she couldn’t stand being inside anymore. That was the first time she had ever snuck outside; because she was desperate to meet the new neighbors. The Problim children.
Violet had taken one stickpin from her desk. She carefully plotted it on one of the maps of her own neighborhood. One hundred feet from her front door—that had been her first adventure.
And she hoped it would not be her last.
THOMP!
Biscuit yap-yap-yapped, high pitched and fierce.
Violet spun toward her window.
“Shh,” Violet said, picking up the dog and cradling it in her arms. “We’re okay.”
Balancing on the ledge was one of the Problim children—the boy with the kind eyes and sideways glasses. He smiled. And waved. Violet waved back.
“You’re missing the p-party,” Wendell said, his breath fogging the other side of the glass. He pointed to his zip line attached to the chimney. “But I came to offer you a ride.”
Violet smiled. She put down the dog and went to hide the funny tree in her closet again. “Sleep well,” she said to the tiny plant.
She snapped her helmet in place and ran for the window, still smiling as she opened it. She couldn’t stop with the smiling. She smiled so hard her face nearly hurt as Wendell helped her hold on to the zip line.
“Push off when you’re ready,” he said. “Then send it back over. You’ll love it—it feels just like fl-flying.”
Flying. She was flying; and she squealed in total delight.
Sometimes dreams do come true, Violet realized. Because she was already off on her second adventure.
Midge Lodestar
Thea was surprised to find the sunflower she’d left for Dorrie still blooming in the old woman’s cottage. Dorrie had cut off half the stem and settled it in a mason jar on the center of her small table. Thankfully, the flower no longer smelled like a #297.24
Dorrie’s cottage was cozy and filled with comfy chairs and scattered books. Several lamps were on, and a few candles flickered over the fireplace. A tiny raccoon slept in a hammock draped in one of the windows, snoring happily.
“That’s Reggie,” Dorrie said, settling a cup of tea in front of Thea. “He’s the one I was walking in the carriage the day I passed y’all at the playground. Reggie got stuck in a hunter’s trap. He’s healing fine, but he’s too nervous to make his way in the world just yet. So I take him for walks. Let him snooze or look around or just breathe in the air; whatever it takes to get reacquainted with the world.”
“I love animals too,” Thea said. “My family has a pet pig. And circus spiders.”
“Circus spiders!” Dorrie grinned. “They’re a hoot.”
“Yes! They’re very well trained. And my sister has a Venus flytrap . . . if you consider that a pet.”
The room smelled like warm caramel-apple muffins, which Dorrie pulled from the stove and plopped, still steaming, onto mismatched saucers.
“So you go first,” Dorrie said. “Ask me your question.”
Thea tried to give Dorrie a short version of everything that had transpired since they’d moved in to House Number Seven. “And then there’s our terrible neighbor, Desdemona.”
Thea noticed Dorrie stiffen—just slightly—at the sound of that name. But Thea kept going. “She thinks Grandpa stole a treasure from her family and hid it in the house. But no one has been allowed in the house, not even her. We think he meant for us to find the treasure, but Desdemona is going to throw us out. She even founded some horrible society for unwanted children—it’s like she knew we would come. Even before we knew.”
Dorrie sipped her tea. Thea could see the thought lines forming on the woman’s forehead.
“Grandpa left us this riddle,” Thea continued. “And that’s fun! But we also need to prove we are Problims—and fast! And we need our parents to come home. So I thought you could help, maybe. I thought you could tell me what . . . widows watch. I hope that doesn’t sound offensive.”
“I’m not offended,” Dorrie said as she sipped her tea. “I mostly watch Jeopardy.”
“Oh.” Thea nodded. “Okay, then. I hope you won’t be offended by this either. The clue told us that a witch would help us find the treasure. And I heard someone say that you might be, a, you know . . .”
“I’m no witch,” she added bluntly. “But I wish I was. I’d make my garden grow faster.”
Thea sighed. “Oh.”
“That said.” Dorrie grinned over the rim of the teacup. “There is another thing I like to watch: water. Oceans and rivers in particular. I could tell you more about why.” Dorrie smiled kindly. “But it’s too sad a story.”
“Then you should definitely tell me,” Thea assured her. “Especially if it makes it a little less sad for you. Besides, I don’t mind sadness. My brother thinks sadness is a beautiful emotion.”
“Okay, then. Follow me.” Dorrie led Thea to the upstairs of the house, into a room that looked like an office. Two french doors opened to a tiny porch, overlooking the marshes. A three-legged cat slept on top of a bookshelf. The desk against the wall was stacked with radio equipment and headphones.
“This is where I do my real job, up here. I broadcast,” Dorrie told her. “And over here is—”
“Wait a minute!” Thea’s wild heart fluttered. It felt like finding a buried treasure! She beamed as she read an award tacked to Dorrie’s wall: a Certification of Excellence for Midge Lodestar’s radio program. “Do you know Midge Lodestar?”
Dorrie flung her arms open wide. “Darlin’, you are looki
ng at Midge Lodestar. That’s my professional name.”
“No way! I listen to your advice all the time! The taco mantra helps me overcome all anxieties!”
“The . . . taco mantra?” Dorrie asked.
“Every day is a good day for a taco!”
Dorrie doubled over laughing. “Here’s what’s happened, darling. You see this map on the wall? I can only broadcast my show in this vicinity here.” Dorrie waved her hand around the town of Lost Cove.
“But out in the Swampy Woods,” she said, pointing to the inky tangle of trees showing Thea’s old home. “You’re only getting bits and pieces of what I say. That taco mantra? What you’re hearing is a commercial for Hillary’s Taco Truck, downtown in the Cove. You just got the jingle scrambled.”
Thea felt embarrassed. She flopped down in the chair and sighed. “I scramble lots of things.”
“Like what?”
“Making friends—that’s an easy thing for everybody else. Probably because all of my siblings are unique and cool in some weirdly wonderful way and I try to be too, but I’m just ugh.” Thea shrugged. “We’re a perfect seven, you see. And from the time we were babies our mama sang that old nursery rhyme—the one about the days of the week. Everybody’s day pretty much tells the truth about who they are. My twin, Wendell, he’s always full of woe. Not woe like ‘woe is me,’ but more like whoa! He’s amazed by everything.”
Dorrie grinned. “I’m familiar with that rhyme.”
Thea’s shoulders slumped. “And I never get anything right. I’m Thursday. I have far to go.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Dorrie said. “Every person’s more than just one thing. Wendell’s not just full of woe, is he? He’s full of all kinds of things. The same’s true of you.” Dorrie smiled softly. “And it’s true: you should never doubt the power of a taco.” She laughed. “So do you want to see where this widow watches?”
“Yes!”
Dorrie pointed to the porch. It looked exactly the same as the Porch of Certain Death, but far less likely to fall and break into a billion pieces at the slightest toot.
Dorrie opened the door.
Thea took two baby steps toward her. She didn’t want to tell Dorrie how much she hated heights. Dorrie was Midge Lodestar! She had to be brave for Midge! Besides . . . Thea really wanted to hear this story. If she could figure out the clue, at least she’d feel like she was something special in her family of exceptionals.
But each step she took was agony. When she walked out on the porch, Thea wondered if she might pass out. Or throw up. Or both. That’d be so embarrassing.
So she kept her eyes closed as Dorrie talked.
“I was widowed when I was twenty-one years old,” Dorrie said. “I grew up on the coast, and my love was a sailor. I was the only thing he ever loved more than the sea. He was a fisherman; there were plenty of fishermen in my town. So folks would put porches like this out from the top of their house—a watch. Sometimes, folks call them a ‘walk.’ We would walk out on them every morning and watch for our sailors to come home. I used to stand on that porch—the one around our house—and watch for him to come back to me every night. You follow?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Thea said. She smelled the woods. She could feel the ocean wind blowing warm over her face. Begging her to open her eyes. To see the beauty down below. She wanted to look. But couldn’t.
“Well, one night, he took out his boat and got caught in a terrible storm. The boat made it home eventually, but my sailor did not.”
Thea opened her eyes then to look at Dorrie, whose gaze settled over the marshlands. Dorrie didn’t cry as she told the story, but Thea could hear and see a sadness there. She wondered if it was possible for tragedy to reshape a person’s face, to forever change a smile, an outlook, and the way someone sees the world.
“Wouldn’t you know, this funny little house where I ended up also has a watch on top! So sometimes I stand up here, and I watch way over there—where the river used to be.” She laughed.
“What happened to the river?” Thea asked.
“That’s a story for another time,” Dorrie said softly. “Anyway, that’s what this widow watches. The place where the river used to be. And I think about the life I used to live.”
Thea sighed. “That’s a sad story. And a beautiful story too. But I don’t think my grandpa’s clue had anything to do with the river. I wish it did, though. Thank you for trying to help.”
“Sure, sure. Before you go, I’ve got a present for you! And I have a question. Wait right here.”
“Right here? On the porch?” Thea said anxiously. “What if I wait in Midge Lodestar’s office?”
“Just wait right there!” Dorrie said, disappearing back down the stairs.
Thea squeezed her eyes shut tight.
She heard the flutter of bird’s wings. Then the tiny sound of bird’s feet, pattering across the rail she gripped. The bird began singing a soft lullaby, as if it had shown up just to calm her.
That birdsong settled Thea’s soul, and she opened her eyes.
First she saw the ravine—the place where the town river used to be. Past that, she saw a tall, rippled mountain. Somewhere close there was an ocean. And past that, a whole other world. It was overwhelming, just the thought of that much beauty. Suddenly, her hands weren’t gripping the rails so tightly. She was leaning toward that wild world, propping her elbows on the rail, resting her face in her hands, without her usual fear of being pulled toward the ground.
In fact, her fear was giving way to something better: something like joy. Pure, perfect joy. And she never would have felt that if she hadn’t been brave enough to venture on her own.
Dorrie climbed the stairs again and presented a tiny gift to Thea: a sunflower pin. The middle part was knitted from brown yarn, with black felt petals and a safety pin on the back. “You seem to love those dark flowers. So I wanted to make you one that wouldn’t spoil. Or stink. Happy birthday, Thea Problim.”
Thea pinned it to her collar. “I’ll wear it every day!”
Dorrie smiled. “My sailor used to always bring me a red rose, from the time he courted me to the day he left. We were only married a short time, but each day, he’d come in and bring me a single red rose and say, ‘I love you, and I need you, and I’ll always come back for you.’”
“I’m sorry he didn’t come back,” Thea said. She’d tucked her hand into the crook of Dorrie’s elbow without realizing it.
Dorrie shook her head. Her eyes were glassy with tears, but none fell. “And he was telling the truth, I believe. Someday when I’m even older than I am now, when it’s my time to go, I think he’ll come back for me. He’ll have a rose pinned to his coat pocket and he’ll tuck another behind my hair, and we’ll dance the cha-cha right through glory’s gates. I think we’ll see each other again.”
“One more thing before I go,” Thea said. “You said you had a question for me?”
Midge nodded. “What do you think of your neighbors, the O’Pinions?”
“Desdemona O’Pinion is extra creepy.” Thea said.
“The feud you hear so much about was between Mr. O’Pinion and your grandpa. If your granddad took something from the town, he took it for a good reason, not because he was some greedy thief who wanted it for himself. He was never selfish. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for Stan O’Pinion, Desdemona’s dad. He’s probably the one pushing Desdemona’s buttons.”
“He’s still alive?” Thea asked.
“Oh yes,” Dorrie nodded. “Alive and rotten as ever. And still scheming—wherever he is. You can be sure of that. Frank and Stan were best friends when they were boys. But the Great Feud tore those two apart.”
“Grandpa’s best friend betrayed him?” Thea asked sadly.
Dorrie nodded. “Best friends do that—and family too—when treasure is involved. And Stan became a bitter recluse after that. I know your grandpa was a good man, though. He was a dreamer. He was a wild adventurer. He believed in living all the da
ys of his life. And if that’s what folks claim is mad, well—then I think madness is a fine way to be remembered, don’t you? So be vigilant, Thea Problim. The O’Pinions are vicious.”
The Fox Prevails
Frida creeped down to the first floor and watched from behind a bookshelf as Desdemona moved around the library slowly, nervously tapping her finger against her chin. She murmured the names of the books quickly, scanning as though she were looking for something specific.
“Another old witch the color of bone,” Desdemona mumbled as she glanced around the room.
Frida shivered. A witch! Just like the clue! Was a witch hidden in this library? Were they imprisoned here? Stuck in the pages of a book? This was getting far more dangerous than the Fox had anticipated!
“Ha!” Desdemona shouted. She pulled a dusty old book from the shelf. The cover was purple and velvety and something was embedded there. But what? Desdemona tried to pry the thing loose with her long fingernails. But it wouldn’t budge. “Is this it?” Desdemona mumbled. “Why is it stuck?”
But it wasn’t a witch, Frida realized. It was a bone-stick!
Desdemona gave up. She flipped through the book to see if anything else was stuck inside. Then she shook it, hard, to see if anything might fall out. Frida’s face scrunched in anger as she watched the pages flap and flutter. Wendell would not tolerate someone treating books that way.
“Maybe Daddy can get the witch loose,” Desdemona mumbled, looking at the cover again. She flung the book on the desk.
“Hey,” Will said from the door, his CosmicMorpho 3030 Mask pushed up in his hair. “I can’t find anything. I can’t even find Carley-Rue.”
Shoot, Frida thought. The kids had been snooping around too! Will had, at least. Carley-Rue was still locked upstairs.
“There’s one here,” Desdemona whispered. “It’s possible those swamp brats found the rest and hid them again, but they’re here. Daddy said that old idiot broke the witch into pieces and hid it. How do we find the rest?” She paged through the book quickly, scanning for clues. But there were none. “Stupid man!” Desdemona snorted. “How typical of Frank Problim to glue the witch to the front of his own book!”
The Problim Children Page 11