“Your way of thinking is better, at least most of the time. And as long as I have you around, I’ll remember not to be ruled by my brain. You’re a role model, Ferrell.”
My stomach growled loudly. “Sorry. It was the word ‘role.’ It makes me think of a roll with . . . mmm . . . with cinnamon and a sugary glaze. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”
Mary jumped up and grabbed her shoes and socks by the front door. “Go home and eat breakfast, then meet me at Spinelli’s. We’re scheduled for an exclusive interview with the Golden Hill Times. I’m going to tell them about our family history. Yours and mine, if that’s okay with you.”
“You mean everything?”
“Everything,” she said. “I think it’s cool our families have made it into history books. It makes an interesting story, don’t you think?”
I had an idea, but Mary was going to hate it. I stood up and walked slowly to the door, wondering if I should even suggest it. “Hey, Mary, what if we ask Bruce Littledood to do the interview with us? He knows the history even better than we do, and, well, because of us, he has kind of been cheated of his fame.”
Mary’s shoulders dropped, and then she was quiet for a few seconds. “Okay,” she finally said. “He’s obnoxious and insufferable, but you’re right.”
“I’ll call him. Then we’ll meet at Spinelli’s in half an hour,” I said.
“Oh, and Ferrell?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t forget to put on clothes, okay?”
I looked down at my flannel jammies. “You got something against penguins?” I asked. I pushed my toes out, flattened my arms to my sides, and waddled out the door.
I loved the sound of Mary’s laugh.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I WAS THE LAST ONE to get to Spinelli’s. Ronny Meddle from the Golden Hill Times sat at the counter with a cup of coffee. He fiddled with his beard while reading from a piece of paper, and Littledood stood in front of him, bouncing on his tiptoes, getting ready to explode like a soda that’s been shaken in its bottle. Mary read over Mr. Meddle’s shoulder.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Littledood pushed back his shoulders. “It’s a report I wrote after my dad and I did the research on Alferd Packer.”
“It’s good,” Mr. Meddle said. “With just a few minor changes, I’ll be able to print it. It will be a nice historical piece to go along with the sled race article. How would you like to have your own byline in the newspaper?”
“Awesome!” Littledood practically squealed.
Mary looked at me with a serious expression on her face. “It’s our whole story, Ferrell. Bruce Littledood wrote up the entire account of our sordid history and ends it with a commentary about you and me.”
“He tells about how you and I are related to Bell and Packer?” I asked.
She nodded and then turned to Littledood. “It’s a well-written article, Bruce. You did a good job.”
“I know. I’m pretty much an expert on—” Littledood stopped himself. “I mean, thank you.” And then to me he said, “Thanks to you, too, Ferrell, for giving me this chance. I’m really sorry for telling the whole world about how you’re afraid you’ll eat everyone in Golden Hill. But I explain in the article, right here”—he pointed to the typed pages—“that while Alferd Packer did suffer from terrible indigestion for the rest of his life, cannibalism has no effect on the health or sanity of future relatives.”
“Cool!” I said. I was already starting to feel less monstery. “But what about clearing Mary’s reputation? Is there any way you can tell our history without making her family look like a bunch of losers? Maybe work it into the article that even really intelligent people sometimes get eaten and that it’s not a sign of stupidity?”
“He does better than that,” Mary said. She picked the typed article up off the counter. “Listen to what he says:
“ ‘Let the record show that yesterday, Bruce Littledood defeated Ferrell Savage and Mary Vittles once again in a great downhill race, because clearly he built a stronger, sleeker, and higher-performing sled. But here’s something that won’t show on the records. Ferrell and Mary each wiped out on the Pollypry in dramatic fashion. Splattered on the hillside, they should have been embarrassed, humiliated, and broken in spirit. But instead they defined their games. Like real heroes, they played by their own rules. If we learn one thing by studying history, it’s that heroes like Ferrell and Mary define themselves.’ ”
“Wow,” I said. “So you think we’re heroes?”
“That’s what I said,” Littledood answered. “But, remember, my name will still be on the trophy.”
“As it should be. You won fair and square,” I said.
“No hard feelings, then?” He looked first at me, then at Mary.
“It’s all good,” Mary said.
Mr. Meddle had some questions for Mary about yesterday’s race and her near-death experience. Afterward, the photographer took a photo of Mary and me with the Pollypry, and one of Littledood with his trophy.
As they said their good-byes and thanks, Littledood followed the newspaper men out the door, saying, “If you want to take more pictures, I can show you the way to the site of the Packer massacre. In fact, I know where all the historical sites in Colorado are.”
“Well, now, I could sure use a guy like you on my paper staff,” Mr. Meddle answered.
When they were gone, Mr. Spinelli announced to his customers, “The Golden Hill Times special edition will be on sale next to the cash register by four o’clock this afternoon.”
And to Mary and me he said, “How about a couple of free root beers for my favorite indestructible patrons?”
“Yeah! Free root beers!” I shouted.
At last, Mary and I were alone at the counter, sitting on our stools, drinking our root beers.
“Are you having fun being the Golden Hill Survivor Girl?” I asked.
She smiled. “I’m amused.”
Outside Spinelli’s, I could see a few people stopping to admire the Pollypry leaning against the front window.
“And to think, none of this would have happened if it weren’t for Polly Pry’s quill pen,” I said. “You know, she didn’t even actually use a quill pen to write her stories.”
“How do you know?” Mary had a doubtful look in her eye.
“I read it on the Internet. She only used it occasionally, for dramatic effect.”
Mary laughed. “I learn something new from you every day.”
That’s when I reached over and put my hand on top of Mary’s. She didn’t yell at me, she didn’t fling me away, and she didn’t call me a name. She didn’t even seem surprised.
“Do you still have the yellow marble I gave you?” she asked.
I put my free hand on that spot just below my heart and above my stomach. “Yep. I keep it in a safe place.”
Author’s Note
Alfred Packer, also known as Alferd Packer, and Polly Pry are true, historical figures. I recently had the pleasure of visiting Lake City, a lovely town nestled in the San Juan Mountains in Colorado. The people who live there are warm and friendly and they enjoy sharing what they know about the history of Alferd Packer. Most of the information I used in this story came from the Hinsdale County Museum.
If you’d like to learn more about Alferd Packer and the events took place in 1874 on that winter day near the wild-west town of Lake City, you can find books and articles about them at your local library as well as hundreds of websites on the internet. If you decide to do the research, you may discover that there are contradicting theories about the details of what happened. Some stories will say that Packer murdered his five traveling companions before he ate them, and other stories will have you believe that he was in fact not their murderer.
At any rate, it goes without question that Packer did indeed consume the flesh of the men, which enabled him to survive the seventy-five mile hike to the Los Pinos Indian Agency.
J. Duddy Gill lives in Den
ver, Colorado, and eats no meat, but consumes lots of Skittles and kale, and often refers to a thesaurus for smarter-sounding words.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Duddy Gill
Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Sonia Chaghatzbanian
Jacket design and illustrations by Sonia Chaghatzbanian
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First Edition
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gill, Jennifer Duddy.
The secret of Ferrell Savage / Jennifer Duddy Gill ; Illustrated by Sonia Chaghatzbanian. — 1st ed.
p. cm
Summary: Just as twelve-year-old Ferrell Savage is beginning to think of Mary Vittles, his life-long friend, as a potential girlfriend, a new boy at school blackmails them with a family secret—that one of Ferrell’s ancestors ate one of Mary’s.
ISBN 978-1-4424-6017-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4424-6019-5 (eBook)
[1. Best friends—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Secrets—Fiction. 4. Sledding—Fiction. 5. Racing—Fiction. 6. Family life—Colorado—Fiction. 7. Packer, Alferd, 1842–1907—Fiction. 8. Colorado—Fiction.] I. Chaghatzbanian, Sonia, illustrator. II. Title.
PZ7.G39866Sec 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2012051500
The Secret of Ferrell Savage Page 10