Mo Wren, Lost and Found

by Tricia Springstubb

  Mo kept walking, zigzagging now, dirty snow squeaking under her feet. Her boots were too small and pinched her toes. So many of the girls here looked and acted older than she did, it was as if kids grew up faster on this side of the river. But so far the only parts of Mo that were growing were her feet and her hair. On Fox Street, whenever she needed a trim, she strolled up the street to visit Mrs. Petrone, who cut hair in her kitchen, and always just right. But here on East 213th, her hair just kept on growing.

  Today Megan, a girl in her class, had asked Mo why she didn’t do something different with it. It was long enough for a ponytail, suggested Megan, or French braids. Megan’s own yellow hair lay flat on her head, as if it had run a long race and was exhausted. Was she trying to be friendly? Or just bossy? Mo wasn’t sure.

  The afternoon was so cold, even the faithful pigeon feeders had deserted their park bench. At least Mo’s hair was good for one thing: keeping her neck warm. Every single day since they’d moved had been arctic. By now it was March, and spring was supposed to be whispering, “Here I come.” Instead, frost coated the inside of Mo’s bedroom window every morning. She had to scrape it with her thumbnail to see the skinny sidewalk tree, where the sparrows sat puffed up and miserable. Why didn’t they migrate? Were they too stubborn or too dumb?

  Mo stopped on the edge of the park and looked back over the winding path her boots had traced in the snow. If she went home, her father would want to know why she wasn’t having fun with one of the zillion friends he was positive she’d made. When she told him, he’d be so disappointed.

  But if she stayed out here, she’d freeze solid. She hugged herself, not knowing what to do. Ahead of her loomed the bus shelter. ADAM + EVA 4EVER, it said, and DICK LOVES JANE. The thing was one big valentine.

  Inside she sat down on the orange plastic bench. The corpse of a spider hung high in one corner. The floor was covered with candy wrappers and squashed cups, right beneath the $300 FINE FOR LITTERING sign. There was a smell of something sweet, maybe the perfume of someone who’d recently waited here. Mo pulled up the collar of her jacket and snuggled into a corner. “Shelter” was the perfect word for this place. Like some big version of an umbrella, it protected you from rain and sun.

  Except even umbrellas got to go places. The shelter stayed put. Like a tree.

  Mo felt warmer now she was out of the wind. She found herself taking pleasure in the company of her own brain, the way she used to do back home when she sat beneath her old thinking spot, the plum tree. Scraping a bit of icy frost off the wall, she thought how funny it was that when it came to cakes, both frosting and icing meant the same thing. When a bundled-up woman stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, yanked off her yellow scarf, and began shouting into her cell phone, Mo thought how being hot under the collar was a good description of anger.

  But when the woman began to cry and dab her eyes with the ends of the yellow scarf, Mo’s mind wandered to her mother’s baggy yellow sweater. It had to be out there somewhere. In science, Mr. Grimm had taught them that matter is never destroyed. Even if an object got burned up, or pulverized, it didn’t go away. It just became something else.

  Like most really interesting ideas, this one was simultaneously wonderful and disturbing. Mo wanted to think about it more deeply, except that, even inside the shelter, she was too cold. When the yellow-scarf woman jammed her phone back into her purse and walked away, Mo almost missed her. Now she was all alone. She wondered how long she’d have to stay here, and if her father would ask about the friend she’d spent the afternoon with. She’d have to fib. She had no choice. She couldn’t have him worrying about her.

  And then Mo thought, Our life is so messed up! We’re both trying to keep the other one from worrying about us. We’re worrying about worrying.

  Was this part of Corky’s curse? That the members of your own family turned into strangers? And you were forced to sit in a bus shelter all alone, as your feet and fingers and head slowly, painfully, turned to blocks of ice?

  “Where you going? Crazy?”

  Wishes

  It must be brain freeze—there was no other explanation. Mo was actually happy to see that goofball Shawn. He gripped the edge of the shelter with his knees and shinnied halfway up.

  “I’m just trying to get warm,” she said.

  “The best place for that’s the Soap Opera.” He slid back down. His feet were much too big for the rest of him, like his watch. “Come on.”

  The wind nipped and tugged at them as they hurried along the streets. But the Laundromat threw its warm arms around them the second they stepped inside. Homer was sound asleep in his usual seat, using a fat oven mitt for a pillow. Gilda, wearing a black dress and red high heels, stood beside Number Three, gesturing and talking to herself.

  “She’s an actress,” Shawn explained. “She’s got a big audition coming up, and the sound of the washers helps her concentrate.”

  Mo used some of her father’s money to buy them treats from the vending machine. They were just in time to nab a spot on the plush van seat. Shawn pulled a copy of Ripley’s Believe It or Not! from his backpack and settled in. When ten minutes went by and he hadn’t looked up, Mo said, “Mr. Grimm should see you now.”

  “Mr. Grimm should be in this book,” he said. “Most Boring Teacher in the History of Education.” He picked a bit of candy out of his braces and went back to reading.

  All this time Carmella was busy helping people, but at last she pulled up a kitchen chair. It was funny how small she was—Mo somehow remembered her being much taller. Her forehead gleamed with sweat.

  “Number Six ate a lace tablecloth, and a car mechanic got Number Three all clogged up with grease. Thank goodness Homer was here to help. Number Eight went on overload again. The smoke detector went off, and Rosalie’s baby started bawling and wouldn’t stop.” She patted her brow. Carmella even made sweating look beautiful. “How was school?”

  Shawn didn’t look up from his book. But Mo said, “Easy, compared to all that.”

  “Well, I didn’t name it the Soap Opera for nothing. It’s the human drama on a tiny stage, and I’ve been the director for years now. Hey, where’s Red today?”

  Mo bit the inside of her cheeks. Back on Fox Street, Dottie would stick to her like a little suckerfish. Mo couldn’t get rid of her. Her sister was another thing she’d never counted on missing.

  “She’s busy.”

  Carmella tipped her chair back on two legs, a thing that always made Mo nervous.

  “I spent a lot of my life wishing for a sister,” she said. “Wishing on stars and wishbones and you name it.”

  From the sound of her voice, she was still wishing, though that didn’t make any sense. Slowly she lowered her chair back to the floor and gave her head a quick shake, as if to clear her vision.

  “Anyway,” she said. “How’s that daddy of yours managing? What’s doing at Corky’s?”

  When Mo hesitated, Carmella pursed her lips.

  “Sorry, sugar,” Carmella said. “I should quit calling it Corky’s.” A dryer was buzzing, and an argument over who got it next broke out, but Carmella ignored it. “What’s it called now?”

  “The Wren House.”

  “Oh, I like that.”

  “My father’s working harder than he ever did his whole life.”

  “You’ll see. Only good can come of that.” A small gleam, like the candles people put in their windows at Christmastime, lit her eyes. She stood up. “Let’s see if there’s something here for you, little wren.”

  Watching her dig down in the bin in the corner, Mo nudged Shawn. “What is that, anyway?”

  “The lost and found.”

  “You mean she gives away other people’s stuff?”

  “Only the stuff from deep down.” Shawn closed his book and stretched his arms. “Stuff that’s been there a long time.”

  Carmella surfaced holding a pale blue sweatshirt. Near the left shoulder, someone had embroidered a small black bird. When Carmella h
eld it under Mo’s chin, she got a whiff of pepper and vanilla, someone else’s smell.

  “Perfect!” said Carmella. “I’ll wash it and have it ready next time you come.”

  A sweatshirt was just what Mo needed, since she still couldn’t find her old favorite, the faded red one. And since the Wren House was always arctic. But how could she take something another person had lost?

  Shawn stepped outside, but Carmella put a hand on Mo’s arm.

  “Sugar, you’re just the friend Shawn needs,” she said, her voice low and confiding. “He spends way too much time hanging out here with me.”

  Outside, the sidewalk was crowded with people eager to get home. Lights were coming on in the upstairs windows. Mo was better at finding her way around, but there were still so many doors and so many windows, belonging to people she’d never know. In one she saw a man standing by a stove, and in another a woman and a child watching TV together.

  That outside-looking-in feeling socked her in the belly. The Soap Opera was its own little biosphere. After its summerlike air, winter’s bite felt meaner than ever.

  “I can’t take that sweatshirt,” she said, digging her hands into her pockets.

  “Whaa?” Shawn tossed his hat into the air and caught it. “Carmella’s right—it’ll look fly on you.”

  Mo felt a little rush of pleasure. Shawn’s habit of saying the first thing that came into his head wasn’t all bad.

  “But what if someone comes back looking for it?” she said. “Or what if I wear it, and someone runs up to me and says, ‘Hey, that’s mine! I’ve been looking for it forever!’”

  They were passing a building with scaffolding out front, and Shawn did a couple of pull-ups. The Soap Opera put him under a calm-down-and-concentrate spell, but the minute he left, poof!

  “Carmella doesn’t believe in stuff being lost,” he said. “She says it all just goes around.” He spun his hands around each other so fast they blurred. “Like life’s one big revolving door. Or a boomerang. Not just stuff stuff, but the stuff we do. Put some kindness out there, and someday it’ll come back to you. Be evil? Look out.”

  He backed up a few steps and took a running slide across a patch of ice, skidding into a teenager coming out of the used-book store. The boy made a grab for Shawn, but he ducked and sprinted away.

  When Mo got home, Al was just locking his shop door.

  “Hello,” Mo said. “How are you?”

  He jumped as if she’d said, “Stick ’em up.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m not used to having neighbors.” Thrusting his keys into his pocket, he gave a quick nod and scurried away.

  What would Carmella say about Al? If he ever returned a kindness, it’d be front-page news.

  Handsome

  Went to pick up the Polka Dot, said the note stuck to the door.

  Mo ratcheted up the thermostat, then sat in a booth and tried to do her homework. The furnace clanked, pretending to be hard at work, but the room didn’t get any warmer. Where were those two, anyway? It was getting late. Laying down her pen, Mo went into the kitchen and found some leftover vegetable soup in the cavelike fridge. Back on Fox Street, she often heated up soup or made macaroni and cheese from the box. This industrial-sized stove, though, was strictly off-limits.

  But Mo was hungry and chilly, and her family would be too, if they ever got home. Pulling the pot from the fridge, Mo set it on the stove. She rubbed her cold hands together. If her father came home and found supper waiting, he might see she was still his partner, someone he could trust. The stove had a row of big, greasy black knobs. Mo picked one and twisted it. Flames shot up from the wrong burner. But when she tried to turn the knob back, it wouldn’t budge. The burner blazed like a giant iron spider that had caught on fire.

  And then, to make things worse, the overhead lights slowly dimmed. The room grew darker, the stove brighter. Panicking, Mo tried the knob again, but the flames only leaped higher. As if Mo’s own brain had lost power, she tried another knob, making two burning spiders, and then, who knows why, as if it would help, she lifted the heavy soup pot off the stove. At that same moment she heard footsteps, and the pot—the pot was her enemy too. It jumped from her hands and crashed to the floor.

  Mr. Wren darted into the kitchen. In the dim light he didn’t see the slippery spilled soup. “What the—?” Arms flailing, he fought off an invisible attacker. “Who the—?” He lurched to the stove and twisted the knobs. The flames vanished. The lights came back up, shining a spotlight on the mess.

  “Uh-oh,” said Dottie. Her arms were wrapped tight around a box with holes punched in its side.

  Heart hammering, Mo picked up a mop. But Mr. Wren grabbed it from her.

  “I can’t believe it! What’d I tell you about that stove?”

  Mo reached for the mop. “I’ll clean it up.”

  “What were you thinking?” He held the mop out of her reach.

  “I didn’t know where you were so long! And it was cold in here, and I was getting hungry, and . . .”

  “Here’s where we were!” Dottie held out the box. “Guess what, Mo! Daddy let me . . .”

  A look from Mr. Wren cut her off. Dottie bit her lip and hugged the box.

  “This stove isn’t for amateurs. As you found out the hard way.” He shoved the mop through the splattered mess of tomatoes and carrots, then stopped and gave her a terrible look. “You could’ve done some real damage.”

  “So why don’t we buy a better stove? Why do we have to use Corky’s old piece of junk?”

  “You have any idea what a restaurant-quality stove runs?”

  “So what? We sold our house! Why don’t we have more . . .”

  “Quit changing the subject. You disobeyed. Big- time. That’s not like you.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not like you, either! So we’re even.”

  Curse. The word swooped like a bat across Mo’s brain.

  Mr. Wren thumped the mop upright. “Go on. Go help your sister.”

  Angry tears pushed at the back of Mo’s eyes as she followed Dottie into the dining room. On the table where she’d been doing her homework sat a glass tank. Next to it was a big plastic sack that said PET UNIVERSE.

  “Any minute now,” Dottie whispered to the box as she set it down. From the bag she pulled out a fake rock with an electrical cord and a fake miniature palm tree. Once they’d gotten the rock plugged in, she told Mo, “You take the tank lid off.” She began to undo the flaps on the box.

  “Dottie, what’s in . . .”

  “Waaaa!”

  Something small and hideous shot across the table. Without thinking, Mo grabbed it. A tiny, crazy pulse beat in her hand.

  “Quick! The lid!”

  Dottie whipped it off, and Mo lowered the creature into the tank. They swooped the lid back on.

  Inside the tank, a scrawny lizard clung to the fake rock. Its bumpy skin was a sickly shade of gold. It was covered with dark spots, as if it wore a tiny leopard costume. After moving so fast, it suddenly grew so still, you could hardly tell it was alive.

  Dottie pressed her nose to the glass.

  “Here you are,” she told it. “This is your new home.”

  It stared back, then shot out a snakelike tongue.

  “How . . . why’d you pick him?” Mo imagined Pet Universe, all those kittens and hamsters and other fuzzy, cute, alive-acting things.

  “He was on discount. We’re not made of money, you know.” Dottie put a finger to the glass and gave a lovesick sigh. “Isn’t he so handsome?” She sat up in delight. “That’s what I’ll name him. Handsome Wren!”

  The hot rock had to be plugged in at all times, since cold could kill geckos. Handsome ate worms and live crickets, and Dottie planned to teach him all kinds of tricks. Finding her crayons, she began to draw a picture to decorate his tank.

  Mr. Wren came in carrying three cheeseburgers.

  “I almost forgot, Mo!” Dottie said. “Guess what else? He already know
s one really good trick. If a creditor tries to catches him, he just drops his tail off.”

  “Predator,” Mr. Wren corrected. “Though come to think of it, what’s the difference?”

  Dottie, fountain of happiness, bubbled over. Nobody else could talk, supposing they wanted to. This was the best cheeseburger she ever tasted, and burgers and fries went together so well they ought to get married. To demonstrate, she made a fry and her burger kiss, mm-wah. And wait till she told K.C. about her pet. K.C. only had a dog that farted and drooled on you, and when she wrote about Handsome in her journal tomorrow, Ms. Thomas would say again what a wonderful addition Dottie was to their classroom family, and . . .

  Meanwhile, Handsome Wren crouched on his rock, looking fragile as the old men on the park bench. What was he thinking? Just a few hours ago he’d lived one place, and now he found himself in a strange tank, not recognizing a single soul. Did he miss the old place? The other lizards he’d left behind? Was he trying to get back when he made his escape attempt? It was impossible to tell if a lizard was happy or sad. Not that it really mattered. He had no choice. Kids and pets had to go wherever they got taken.

  “Mo,” said Mr. Wren as she got up to clear the dishes. “Don’t you have something to say?”

  Mo lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “All right then.”

  I didn’t say what for.

  “You scared the stuffing out of me.”

  I wish we’d never moved here.

  “I know you want to help, but that wasn’t how.”

  I wish I had my old family back.

  Turning away from her, he ruffled Dottie’s hair. “Time for you to get ready for bed, little speck.”