Her father nodded, still too stupefied to process much. He rubbed his face some more and then his knee, trying to wake himself up.
“People came, Daddy. Just like you dreamed. I mean, like you dreamed for real. Sarah and Tim were the first ones here. She can cook. Not as good as you, but people seemed happy.”
Mr. Wren pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Wait. What? People were here?”
“Lots of people, Daddy. The buzz is on!”
Like someone in a fairy tale who thinks he’s been asleep for a night, only to discover a hundred years have gone by, her father’s mouth dropped.
“You opened?” He gaped. “On your own?”
“No, not on our own. With lots of help.” She touched his cheek. “They told me, Daddy. About you selling our house to them instead of the rich people.”
At last Mo saw the fog lift from his eyes.
“Sarah said it was the kindest thing anyone ever did, and they can’t ever repay you. But they did tonight.” Mo grabbed his Band-Aided hand. “They saved us, Daddy.”
“What do you know.” Mr. Wren sandwiched her hand in his. “What do you know.”
“Daddy, you picked the right people. I’m glad you sold them our house.”
“Mojo.”
The two of them leaned against each other, making the stair creak. Her arms and legs were beginning to let her know how hard they’d worked tonight. His sandpapery hands held hers tight. Here they were, here they were. In this world full of things that traveled—people, buses, sweaters—here they were, a fixed point, like a star, or a tree, or a bus shelter. The rest of the world rushed right by, while they held fast.
The door at the bottom of the steps opened. Dottie, her hostess dress streaked with something gross, her cheek rumpled with sleep, climbed up and wedged herself between Mo and the wall. Narrow as it was, that step somehow stretched to let her in, like every other place in the world.
“Are you all right now, Daddy?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But I guess I better be.” His arm worked its way up and around them both. “Somehow I woke up with a business to run.”
“Hostessing is way harder than it looks.” Dottie yawned. “But I’m good at it.”
That was turning out to be true of more things than Mo had ever dreamed.
Stumpy
Snow was one of those things that didn’t really go away but only turned into something else. Something like a drink for baby birds. When Mo stood beneath the sidewalk tree the next morning, she heard them up there, cheeping for all they were worth. She ran back inside to get some bread crusts, and by the time she came back out, someone had scattered seed beneath the tree.
Next door, Al knocked on his window and gave a hairy thumbs-up.
Melting snow gurgled in the gutters. It slipped from the tree branches to the sidewalk in wild, exploding clumps. Overhead, the sun did a victory dance, having defeated winter for good.
“What do you think?” called a voice.
Mo squinted against the glare. A table was walking toward her.
“Sidewalk dining! People love it. And look, there’s just enough room.”
No sooner did Carmella set down the round plastic table than a sparrow lighted on it, cocking its head to ask, “Where’s my menu?”
“Carmella!” Mo was so glad to see her. It had been three days, since the afternoon before the opening. Carmella wore a church dress and good shoes, and she carried a purse and a shopping bag.
“One of my customers is moving and asked if she could swap some lawn furniture for a bunch of free loads. I have four chairs too.” She fumbled with her purse strap, nervous for the first time in memory. The light in her eyes leaped up, disappeared, and leaped up again, as if her own personal wiring was about to short out.
“I’m going to see her.”
She could only mean one person.
“Contessa?”
Carmella nodded.
“For real? You two made up?”
“No no no.” Carmella waved a hand in front of her face. “I haven’t even talked to her. I’ve called and called, but she recognizes my number and won’t pick up.”
“But . . . you’re still going there?”
“That lecture you gave me, about if your sister’s lost, you find her. You just find her! I couldn’t get it out of my head. And then along came that freak snowstorm. It was just like the night our parents . . . well.” She waved that hand again. “I have to try.”
The sparrow did a loop-de-loop over their heads, above the tree, beyond the roof.
Carmella twisted her purse strap and threw a look in the direction of the park.
“Even if she turns me away, I have to try.”
Mo’s heart jittered. What if Contessa wouldn’t open her door? What if she let Carmella knock and knock till she finally gave up and went away again? Carmella was risking getting her heart broken, once and for all.
“You’re really brave,” Mo said.
“Say it again,” said Carmella.
“You’re . . .”
“Oh, sugar.” Carmella grabbed her hands. “I’ll repeat that to myself all the way there. If she turns me away . . . and even if she lets me in, after all these years . . . pain doesn’t heal so quick when you’re our age. But I have to try! Oh, did I say that already?” Carmella wrapped Mo in a suffocating hug. “I’ve got to catch the number twenty-three. It’s due any minute. Wish me luck.” She started down the street but whirled around and flew back. “I didn’t even ask how your daddy is! Homer told me . . .”
“He’s much better. Hurry, or you’ll miss the bus. I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Oh, don’t I know it, little wren!” She started off again but ran back one more time. “I almost forgot. This is for you and Red. It’s that time of year.”
She thrust the shopping bag at Mo and hurried down the street. You could practically see happiness and love floating just ahead of her, in sight, almost in reach. Go, thought Mo. Go, Carmella!
Here came that sparrow arrowing back to the tree. It was one of those days when, late afternoon, the sun and the moon share the sky. The moon was faint and low, patiently waiting its turn to shine. It was a lopsided moon, but look again and you’d see the missing piece, there and not there, both at once.
Mo set the shopping bag on the table and pulled out a pair of gardening gloves. Both thumbs were stained the color of grass. These gloves were well acquainted with growing things. And look, Carmella had put in packets of seed, too. Big-headed zinnias, curly-leafed parsley, a variety of pea called Little Marvel. They still had the price stickers on and couldn’t be from the lost and found. This time, Carmella had given Mo and Dottie something brand-new.
Though, if you thought about it—if you were a thinker—seeds went round and round, too. Seeds . . .
“Mo.” The front door opened a crack, and Dottie’s head poked out. Her voice was hushed. “Come here.”
Inside, Dottie held out her arms as if offering a bouquet. Her eyes were round as marbles. For the second time in minutes, Mo’s heart began to beat too fast.
“Dottie? What happened? Are you okay?”
Her little sister didn’t speak. Instead, slowly and gently, like a bud spreading its petals, she parted her hands.
Up popped a pointy, spotted head.
“No. Is it?” Mo leaned close. “It is. Oh, Handsome!” she breathed. “Handsome Wren.”
He shot out his tongue, then ducked back inside.
“How? Where? I can’t believe it!”
“I was watching TV and saw something move and looked and it was him. Just sitting there, staring at the TV with me! Just like we used to do!” Dottie lifted her hands to her face and spoke into her fingers. “You came back. You missed your home and you came back. I knew you would! I always knew!”
“What’s going on?” Mr. Wren, still moving as if the surface of the earth was more treacherous than people guessed, came in from the kit
chen. “Nah!” he said, when Dottie showed him. “It can’t be.”
Where had Handsome been all this time? How had he survived? Down the basement maybe, hunting spiders and thousand leggers and huddling near the boiler for warmth. Or was Dottie right, and he’d had his wild adventure but come back, homesick for them?
“Is he all right?” Mo asked.
“Look.” Dottie parted her hands, revealing Handsome’s backside. Where once he’d had a magnificent tail, there was now a hideous bulge.
“Ooh,” said Mo. “Ooh wee.”
“But it looks like it’s healing okay,” said Mr. Wren. “And look at that—I bet that’s a new tail growing in.”
“I know. Isn’t he so smart? You deserve a new name,” Dottie told him. “Stumpy, that’s what I’m going to call you now. Handsome Stumpy Wren.”
“Welcome back, H.S.W.”
Mo carried his tank from the kitchen, where they’d stored it, and set it on a table. Dottie plugged in the heat rock, and when they put him inside, Handsome hopped right on. He struck a noble, dignified pose, as if waiting to be photographed for Ripley’s. World’s Most Astonishing Lizard.
“We have to go buy him crickets,” Dottie said. “But first I have to make him a present.” She found paper and her crayons and got to work.
“Hey,” said Mr. Wren, pointing out the window. “What’s that table doing there?”
“For outdoor dining,” said Mo. “And Daddy, maybe we should plant some vegetables. We could put ‘garden fresh’ on the menu.”
“The backyard’s nothing but sun and dirt. It’s made for growing things.”
Mo pulled on the gardening gloves. Who knew where else they’d been? What other gardens they’d planted and tended? At the table, Dottie was working so hard, her crayon snapped in two. All around them, the yellow walls caught and held the new spring light. Mo flexed her gloved fingers. Probably the most important thing wasn’t to think about what you’d lost but what you’d found. Here they were, all three—all four—of them together.
“Ta da!” Dottie held up her sign.
What do you know. By now, Dottie Wren had learned how to spell something completely, perfectly right.
HOME SWEET HOME.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my incomparable agent, Sarah Davies, who continues to show me what I can do. Gratitude to my superb editor, Donna Bray, who gently steers me home when I get lost. Bouquets to all the kind, supportive librarians, teachers, booksellers, bloggers, and fellow writers who daily teach me what a wonderful community I’ve joined. All my love to Paul, who sustains me with encouragement and spicy food. And to my darling muses, Zoe, Phoebe, and Delia—who and where would I be without you? Every day you help me understand how lucky I am.
About the Author
TRICIA SPRINGSTUBB has been a teacher and a children’s librarian. WHAT HAPPENED ON FOX STREET, her previous novel, is the first book about Mo Wren and her family. Tricia is the mother of three daughters and lives in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. You can visit her online at www.triciaspringstubb.com.
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Also by Tricia Springstubb
WHAT HAPPENED ON FOX STREET
Credits
Jacket art © 2011 by Heather Ross
Jacket design by Sarah Hoy
Copyright
Mo Wren, Lost and Found
Text copyright © 2011 by Tricia Springstubb
Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Heather Ross
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Springstubb, Tricia.
Mo Wren, lost and found / by Tricia Springstubb. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: After living her entire life on Fox Street, eleven-year-old Mo Wren must adjust to her new life—living in an apartment on East 213th Street, above the “cursed” Corky’s Tavern.
ISBN 978-0-06-199039-7 (trade bdg.)
[1. Moving, Household—Fiction. 2. Family life—Fiction. 3. Restaurants—Fiction. 4. Neighborhoods—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S76847Mm 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2011001896
CIP
AC
11 12 13 14 15 LP/RRDB 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
EPub Edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 9780062093387
First Edition
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