Oh no! Timmy gasped, fearful that Eddie would crash into a tree and get seriously hurt. Instead he heard a splashing sound as Pedro walked toward the other edge of the path. They checked the nearby forest and found Eddie seated in a small brook shrouded with skunk cabbage. The boy was wet and muddy from head to toe.
Eddie saw them looking down at him with pity and he scowled. “This is all your fault Shrimpo!” He started to get up. Good, Timmy thought, at least he’s not hurt.
“Let’s go, Pedro,” he said.
“Yep,” Pedro said. He let out his most ear-piercing bray to date, causing Eddie to stop and cover his ears. “We’ve got a race to win,” Pedro added and then headed back down the path toward the field.
As they emerged from the forest, Timmy could see the crowd waiting by the finish line. Somewhere among that crowd were Mr. Atkins and Kelly. He rode proudly. He could see phones, cameras, and video cameras held up photographing the finish.
Pedro leapt over the small stone wall and headed into the homestretch.
“Ow,” he said.
“What? Did your hoof hit the wall?” Timmy said. “I didn’t feel anything.”
“Nope. The burrs.”
Timmy smiled and Pedro trotted across the finish line.
He saw Kelly, and she held up her fist and gave a little kick. Mr. Atkins smiled and hollered, “Get over here Timmy and Pedro. I wanna give you a big, Texas-style hug.”
The judge, a tall man in a white, button-down shirt and khaki pants, handed Timmy the prize. It was a little gold-plated trophy of a boy atop a donkey. It was the smallest trophy Timmy had ever seen, but he somehow knew at that moment, as he accepted the trophy from the judge, that it would be the symbol of something big for the rest of his life.
Timmy got down from Pedro and Kelly immediately hugged him, then placed a big, sloppy kiss on his cheek. He turned shyly, the emotions swirling around in his chest, his asthma threatening to spoil the moment. As he did, he noticed some of the other riders emerging from the woods; first the girl, then Eddie, then the boy on the donkey, and finally the sweaty kid in the Steelers jersey on foot, leading his mule by its bridle.
Pedro snorted, angry no one was paying him any attention.
Timmy and Mr. Atkins stared at the donkey.
Pedro snorted again. “Brr-brr-burrrrs,” he said.
“Oh,” Timmy said, slapping his own hand in guilt. “I forgot . . . Eddie put burrs under Pedro’s saddle.” Timmy un-girthed the saddle and handed it to Mr. Atkins. Then he reached up and picked a dozen or more smashed burrs from Pedro’s back.
Mr. Atkins sighed. “The devilish brat,” he said. He wheeled toward the stands and saw Sam Batts, Eddie’s father, staring angrily out toward his son. “But I know why he’s such a bad kid,” Mr. Atkins said.
Finally Mr. Batts couldn’t stand it anymore. A girl had just crossed the finish line before his son. He got up from his bleacher seat and strode down toward the gate and entered the field. He marched toward his son as Eddie crossed the finish line third, then reached up and seized the boy’s arm.
“Now that ain’t right,” Mr. Atkins hollered and then strode over to Eddie and his father.
By this time Eddie was down from his mule, his father clutching his arm and dragging him from the field, a fully drenched Eddie tripping and staggering in tow. When they reached the fence, Mr. Atkins was there to intercept them.
“Now first off, you done left the mule in the middle of an open field and for that I want to give you a Texas-style thwomping.”
Kelly said, “Oh no, I think they’re going to fight.”
Timmy nodded and then turned to pat Pedro’s neck. “Ready to save ol' J.T. in case he needs our help, Pedro?”
Pedro swung his head up and down.
From the field, Mr. Atkins continued, “And secondly, you take your hands off that boy right now or I is gonna call a police officer.”
Timmy watched nervously as Sam Batts squared his shoulders to Mr. Atkins. “That’s none of your business,” he said, including a bad word.
Mr. Atkins said, “If I see you touch that boy now, or find out you touch him when you get home, I’m gonna send the sheriff and then some.”
Mr. Batts shoved Eddie ahead and Timmy let out a sigh of relief as Mr. Atkins stepped aside to let Eddie and Mr. Batts pass.
“You lost to a girl!” Sam Batts spat as he pushed his son again toward the exit. “You’ve shamed me and our whole family!”
“Nah,” Mr. Atkins called after Sam Batts. “You the one who is shaming your entire family.” He walked over and placed his hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “Does everything make sense now Timmy?” he asked.
Timmy watched Mr. Batts push Eddie until the two of them were out of sight. He nodded.
“Great,” Mr. Atkins said. “Now let’s go and have a celebratory dinner at my place. Kelly, your mom is coming to get you, right?”
And just then Mrs. Monahan walked over. “I’m here, just like clockwork,” she said. She turned to her daughter and said, “How’d you do?”
Kelly ran to her mom and hugged her. “I won, Mom.” Her head twisted around and she winked at Timmy. “We’re all winners today.”
Chapter Twenty
They were standing in the paddock of Crabapple Farm, talking about the highlights of the fair, when a boom of thunder sounded from the darkening gray sky.
Mr. Atkins and Kelly looked up—but Timmy peered into the shadowy stall from which Pedro had spoken to him that first time last year.
And then, just as it had done on that strange day late last summer, the rain fell in buckets and the three of them scampered for the closest cover, into Pedro’s stall to wait for the heavy stuff to stop.
Déjà vu.
Except this time . . . Timmy was happier.
He looked into Pedro’s big eyes. Thank you, he said silently.
Pedro nodded.
Seemingly unaware of this silent connection between Timmy and his donkey, Mr. Atkins said, “I got some hot dogs inside I’ll grill for you kids as soon as this storm passes. Some potato salad and lemonade too. It’s a special occasion.”
From the pocket of her shorts, Kelly took out her phone. “Special occasion is right,” she said. “And I think the camera on this phone has a flash.” In the close quarters she nudged Timmy. “Go stand next to that prize-winning donkey and I’ll get a picture. Hold up your little trophy.”
Timmy didn’t argue. He shuffled over next to Pedro and snuggled in, placing his head against Pedro’s neck and slipping his right hand over the top of the donkey’s back. He held up the small gold-plated trophy and smiled for the camera.
Kelly clicked. A bright flash and then she checked the phone screen. “Ha-ha. Gorgeous.”
Outside the rain began to slow.
****
By the time he and Kelly had each finished their third lemonade, Timmy had to use the bathroom. While washing up he looked in the mirror. The boy staring back at him had the same rusty orange hair, same freckles, and was the same height as yesterday—yet today something was different. This time Timmy wasn’t ashamed of his reflection. There was no shame in who he was.
Only pride.
Mrs. Monahan drove up in her sport utility vehicle a few minutes later. She’d been nice enough to allow Kelly to leave the fair with Timmy and Mr. Atkins while she’d returned Ponce to his stable. Both Timmy and Kelly hugged Mr. Atkins and thanked him for dinner—and for everything. As Kelly stepped down from the porch and headed toward the car, Timmy faced Mr. Atkins and said, “One more question about Pedro, Mr. Atkins.”
The Texan cocked his head and said, “Go ahead.”
“You said he was a special donkey,” Timmy started. “Did you . . . I mean . . . did Pedro ever . . .” He stopped and searched Mr. Atkins’ eyes for help.
Mr. Atkins placed a finger to his lips in a silencing gesture. Confused, Timmy continued to stare at the man’s face until finally Mr. Atkins shrugged and said. “Uh, best way to put it is Pedro has
this magical effect on everyone and everything around him.” He gave Timmy a moment to digest this, then winked and flashed a big, gap-toothed smile.
The meaning of Mr. Atkins’ words slowly dawned on him—the talking horses, the unbelievable clobbering of Eddie and his gang last month, today’s victorious race—Timmy smiled back. The explanation would have to do for now. Mrs. Monahan and Kelly were waiting and he would have plenty of time to discuss Pedro the prize-winning donkey another day. He thanked and bid Mr. Atkins good night once again, then hopped down from the porch and got in the backseat of Mrs. Monahan’s SUV.
“Have fun?” Mrs. Monahan asked, gazing back at them through the rear view mirror.
“Sure did,” Kelly chirped.
“Yes, Mrs. Monahan,” Timmy said.
“Well, that’s great to hear,” she said, her eyes returning to the road.
“Here ya go,” Mrs. Monahan said, angling the SUV into Timmy’s driveway following the short ride. As Timmy started to unbuckle his seat belt, Kelly leaned over and pressed her lips hard against his cheek. She whispered, “I’m so proud of you.”
Timmy felt strangely warm smothered by her pushing up against him, and he couldn’t breathe. At first he thought it was his asthma rearing its ugly head. But then he realized that he was okay, and that the kiss—and Kelly’s closeness—had triggered something else. Something he hadn’t felt much of in his life. That thing growing in him now wasn’t asthma or claustrophobia but—
Joy.
He shifted in the seat and kissed Kelly back. “Good night, Kelly . . . Good night, Mrs. Monahan.” He unfastened the seat belt and then pushed the door open. He climbed out, and as he headed for the front door, he noticed his mom’s car and glanced back once to wave to Kelly and Mrs. Monahan. Mom was home from the hospital where she’d had to work the Sunday shift. It would be good to see her and tell her about all the fun he’d had today.
So much fun that he was looking forward to tomorrow.
He knocked on the door to be let in and as he waited, in the distance, a donkey brayed.
About the Author
Dean Lombardo was born in Norwalk, CT, and now resides in northern Virginia. He is an author and avid traveler who makes it a point to explore many of the same settings where his fictional characters can be found. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Journalism and a natural curiosity about the universe and many things in it.
“Donkey Sense” is Dean’s third published novel, his first for a younger audience. His previous two novels include the sci-fi/satire "Space Games” (Kristell Ink, 2013) and the sci-fi/horror novel "Vespa" (Active Bladder, 2007). When not writing or researching his novels, Dean works as a writer and editor in the information technology industry, with a focus on software products. Prior to that, he served as an editor and reporter for several newspapers and magazines in New York and Connecticut. Besides writing and traveling, he enjoys hiking and reading suspenseful novels and mainstream scientific journals.
Dean lives with his wife Karen, and their two children, one dog, and a cat.
Also from Astraea Press
TOP TEN THINGS I'D RATHER DO THAN GET A LECTURE FROM MY PARENTS
10.Pick up Jenny's dog poo from yard. She's obviously trying to get the award for the biggest number two EVER.
9.Clean my eight-year-old brother's bathroom even though he gets more pee on the wall and floor than in the toilet.
8.Squeeze zits—even ones beside my nose that make getting my braces tightened seem like fun times.
7.Eat Mom's turkey-shaped soy alternative instead of the real thing on Thanksgiving.
6.Do everybody's laundry for a whole year.
5.Walk around with a KICK ME sign on my back‒had to do it in fifth grade on a lost dare so I'm no stranger to going viral online.
4.Repeat sixth grade even though it's driving me completely insane.
3.Have conversation with Mom about "Becoming a Woman" (don't forget the finger quotes).
2.Have conversation with Dad about "Becoming a Woman".
And the #1 thing I'd rather do than get a lecture from my parents:
Buy gas relief medicine at the pharmacy for Dad while cutest
box boy ever asks if I need a bag. Totally serious right now.
Chapter One
DOWN THE HOLE
Bet I can beat you for most embarrassing moment. I'm living it right now and no, it doesn't involve a toilet paper tail stuck to the bottom of my shoe while walking down the hallway at school. Instead, four firemen (why can't they be ugly?) just yanked me out of a sewer hole and were staring at me like I was insane. But it wasn't the three super old twenty-somethings who made me want to die. It was the one on the end who made me squirm and doubt whether I should give them my real name.
Because I absolutely knew who he was. My crush. David Perkins, a whole grade older than me and the cutest guy in the seventh grade class, let alone all of Crossley Prep. Only he could take my mind off of my Life's Mission. But more on that later—just as soon as Mr. Perfect, the guy most unlikely to be my first boyfriend, isn't right in front of me. I stared up at him. His junior fireman-in-training badge glimmered in the sun.
Sigh. He was never going to think of me that way. Instead his eyes said, This girl's psycho for sure. And clearing up the crazy question was most def out. That would mean I'd have to tell him the real reason I'd ended up six feet below street level. Rule number one about a top-secret investigation: keep your mouth shut and look nuts if you have to. Definitely had an A+ in that department.
"Hey," David breaks the stare-down. "I know you from somewhere?"
But before I could answer, one of them plops this box in front of me and pulls out some pretty official doctor-y stuff from it. The others began talking to each other because apparently I've worn out their interest. Except David. He's still staring like I'm some hot new…circus act.
"Okay, Katherine, is it?" the guy asks, practically choking me with this ugly collar thingy. "I'm Matt. Hold still while I get your vitals. We need to monitor you to make sure you aren't in shock."
The padded collar was tight and I couldn't move, which I guess was the point. I pushed my hair out of my eyes. My curls were super annoying, bouncing around like everything was great.
"But I'm fine!" I finally said. "I don't need you to monitor anything." And I was. I'd taken CPR two years in a row so I could be a junior lifeguard. I was breathing, my heart was beating, so back up, fella. But no one was listening to me. Instead they were all jokey-jokey with each other. I mean, excuse me for not being closer to death.
"Fine, huh?" Matt said. "Let me be the judge of that, Red." He tousled my curls like I was a cocker spaniel. Or maybe I should say like a puli, because I'm the human equivalent with my big, fat, red cigar curls. You know those dogs that run around looking like an old-fashioned mop? Cute hair on a puli, not so cute on an almost-twelve-year-old girl like myself. David laughed and his eyes got all squinty, but in a cute way. Too bad he was laughing at me, not with me.
Then I overheard some official fire-chief-guy (thought they only wore those big red hats in the movies) say, "Yes, Mrs. Goldstein, we're at the scene right now. Your daughter's okay and you can meet us over at Citrus Grove Community."
Crud. The rest of my day was about to become epically messed up. Solitary confinement once the Unit (Unit = Mom = the General) gets ahold of me. I know there'll be mounds of dishes to wash and toilets to scrub. She'll never understand I had a good reason for doing what I did. I mean, what would you rather do? Study for a stupid math test or carry out your Life's Mission, aka hunting for secret tunnels? Talk about total unleashing of parental ridiculousity—made up words are sometimes the best words—on me. Did I mention yet that being in sixth grade has serious drawbacks?
But wait. What if I seemed more hurt? Would I still be grounded for life? I started second-guessing my injuries. Was that a muscle spasm in my back?
You know, I wouldn't have to be making up lies if I just had better luck. All I was tryin
g to do was make a monumental discovery in the archaeology world. Instead I end up here as the joke of the Citrus Grove Fire Department. I mean, who knew old sewer covers were sometimes hidden? Who knew they eventually rust and break apart? Isn't someone supposed to be watching out for this kind of stuff so nobody gets hurt?
Guess not unless that person is a massive failure in the keeping-track-of-all-things-dangerous department. Seriously, one minute I'm in the alley behind the old Fox Theater, looking for a way into the tunnels and the next—poof, gone. Yeah, I guess I was squeezed between the buildings, and yeah, it didn't seem like anybody had been there in decades, but still. The ground shouldn't just collapse beneath you in a civilized society. Worst part? Absolutely no tunnels anywhere in sight at the bottom of that hole.
Here's a little background. Some call the tunnels an urban legend. You know, a made-up story that people start believing. But I knew the tunnels were real and I was going to prove it to the world any day now. Soon all of modern civilization would know ancient people built tunnels and went underground here in Citrus Grove to hide from the world.
So I just needed solid evidence. And to be able to answer the question of why they'd done this. Were they deformed? Did they have a human body with an amphibian's head? Maybe they were lizards or something? This discovery would make me a rock star in the archaeology world and I could go on all kinds of digs. It would be the ultimate life. Uncovering ancient ruins all over the world with cute guys in cargo shorts digging right beside me? Woo-hoo! After all, a girl's got to think about her dating future, too.
David stepped closer and started to put a band around my arm. "I'm just going to check your blood pressure, so relax."
My heart was pounding hard now and it sounded like a river was whooshing through my head. Relax? With him so close to me? His voice was kind of raspy and I wondered what he would sound like on the phone. Evan says that a two-hour phone convo with a guy whose voice you like is the best. Being a year older than me and my friend since kindergarten (don't tell anyone he repeated the big k-grade) he comes in handy sometimes with crucial info like this.
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