Sam’s words caused something important to happen: a piece of my broken heart clicked back into place.
The bake sale/car wash was held in the parking lot of the First United Methodist Church. Coach Murphy used her whistle to direct traffic. Reverend Walker led a special prayer service in the chapel.
“Hey,” Kelly yelled from the bake sale booth. “Come and meet Jenny.”
Jenny had Kelly’s great smile. A red cowboy hat shaded her face and covered her head. I bent down so that I was level with her wheelchair. “Could I take your picture for the school paper?”
Jenny nodded.
While I snapped a couple of photos, she chattered away. “I like the chocolate cake the best, but the oatmeal cookies are good too, and the brownies are double fudge. Do you like double fudge?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you, Jenny?”
“Six. How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“You’re the same age as Kelly and Sam.”
“You know Sam?”
“Of course I do, silly. She gave me the cowboy hat and brings Penny to visit me.”
“She does, huh?” I’d watched Sam play with Jonathan, so I wasn’t surprised. Sam loved kids.
I met Kelly and Jenny’s mom next. Mrs. Hutton had the same tired, sad look as my own mom. I wished I could promise her things would get better, but I knew sometimes they get worse.
Mrs. Hutton signed a permission slip so that I could put Jenny’s picture in the school paper. “Be sure and write how much we appreciate everyone showing up here,” she said.
After that I took some photos of the car wash. Sam and Dwayne were scrubbing a brown farm truck that had seen better days. They looked like a couple of drowned rats. “What happened to you two?”
“Sam turned the hose on me,” Dwayne said. He dipped his rag in a bucket of soapy water and laughed. “And you know I couldn’t let that slide.”
Sam lifted the end of her shirt and wrung the water out. “Big D was working up a sweat. I had to cool him off!”
Watching Sam and Dwayne cheered me up a little, but Jenny’s wheelchair and cowboy hat had made my heart hurt.
I slipped into the chapel just in time to hear the last words of Reverend Walker’s prayer service. “Talk to God the same way you talk to your father. Tell him your troubles and ask for his help.”
I wasn’t speaking to my real father, but maybe God would listen to me. I asked for two miracles: for Jenny to get well, and for my parents to get back together again.
Sam stretched across her bed and closed her eyes. “I’m tired. Washing cars is hard enough, but farm trucks caked with mud are a pain in the butt.”
I curled up on the twin bed opposite Sam’s with Johnny Tremain. “Do you believe in prayer?”
“What?” Sam’s eyes blinked open. “Where’d that question come from?”
I told her about praying for Jenny and my parents at the prayer service.
“Sure, I believe in prayer. It’s church I have a problem with.”
“Why?”
“Start with the name One True Way. What if there isn’t one? Most kids are whatever religion their parents are. I’d probably be Jewish or Muslim if that’s the way I’d been raised.”
“You probably would, but maybe not. I guess each person has to find their own true way.”
“What’s yours?” Sam asked.
Her question stopped me like a roadblock. Knowing what’s true should have been easy, but it wasn’t. I had to look deep inside. “I’m not sure when it comes to religion. Until Eric died, I hadn’t given it much thought, but now I wonder. I wonder what happened to his soul, and if some part of him is still with me. Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Nope.”
“A couple other things feel true too. Being a reporter and being with you.”
A big smile spread across Sam’s face. “Good answer. My church isn’t true, at least not for me, but basketball, riding Penny, and being your best friend, all of those feel true.”
She had said it! Sam had called me her best friend! I felt as warm and gooey inside as melted chocolate, but before I found the words to tell her, Sam’s eyes drifted shut. “How about reading to me?” she asked.
My hands were trembling when I opened Johnny Tremain, but soon I got lost in the story. The bedroom faded away and I was in Boston just before the Revolutionary War. I cringed when Johnny burned his hand on the furnace.
Sam’s voice brought me back to the real world. “I like looking at you.”
“What?”
“I like watching you read. When Mrs. Lapham sent for the midwife instead of the doctor, your face turned red.”
A little self-conscious, I marked my place and closed the book. “Reading is an adventure. It’s like I traveled to Boston without ever leaving your room.”
Sam brushed her hair off her forehead and smiled. “Ready for a real adventure?”
“Maybe.”
“Let’s feed Penelope some carrots.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a big adventure.”
“Just wait. You’ve never tried to hand-feed a horse before.”
Sam and I walked through knee-high pasture grass that was starting to turn dry and brittle. She put her fingers to her lips and gave a shrill whistle. When she shook the brown paper bag she was carrying, Penny knew carrots were inside and came running.
“Our first lesson is called How to Feed a Horse and Keep Your Fingers,” Sam said.
I stuck my hands deep into the front pockets of my jeans. “Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.”
“Oh, it’s a great idea. Penelope has never bitten off anybody’s fingers yet.”
It was the yet that worried me.
“There’s more than one way to feed a horse,” Sam said. “Lots of people keep their palms flat, but if you get scared and move your hand, Penny could bite you by mistake.”
I didn’t want Penny to make a mistake. Not even a little one. “Okay, what’s the best way?”
“Watch this.” Sam wrapped her right fist around a carrot, leaving a few inches sticking out of the top. “Here you go, Penny.”
Penelope used her lips and slid the carrot out of Sam’s grip. “Good girl,” Sam said. “See … I didn’t jerk, or tease, or pull away. Penny wants the carrot, not my fingers.”
“It’d be easier to throw the carrot on the ground.”
“It would, but I want you to make friends with Penny. When the two of you get used to each other, riding will be as easy as walking.”
I took a deep breath. My heart was beating like a snare drum, but I wrapped my fist around a carrot anyway. “I’m nervous.”
Sam covered my fist with hers. “We’ll do it together this time.”
My fist tingled. I couldn’t decide if it was because of Sam or Penelope. And if it was because of Sam, what did that mean?
Monday after school, I waited for Webb while Miss Holt graded papers. She had perfectly shaped oval nails. I’d been biting mine since Eric died, and I needed to stop.
Miss Holt looked up from her work and caught me staring at her. “How are you settling in here at Daniel Boone?” she asked.
“Good, mostly because of Sam.”
“I enjoyed the article you wrote about her. It seems Sam’s never met a stranger. She has a real knack for making friends.”
“I wish I was like that.”
Miss Holt shrugged. “Be who you are, Allie. You have different talents. Sam would struggle to write for the school paper the way you do.” She tapped her red pen on the desk. “What would you like to write next?”
“That’s easy. I’d like to interview as many seventh-grade students as I possibly can this year. It would be a good way for me to make friends.”
Miss Holt let the idea slide in like Eric used to at home plate. “Most kids enjoy talking about themselves,” she said, “and it would be interesting for teachers and administrators too. A way for us to learn even more about our students.
”
Webb interrupted us, hurrying in with his briefcase. “Sorry I’m late. I was talking to Mr. Dezern about the reign of Czar Nicholas II. He may teach U.S. History, but the man is a treasure trove of knowledge about Europe too.”
I liked Webb a lot. He was the only kid I knew who carried a briefcase and used words like treasure trove. “Where’s Dwayne?” I asked. It was funny how on my first day Webb said he normally required a writing sample. He’d made it sound like kids were lining up to write for the school paper. Instead, Dwayne and I made up his entire staff.
“Big D’s at basketball practice. He’s a man of many talents.” Webb sat down and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What have you got for me there, Allie?”
I passed him the article about Kelly Hutton and her sister. “Cheering for a Cause” had more depth than the article I’d written about Sam. I’d researched St. Jude and challenged kids to get involved.
“Incredible,” Webb pronounced. He pushed his glasses up. “I’ll donate part of my allowance, and I bet other kids will too. This article matters! I may have to change your byline to Allie Drake—Star Reporter.”
I loved being called a star! Eric had been a star baseball player, and Sam had won trophies, but I’d never been a star before.
Miss Holt spoke up. “Allie would like to make this a regular column.”
“Agreed,” Webb said. “Allie, who would you like to feature next?”
“You.”
“B-b-b-b … b-b-but why?” Webb sputtered. “I’m the editor in chief.”
“You’re also a unique character.”
Webb agreed to the interview, and that’s when my problems started.
Webb’s mom was in England visiting relatives, so he had his dad call my mom and invite me for dinner. I wanted to see where Webb lived and figure out the answer to the burning question most of my readers were probably wondering about: why did he carry a briefcase?
On our walk to his house, Webb kept switching said briefcase from his right hand to his left. “What have you got in there?”
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Webb joked. “Books. I mostly carry around books.”
“Why?”
“When my grandfather died, he left me his library and his briefcase. Gramps was my favorite relative.” Webb gestured toward a house surrounded by a white picket fence. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I followed him through an arbor with climbing red roses to a hidden garden.
“You should see it in the spring when the phlox and hydrangeas are blooming,” Webb said.
I couldn’t picture him grubbing in the dirt. “You work in the garden?” I asked.
“I’m a gentleman farmer. We raise herbs and vegetables, and grow both perennial and annual flowers.” He pointed toward a bed of purple blossoms. “Our fall pansies should last for a couple more weeks yet.”
I ran over to a stone bench and sat down. The shrubs were planted around it like an outdoor room. It had a magical feeling. “Reminds me of The Secret Garden.”
“I’ve read that book too,” Webb said.
After I had thoroughly explored outside, Webb showed me his library, a dark-paneled room with bookshelves on all four walls. A biography of Winston Churchill lay on a table painted like a chessboard.
“Do you play chess?” Webb asked.
“No.”
“What about Diplomacy?”
“What’s that?”
“Only the best board game in the history of the world, but don’t take my word for it. John F. Kennedy thought so too.”
“John F. Kennedy, huh?” Webb had to be the smartest kid I’d ever met.
The Wallaces lived a lot more formally than Mom and me. Webb’s dad had set the table with fine china and cloth napkins.
“I hope you like shepherd’s pie,” Webb said.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.”
“The crust is made of mashed potatoes,” Webb said. “Underneath is a stew of ground meat, onions, carrots, and peas.”
It was delicious.
Webb’s dad sipped red wine and asked so many questions I felt like a game show contestant.
Yes, my mom was a librarian.
No, I didn’t think my dad would be moving to North Carolina.
Yes, I liked DB Middle School so far.
No, Webster hadn’t told me he could play the tuba, but I would LOVE to hear him.
Webb groaned. “Do not, I repeat, do not mention the tuba in your article.”
I offered to help with the dishes, but Mr. Wallace suggested we get started on our homework instead.
Back in the library, Webb and I sat across from each other at the chessboard table. I doodled in my notebook and jotted down random thoughts for my article. I wished Webb would play the tuba for me.
“Allie … would you …”
I looked up from my doodling and Webb was the color of a bright red geranium.
“What is it, Webb? Just spit it out.”
“Would you go … would you go … to the Pioneer Days Celebration with me?”
“Uh … maybe. What is Pioneer Days?”
“A weekend that celebrates our town’s history. It’s sort of like a fair.”
I liked Webb too much to hurt his feelings, and besides, I was curious. I’d never been on a date before. But mostly the reason I said yes was to earn the byline Allie Drake—Star Reporter. “If you’ll play the tuba and let me write about it, then I’ll go with you.”
“Deal!” Webb shouted.
On the ride home, I stared out the window into the darkness. Allie Drake—Star Reporter had become Allie Drake—Confused Girl.
“What are you thinking about?” Mom asked.
She kept her eyes on the road and her hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. Her counseling sessions with Reverend Walker were helping, but she still hated driving at night. “Nothing.”
Mom stayed quiet. She knew I’d eventually get around to telling her what was on my mind. “Do you remember the first time you really liked a boy?”
“Yes.”
Mom launched into a story about her first date. It happened a long, long time ago, just before the dinosaurs. “How’d you know if you liked him more than just a friend?”
Mom pulled into the driveway, but neither one of us got out of the car. “Well, I thought about him a lot. My heart beat faster every time I saw him, but mostly it was the way I felt when he held my hand. Sort of breathless.”
I didn’t feel any of those things about Webb. “Did you want him to kiss you?”
Mom rummaged in her pocketbook and divided a Snickers bar with me. “Yeah, kissing him was nice.”
I had zero interest in kissing Webb. Back when we were a normal family, Dad always used to ask, What’s your gut telling you? It was his way of reminding me that deep inside I already knew the answer.
“Honey, it’s okay if you like boys.”
“I know, but is it okay if I don’t like them? That’s what’s worrying me.”
Mom laughed. “That’s okay too. You’re young. There’s plenty of time left to fall in love.”
As soon as the light went out in Mom’s room, I called Sam. I stretched the long cord from the hall to my bed and plopped down. “Hi, Sam.”
“I was hoping it was you.”
I felt a goofy smile spread across my face.
“How did dinner at Webb’s house go?”
“It was … different.”
Sam laughed. “Hanging out with Webb always is. Did he teach you to play Diplomacy?”
“Not exactly.” I told her about Webb asking me to the Pioneer Days Celebration, and how I mostly said yes so that he’d play the tuba for me.
“Oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I just thought we’d be going to Pioneer Days together, but it’s no big deal. I’ll ask Phoebe.”
Phoebe with the feathered red hair. I wished I hadn’t told Webb yes. I wi
shed it all the way down to my toes. “Sam, have you ever kissed a boy?”
“A couple times during Spin the Bottle.”
“Did you like it?”
“Not really. I’d rather play basketball with boys than kiss them. Hey, I got a question. Are we still having lunch tomorrow?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“I thought maybe you’d want to eat with Webb.”
Why did one date have to be such a big deal? “I’d rather have lunch with you.” My voice sounded froggy.
“Ribbit, ribbit,” Sam said. “Relax, Allie. I was just making sure.”
After she hung up, I sat cradling the phone for a long time.
Webb started following me around like a lovesick puppy. My article “Webster Wallace for President” made it even worse. I guess he figured if I wrote such nice things about him that it must be love, or at least an extreme case of like. It wasn’t.
On the way to the lunchroom, Sam snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Allie. I repeat … Earth to Allie.”
“What?”
“I promised Phoebe we’d have lunch with her.”
“Again? She sits at Webb’s table.”
Sam grinned. “It doesn’t really matter where we sit. It’s like a nursery rhyme. Everywhere that Allie goes, Webb is sure to follow.”
It had been that way for the past three weeks. I thought about hiding out in the library, but it was pizza day, and I was hungry. If I had a magic wand, I’d break my date with Webb without hurting his feelings.
Sam took a seat beside Phoebe, and in less than five seconds, Webb moved to sit beside me. He reached into his lunch bag and pulled out a jelly doughnut. “Sweets for the sweet,” he said.
I used to think the old-fashioned things he said were funny, but not anymore. He’d even ruined my taste for jelly doughnuts.
“Hey, Webb, how’s your garden?” Sam asked.
They talked about getting a garden ready for the winter and playing Diplomacy. I ate my pizza in silence.
“I wanna braid Penny’s mane for the Pioneer Days horse show,” Sam said. “I’m gonna ride her in three events: Barrel Racing, Western Pleasure, and Egg and Spoon.”
One True Way Page 4