Vilonia Beebe Takes Charge

by Kristin L. Gray

  Leon sped by me to wait with the guys from the sixth-grade track team. If only they knew how silly they looked, huddled together like ducks in matching pants. I zipped by unnoticed, or so I thought, until one of them quacked, “Hey, Vilonia.” I stopped. Rory Willoughby, one of the Willoughby twins, with hair so wavy even the ocean was jealous, ran toward me. I bit my lip. Maybe he was going to ask me to prom. It was only five years away.

  “Hey,” I said, not noticing one bit that his cute freckles had migrated across the bridge of his nose and his eyes were now greener than a four-leaf clover.

  He grinned. A row of metal flashed across his teeth, and my legs became spaghetti. “Thanks for rescuing Eleanor.”

  “Thanks for being so perfect.”

  “What?” He tilted his head.

  “Perky!” I died faster than an armadillo crossing the highway. “Thanks for being so perky. Most people aren’t morning material.”

  “Yeah. Well, thanks again.” He smiled. I turned away and squinted through the raindrops, happy to see the bus’s headlights peeping through the fog.

  “Gotta run,” I said.

  “I’d sit toward the front of the bus if I were you,” he said, and took off.

  “Hey, Vilonia!” Ava Claire waved and shuffled up the walk next to me in full rain gear. Her dark cheeks flushed pink from the brisk morning air. “What was that about?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.” I shrugged and pointed to the rosy tulle poking out beneath her daisy raincoat. “Really, AC? It’s raining, in case you missed it.”

  “In case you missed it, it’s Career Day in Mr. Manning’s class. Anyway, weather doesn’t stop me. I’ve got rain boots.”

  And she did. She probably had a matching umbrella in her backpack too.

  Ava Claire was all ruffles and tutus and sparkly dance shoes—everything I wasn’t. I’d played softball since I could swing a bat, but Ava Claire wasn’t interested the minute she laid her brown eyes on those “ugly spiked shoes.” She’d rather twirl onstage in scratchy sequins under one-thousand-watt lights. Yeah, we went together like toothpaste and orange juice, but if anyone tried picking on either one of us, we stuck together like gum to a shoe.

  “Hey,” she said again, plopping down in the seat beside mine. “You didn’t come over last night.”

  “I know. Sorry.” I pressed my back against the window and stretched my legs out across the seat. “We forfeited our game—long story—and then Miss Bettina dropped by.” I sighed. AC would have me over every day of the week if she could.

  “Bummer. It’s okay.” Her mouth twisted into a frown, and she reached for the silver locket around her neck. “He didn’t call.”

  Poodles! I can’t believe I forgot to ask.

  “And”—she paused, turning her locket over—“it’s been five weeks since he wrote.”

  It was my turn to frown. No wonder she watched for the mail every day. I looked at the locket General Nutter had given his daughter before he was deployed to Afghanistan nine months ago. “Well. I’m sure he’s okay. Just busy, you know. Bringing peace to the world.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” She let go of the necklace. Her face brightened. “Neely’s hopeful he’ll be home soon. Maybe in time for the Catfish Festival next weekend.” So, AC called her mother by her first name. She insisted “Neely” sounded more professional and helped her drum up clients for her nail salon.

  “The Festival! That’d be great,” I said. “Maybe he’ll catch your dance for the pageant! And I know how much the general loves fish. He’s always one of the first in line at the Willoughbys’ food truck.”

  “Yeah,” she gushed. “I still can’t believe I was asked to dance. They had a last-minute cancellation and invited me on Miss Connelly’s recommendation.” She let out a dreamy sigh. “It’s just a transition number while the contestants change costumes, but it’s still onstage at Miss Catfish!” My best friend squealed so high only dogs could hear.

  “And I’ll be in the front row, cheering you on. I can paint my face and bring one of those giant foam fingers that say ‘number one fan.’ ”

  “Vilonia, this isn’t baseball. And the general would get dibs on the foam sign anyway.” She frowned. “Not that I’m getting my hopes up that the general will be there, but it’s hard not to, you know?”

  Boy, did I. An image of Mama humming in the kitchen with her hair pulled back, icing a gigantic three-layer cake, with a dab of frosting on her cheek, and our dog-to-be sound asleep at her feet flashed through my mind. I reached out and squeezed AC’s hand. “I know.”

  She squeezed back. “So, Miss Bettina came to your house?”

  “Yeah. She wanted to talk about Mrs. Tooley.” I slashed my finger across my throat.

  “Oh.” AC’s eyes grew wide. She knew Mama’s job was to write the obituaries. She didn’t know Mama had help. As interesting as obituaries were, I did not want to write them forever. I leaned my head against the glass and pulled my bag to my chest. I was just giving Mama a hand until she felt better, which she would, with a little help from a dog.

  The bus jolted and turned onto Madison Street, right past the park.

  “Ugh. What’s that smell?” AC wrinkled her nose. “Rotten eggs?”

  “I don’t smell any—Skunk!” I pulled my jacket up over my nose and gagged. “They smell worse than Leon’s PE uniform. Quick! Open your window.” My eyes began to water. Kids on either side of us groaned and gagged. AC grabbed her nose. The little boy in front of me asked for help with his window. Bus windows, like molasses, were sticky business.

  Everywhere I looked, kids scrambled over one another to get a breath of fresh air. Someone mentioned the words “stink bomb.” And I remembered Rory’s words, I’d sit toward the front of the bus if I were you.

  Those Willoughbys. Ransom and Rory had the three characteristics necessary for pulling off and getting away with pranks: mischief, charm, and dashing good looks. Not to mention their family’s fireworks stand. Of course those boys had stink bombs. I looked to the back of the bus, hoping to catch Rory’s eye, but Mr. Danny, our bus driver who’s older than dirt but somehow still has his driver’s license, came over the loudspeaker.

  “I need everyone to listen up and sit down. I’ve survived two hurricanes, a wife, and a war. I’m getting y’all to school safe and sound. Ya’ hear?”

  One voice rose above the crowd.

  “Ick! Move outta my way! A girl’s got to breathe.”

  AC, still pinching her nose, looked at me and rolled her eyes.

  DeeAnne Druxbury, in her designer raincoat and boots, pushed past me to the front of the bus like she was an angry hornet. “Ransom and Rory Willoughby, I ought to have you both expelled.”

  Ransom, the firstborn by a whole four minutes and often the instigator, piped up from the back of the bus, “But we didn’t step on it, DeeAnne. You did.”

  The bus roared with laughter.

  Mr. Danny grabbed his microphone. “Miss Druxbury, I drove your daddy’s bus before he ever thought of becoming mayor, and if you don’t sit yourself down, I’ll drive you straight to his office.”

  Lo and behold, she plopped herself down by Dawson O’Dell, an aspiring actor who at the moment looked three shades of green—he’s just that good—and said, “Open your window, Dawson! If you puke on me, you will buy me a new raincoat.”

  “If I puke on you, you probably deserve it. And your coat’s waterproof.”

  Mercifully, the bus lurched to a stop one block from school. The doors whooshed open. Mr. Danny didn’t have to tell us twice. We jammed through the doors like the bus had caught cooties. Walking away, I heard the old driver click his tongue and mutter, “Kids these days. Now, let me see what’s causing this mess.”

  • • •

  Mr. Reyes was already checking in books at the circulation desk when I knocked on the door. He looked up, smiled his lopsided grin, and waved me in.

  The competition to become Library Helper had been fierce, but in the end, I was
the lucky fourth grader whose name he drew out of his glittering World’s Best Librarian mug. So I entered twenty-one times, but who’s counting? Mr. Reyes picked me to be his student volunteer every single Friday morning before the first bell.

  On a normal day, I’d float across that floor. I loved our library. I loved feeding Maximus Tropicana, Mr. Reyes’s goldfish, a little copper ray of sun swimming laps atop the circulation desk. I loved processing returned books. I loved reading the titles, thumbing through the pages as I placed them back on the shelves. Most of all, I loved that book smell.

  But today, I hesitated.

  “If it isn’t Miss Beebe, reader extraordinaire,” Mr. Reyes exclaimed, moving a stack of graphic novels to the cart for shelving. He’d worn his usual Friday uniform—red Converse, jeans, and a faded Captain America tee. It was easy as pie to love Mr. Reyes. He was the coolest, which was why it was even harder to disappoint him. “So tell me, Vilonia. Do you have big spring break plans?”

  “I wish. I may be getting a dog, though. Only he hasn’t been born yet.” I dropped my backpack to the floor and started to shed my raincoat. My fingers fumbled nervously over the snaps.

  “A new dog’s plenty exciting,” Mr. Reyes offered.

  “Yeah. It’s not definite, but I thought maybe I should do some research first.”

  “Great idea. I can help you look.” He walked around the desk.

  “Oh! No, that’s okay.” I waved him off. “I got it, Mr. Reyes, but I do need to show you something.” I placed Winn-Dixie on the desk and winced. “Leon found it. I’m really sorry.”

  “I see.” Mr. Reyes inspected the book’s cover and interior while whistling the Spider-Man theme. Across the hall, a mob of students exited the lunchroom. Time for class.

  “Decided to go for a swim, did we?” He winked.

  “Not exactly.” My face burned. “I left it outside by accident. I read a lot on the tire swing.” I wanted nothing more than to hide behind the E-Z reader shelf. Way to go, Vi. Get selected Library Helper, and the very next book you return’s DOA, dead on arrival. I’d already begun writing the obit in my head:

  Because of Winn-Dixie, written by Kate DiCamillo, was first published in 2000 and one hundred and ninety-two pages long. Dog-eared and underlined, this beloved hardcover was checked out over one hundred and forty-eight times before it met its demise sometime after Friday, March 4, under a tire swing on Walleye Street. Memorial donations may be sent to Howard County Elementary School, c/o Mr. Reyes.

  More kids crowded the hall outside, laughing and pushing their way to class. A few jostled their way inside the library. One kid in a striped beanie strode up to the counter and waited to speak.

  “I brought money to pay for it,” I said.

  “Let’s see how much it is, first.” Mr. Reyes scratched his forehead and smiled. “You aren’t the first or the last student to leave a book outside.” He turned to the kid in the hat. “Good morning, Ian. What’d your folks say about keeping Max?”

  Ian shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Reyes. We’re going to my grandma’s.”

  “It’s okay. Next time.” Mr. Reyes smiled, and Ian left with his friends.

  Winn-Dixie disappeared under the counter. Mr. Reyes disappeared into his tiny office.

  I scanned the barcode of my other book and added it to the return cart. The clock above the circulation desk read 7:50.

  I had a few moments alone to research, and then I needed to go to class. I went to the nearest computer and typed “dogs and sadness” into the search box. A few titles appeared.

  Six Ways Pets Can Help Us Cope. Hope and Healing through Dog Companionship. The Healing Power of Pets . . . yada yada. I went to the shelf, pulled a title down, and flipped through the pages. “Doctors know that simply watching fish in an aquarium can soothe an anxious person and lower her blood pressure.” Huh. Maybe that’s why Dr. Stacy has an aquarium. I shuddered, thinking of my back-to-school shots, and quickly skipped ahead to the chapter on dogs. “Mild to moderate depression can be treated by adopting a dog, as dogs are loyal, lifelong companions . . . Curious and charming, dogs provide daily structure and a reason to get out of bed. Dogs require responsibility. They need to eat, play, and go for walks . . .”

  There it was again. Responsibility. But I knew if given a chance, a dog could soothe Mama’s soul like a slice of warm butterscotch pie: the perfect swirl of salty and sweet in one delicious bite. Still, it felt good to see it in print. But how would I get Daddy to agree?

  The warning bell sounded. I reshelved the book and waltzed past the circulation desk and Max, still swimming laps, to tell Mr. Reyes I was done. Then it hit me: Max could be my ticket to responsibility. If I could keep a fish happy and fed for a week, then surely Daddy would see the light and agree to get a dog. We’d all be a lot better off. And by “we” I meant Mama.

  Mr. Reyes stood hunched over his keyboard, deep in thought. His desk was a chaotic mess of stacked books, papers, and discarded coffee cups. On the wall behind him a huge Harry Potter poster exclaimed DON’T BE A MUGGLE. READ GOOD BOOKS.

  “Mr. Reyes?” My voice cracked. “I overheard part of your conversation with Ian. Do you, uh, need someone to watch Max over spring break?”

  “Ah, Vilonia! Sorry, I got distracted. Last day before spring break and all.” He smiled and folded his arms across his chest. “I do need a sitter for Max for spring break. Are you interested?”

  It seemed like a harmless question. I mean, how hard could babysitting a fish be?

  “I thought it might be good practice in case I get a dog.”

  Mr. Reyes glanced past me at a student who’d wandered in. “Be right there, Keisha.” Then, turning back to me, he smiled. “I think you are absolutely right. Why don’t you call home during lunch to make sure it’s okay with your parents.” Mr. Reyes jotted a quick note to my teacher and tossed his pen back onto his desk.

  I skimmed the message right as the bell rang: Please send Vilonia to the library the last ten minutes of class. –TR

  “Thank you, Mr. Reyes. Don’t forget to tell me what I owe for the book.” I ran breathless out the door, amazed by my great luck, only to circle back. “Forgot my bag. See you later!”

  Mr. Reyes waved. I might as well change my name to Dork.

  Fifteen minutes before the last bell, Mrs. Crewel said I was free to go. I think she grew tired of me bouncing in my seat. I still couldn’t believe Mama had picked up the phone and said yes when I’d called to ask about Max. I paid Mr. Reyes twelve one-dollar bills to replace the book. He gave me pointers on Max, how much food to feed him and when (one piece in the morning, another in the afternoon). This was cake.

  The three p.m. bell rang, and one huge Whoop! echoed through the halls.

  “Have a good break, you two.”

  “Oh, we will,” I said, cradling Max in my arms. “I’ll take great care of him, you’ll see.”

  As usual, AC had saved me the seat across from her and right behind the Willoughbys, whom I hoped had no more surprises. Luckily, Mr. Danny had left the windows down all day so the bus would air out.

  AC’s mouth fell open when she saw me.

  “You’re taking Max home?”

  “Yep. I’m fish sitting for Mr. Reyes over break.”

  “Cool.” She tapped on the glass with her polished fingernail. Max darted away.

  “Yeah.” I slid by the window so Max could see out.

  “I wouldn’t mention the fates of most fish at your house,” AC added as the bus rumbled out of the school lot.

  “He’s a goldfish, AC, not a catfish. What could happen?”

  We were the first stop.

  “Look, Max,” I said, smudging my finger against the glass. “There’s your new home.”

  Chapter Five

  My room’s a bit different from the library,” I said, standing in my doorway after giving Max a house tour. “But I bet you’ll like it. There are still tons of books. And dog posters and sticky notes galore.” Max bobbed to the surface.
“And over here are my softball trophies and my giant plush dog named Kitty. He smiles like Winn-Dixie. And out this window you can see my tree house. Maybe I’ll take you to see it.”

  Max peered through the glass into my bedroom, soaking up his new view. The pale blue walls were the color of sky on a clear day. I didn’t tell him Mama had helped me paint them, ceiling too, a week before the phone call. A week before the fog rolled in. I didn’t mention that it was the last fun thing we’d done together.

  I set Max down on my desk and moved a teetering stack of books blocking the window to the floor.

  “There. You can see AC’s house from here. Some fish would pay good money to see Neely back her car down the drive. She’s hit the mailbox four times this year.”

  Max looked at me, his eyes big and unsure.

  “Hey, you need a housewarming present.” I pointed to the group of seashells on my desk. “Eenie. Meenie. Miney. Moe. Let’s spiff up your boring bowl.”

  I dropped a conch into the tank. Plink! Max darted to the side while the shell settled to the bottom. I’m no decorator, but the conch looked pretty cozy on Max’s blue gravel, like something in a photograph. I knew right away Mr. Reyes would approve. And I was positive that given another day, Max would learn to love it too.

  Later, after the dishes were scrubbed and showers were taken and Leon had started battling pre-algebra, Daddy and I moved our root beers to the family room to tackle Laundry Mountain. Which was really code for us watching the Weather Channel.

  “Start wishing for good weather at the Catfish Festival next weekend. Remember last year?”

  “How could I forget? We practically floated home.”

  “Well, ‘the weather is a great bluffer.’ ”

  I shook my head. Daddy loved to remind me of a favorite author E. B. White’s idea about weather.

  “Hey,” Leon called from the dining room, “maybe you’ll be tall enough to ride some real rides!”

  “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be doing homework?” I shot back, and made a mental note to check my height before bed.

  “Guys, I’m trying to listen.” Daddy hushed us, then shook wrinkles out of an undershirt. “How can he say a twenty percent chance of precipitation tomorrow? Did he see the same clouds I did?”