I leaned against the counter and did just that. I took a deep breath.
Most people flush their dearly departed fish. But that didn’t seem right. Max was no ordinary fish. He belonged to Mr. Reyes. He belonged to the library. He belonged to all of us, in a sense. And he deserved a better send-off than a trip down the toilet.
I pulled out Mama’s kitchen junk drawer—the drawer where keys without locks, pens without caps, and packs of Juicy Fruit resided. Looking for something, anything that’d work as a suitable casket for Max. Then I saw it. A toothpick box. I shook the remaining 127 toothpicks (or so it seemed) out into the drawer. I carefully lined the tiny box with a bit of paper towel before placing Max inside. Now, most people at this point would bury him.
I’m not most people.
First, I needed to prepare a eulogy for the service. I sat his bowl in the sink, because I couldn’t bear to look at it any longer, as empty as it was. I carried Max in the toothpick box up the stairs to my bedroom. I fished a notebook out from under my bed and found a fresh page. Sitting at my desk, I scribbled today’s date, April 22, across the top of the page in orange ink. Max’s color. I skipped a space before writing MAXIMUS TROPICANA in capital letters. I drew a double line under his name for good measure, then scrawled underneath that: A Eulogy by Vilonia Renae Beebe, age 9 3/4.
Max’s tribute came fast and out of nowhere, much like his death. To fill up the white space at the bottom of the page, I drew a picture of Max inside a giant heart bubble. It just seemed right.
I set my orange pen down, and at that exact moment it sunk in what I’d done. I don’t mean writing my first eulogy. Nope, I’m talking about the heinous, though unintentional, crime I’d committed: I, Vilonia Renae Beebe, Library Helper and entrusted pet sitter, killed Mr. Reyes’s fish.
• • •
I jumped up from the desk, my brain reeling. I paced back and forth from my bedroom door to the window overlooking AC’s house and back again, my hands clasped over my mouth and my mind screaming one word. Help!
My room grew stuffier by the minute. I opened the window. Picking up my walkie-talkie, I propped my elbows on the windowsill and held down the talk button.
“AC, are you there? Over?” Maybe she hadn’t left for her nail appointment.
Silence.
“Nine-one-one, Ava Claire Nutter! Code red. I repeat, code red.” Code red was our term for very important matters that required immediate action, like the time Ava Claire spilled a bottle of Big Apple Red nail polish on her mom’s ivory sofa. Thank heavens for the invention of rubbing alcohol and reversible cushions.
“Forget it,” I said, and flung the walkie-talkie onto my bed instead of putting it back on my nightstand where it belonged. I grabbed a striped pillow and flopped myself across the bed as well. I needed to do something with Max, but it didn’t seem right to be the sole witness and person performing his memorial service. But I sure wasn’t going to waltz into class fishless on Monday morning and write my real answer to the “What I Did Over My Spring Break” essay.
“VB, you copy?” The walkie-talkie crackled.
“Copy. AC, is that you? Over.”
“No, it’s your fairy godmother here to grant your wildest wish.” Giggles floated over the airwaves. I walked over to my window, the window that faced Ava Claire’s room. That was the whole reason I let Leon have the bigger room, so I could have the window that faced my new friend’s. “Roger, Vilonia. It’s me.” AC’s curtains fluttered and she waved behind the glass. “How’s the patient?”
“Um. Remember Mrs. Tooley?”
Ava Claire and I looked at each other through glass panes for a solid minute before she piped up, “I’ll be right over.”
“Roger that,” I said, and placed the walkie-talkie where it belonged on my nightstand next to a tower of books.
With a gentle rap-tap on my door, AC poked her face through the crack.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
“So. Where’s Max?” she asked as gingerly as she could.
My shoulders fell. “On my desk. In the toothpick box.”
AC shot me a quizzical look.
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay . . . what are you going to do with him now?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What about Mr. Reyes?”
“I don’t know!” I threw my hands up. “I don’t know! What am I going to do? I killed the library fish! Do you know what this means? Not only will I be ridiculed at school for the rest of my days, I’ll lose any chance of adopting Ray Charles!”
Ava Claire’s eyes grew wide. “Are you having a nervous breakdown? Because if you are, I can call Neely. She does Dr. Menlow’s nails, and she specializes in child psychiatry. Remember how Trent Spacey started plucking his eyelashes out one by one after his parents’ divorce? He doesn’t—”
“Stop. I do not need a psychiatrist, AC. What I need is a goldfish!”
Ava Claire glanced at me and then Max. “Preferably a live one.”
I flopped onto my bed and groaned.
“Well?” Ava Claire clicked her nails together. “Are you ready?”
“I am not getting a manicure.” I peeked at her from under my pillow.
“Don’t be silly,” AC said. “What I meant was are you ready for some shopping?”
I sat up and flung my pillow aside. “Ava Claire Nutter, sometimes I underestimate your brilliance. Do you think your mom would drive us to the pet store?”
“Are you kidding me? Does Neely ever pass up a trip to the mall?”
And that’s how I let my best friend and next-door neighbor talk me into the most pathetic shopping experience of my life.
Chapter Fourteen
Before I could leave, there were a few things I had to do. Number one, I had to move Max’s fishbowl, water drops, and care sheet from the kitchen to my room. I couldn’t leave the empty bowl out and give anyone reason to think something was wrong. And secondly, I had to tack a KEEP OUT!!! sign to my bedroom door, complete with extra exclamation points for emphasis. The last thing I needed was peon Leon snooping around and noticing what, or who, had gone missing.
To be safe, I reached inside my desk for my bag of Swedish fish.
“That’s your emergency homework stash,” Ava Claire said as I tore the plastic packaging with my teeth.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but some things are worse than fractions.” I spit out a piece of plastic. “Here, go fish.”
AC chose one of the red gummies, and I slid the fishbowl closer to the window where it belonged. She gave me the honor of plopping Max’s decoy into the water. The fish drifted to the bottom.
“Styled like a pro,” AC said, popping a fish into her mouth.
“Thanks.” I sighed, plucking my own piece of candy from the bag. “At least if anyone pokes his head into my room, everything looks normal.” We chewed our gummies in silence.
“I should run home to make sure Neely’s free,” AC said.
“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll come over as soon as I do something with Max.”
“Deal.”
“Deal.”
All alone, I considered tucking Max inside my desk drawer until his memorial, but then thought better of it. I wasn’t up-to-date on the decomposition rate of fish, and what if he started to stink? I wrinkled my nose. Daddy stored his catch in the freezer. That’s where Max belonged.
So I carried his scaly little body in his makeshift casket down the stairs into the kitchen. Digging elbows deep into the freezer to hide a dubious toothpick box wasn’t easy. My fingers stung and turned numb. Three pounds of rock-hard pork butt slipped and clocked me in the cheek. But I did it. I planted him in the way back, behind the lamb chops we never ate on Easter (our first without Nana) and the Creamsicle pops.
“You be good, Max. Don’t go anywhere, you hear?” So help me. I’d grown used to talking to him.
I shut the door, picked up all 127 of the toothpicks I’d spilled, and se
t them in a little jar. Mama’s car keys were gone from their hook on the wall, and on the chalkboard she’d left a note under Daddy’s hand-drawn weather forecast of partly cloudy.
Gone to store for bananas. What’s with all the toothpicks? XO, Mama
Hmm. I’d have to come up with something to explain the toothpicks, but I was glad to see Mama had gotten up and left the house.
I picked up a piece of chalk:
Gone to mall with AC. Be back soon. —V
And just to drive home how thoughtful and responsible I was, I scribbled a quick P.S. Cleaned up the toothpicks.
• • •
While my mama drove a sensible blue minivan, Neely, I mean Mrs. Nutter, drove a flashy pink Cadillac. She parked the sleek beast (barely bumping the curb) and made a show of stepping out in her red pumps, garden party dress, and huge round sunglasses.
“Okay, girls,” her mouth, lined perfectly in cherry-red lipstick, exclaimed. Mrs. Nutter slid her numerous metallic bangles up her wrist to better see the time on her rhinestone-studded wristwatch. “It’s two o’clock. Let’s meet in one hour at the food court.”
“Got it,” Ava Claire and I spoke in unison.
“Okay, then. Behave yourselves. Don’t spend all your money in one place. Stick together. And, Ava Claire darling, remember what you learned at self-defense class about stranger danger.”
“Yes, Mom. Be aware, take care.”
“Toodles!” Ava Claire’s mom said with a wave of her fingers as she bustled away.
Ava Claire and I ran the opposite direction. We rode the escalator up to the second level before walking to the far end of the mall to Pete’s Pets.
“Aw, look at the kittens!” Ava Claire spotted them first and sprinted up to the window. I was right behind her but didn’t have as good a look at the kittens, as a little boy about four years old and his mother were blocking my view.
“No, Mommy. I want the striped one! Like a tiger.”
“Mommy said, ‘no pets.’ We’re going home now.”
“No!” The boy wriggled free and planted himself on the cold mall floor. He hugged his chest and turned his chubby little face into a pirate scowl. “I won’t go. You can’t make me.”
“That’s it, Tucker. We’re leaving.” The mom sighed, picked her son up off the floor, and hauled him away screaming, legs flailing, and arms reaching for the kitty he couldn’t have.
I thought of Ray Charles and his pink button nose. “I’m kicking too, buddy. On the inside.”
AC smiled. “The striped one is cute.” We watched the kitten as she lazily licked her front paw, while her brother or sister, more orange in color, batted a toy mouse.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go fish.” My sneakers squeaked along the newly buffed floor. Animal smells filled the air.
“Good afternoon, girls. May I help you find something?” a guy with an Afro greeted us from behind the counter. He wore jeans, a blue polo, and a snake, wound around his neck like a scarf. His company name badge read PETE, CHIEF PET EXPERT. Next to his name, someone had doodled a dinosaur in green highlighter.
“Maybe. Give us a second to look,” I replied.
“Not a problem,” he said, absentmindedly brushing his goatee as he flipped through a catalog with pictures of cats in costumes. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“M’kay,” I mumbled.
Ava Claire giggled. “I hope he puts the snake back first.”
We wandered past the turtles, bearded dragons basking on a log, and one empty ball python terrarium (shudder), to small mammals. There were gray ferrets with pink triangle noses, roly-poly guinea pigs (with their own assortment of dress-up clothes), a few hamsters (one running on his wheel), and dozens of white, red-eyed mice. There were several oohs and aahs and look, how cute squeals before we arrived at the far side of the shop where a FISH sign dangled from the ceiling. We stared at the wall of aquariums, unsure where to start.
“Who knew there were so many kinds of fish?” Ava Claire asked.
“Seriously,” I said, gazing at the aquariums three rows high. “I don’t see any goldfish, do you? Maybe we should ask Pete for help.”
Ava Claire covered her mouth, lost in thought. “Vilonia.” She motioned for me to come over to the far end of the row. “You don’t see any goldfish because there aren’t any. Look.” She pointed to a giant tank containing multicolored gravel and waving plants. But no fish. Not one.
“What?” I whispered. My eyes searched the label. Goldfish—blah blah. Something in me snapped.
“Excuse me!” I marched straight up to the counter. My shoes squealed with each step, but I didn’t care. Sheer panic drove me on. “Excuse me!” I repeated louder. “Where are your goldfish? I need a goldfish. It’s urgent.”
Pete looked up at me and brushed his whiskers again. “Sorry to say I don’t have any. But a shipment’s coming on Tuesday.”
The room began to grow dark. I was losing it. My messy braids grazed the tops of my shoulders as I shook my head. “You don’t understand. Tuesday will definitely not work. Monday will not work. It has to be this weekend. Can you get me a fish by tomorrow? I’ll pay double. Are you into baseball cards? If you are, we could work out a deal.”
Ava Claire tugged on my sleeve. “Vi—let it go.”
Pete looked completely bewildered.
“I’ve got to have a fish. I need a fish.”
AC smiled. “Can you tell us what happened to the fish?”
Pete shrugged. “Sure. A man came in and bought the whole lot for the Catfish Festival. Said he was going to raffle them off or something.”
“Okay, thank you.” AC smiled apologetically and dragged me out of the store. Past the reptiles, past the dog treats, past the cute kittens in the window and the store’s big bulletin board.
Stop.
I jerked back. Something on the bulletin board had caught my eye. AC groaned, but I ignored her and walked up to the flyer. Up to the photograph of the familiar face. A wrinkly new face connected to two black ears and a heart-shaped nose. I scanned the ad.
FOR ADOPTION
Name: Izzy
Breed: Pug
Gender: Male
Color: Fawn
Age: One week
Sweet disposition. For more information, take a phone number below.
Ray Charles.
If hearts had hunger pangs, then mine starved something awful. I reached out to take a number, and my heart dropped into my stomach. Four numbers were already torn off. Gone. Four people were walking around with Ray Charles’s ripped-off number in their pockets. Four people were aiming to bring him home. All of a sudden, I felt like I’d caught a raging case of poison ivy from the top of my head to between my toes. I took the entire flyer.
On cue, my throat began to close and tears welled up in my eyes. AC planted her hands on my shoulders and looked me square in the face.
“How about I buy you a vanilla malt? It’s not Guy’s, but it’s food. We will come up with a plan, promise.”
“Whipped cream on top,” I said, letting her lead me away for once. But not before I glanced back inside the shop and saw Pete, Chief Pet Expert, scratching his chin and watching us.
Chapter Fifteen
We slurped down our malts and Neely took the long way home, past the fairgrounds. From the looks of it, every business owner downtown had shuttered his or her shop to help decorate for the Forty-Seventh Annual Catfish Festival. There were tents to put up, booths to open, twinkle lights to string. A hot dog truck roared behind us and turned into the gravel lot.
AC grabbed my arm and squeezed. The carnival rides loomed in the back, filled with ghost passengers. My toes tingled. Just thinking about taking the Ferris wheel to the tip-top made me forget about my troubles for a moment. Two workers were tying balloons to a metal archway that’d serve as the starting line for the Catfish 5k. Of course, Leon planned to run.
“Look, Vilonia!” AC squealed, and dug her fingers into my arm. She pressed her nose
against the car window, making it hard for me to see the source of her excitement, even though I’d bet my best glove I knew exactly what it was: the stage.
“You might want to turn here, Mrs. Nutter,” I said as AC practically gave herself whiplash to see better. Neely made a right, and sure enough, past the balloon arch, in the eye of the fair, stood the stage where the new Miss Catfish would be crowned. Jasmine Washington won last year, and her royal sixteen-by-twenty portrait still hung on the wall in a fancy gilt frame at her daddy’s BBQ joint, right above the tray of tangy-sweet sauces.
“I can’t wait to see who will be the new Miss Catfish. Miss Connelly would be so perfect. She made second runner-up last year.” AC slumped back into her seat, lost in thought.
“Well, if I had anything to do with it, the crown wouldn’t go to DeeAnne Druxbury’s big sister. She steals kindergartners’ snacks when no one’s looking and exercises her toes.”
We rolled on past the trailers, looking for Tom Sawyer’s yellow food truck. Daddy was there, helping set up picnic tables and chairs, a blue dish towel slung over his shoulder. Neely honked. He looked up, and his face split open with that wide grin of his. Poodles. Why couldn’t he agree to a dog?
The whole ride home, Ray Charles’s adoption flyer burned a hole in my pocket, reminding me that someone, or someones, wanted him too.
Needing a distraction, I invited Ava Claire over for the rest of the afternoon, and thankfully, her mother agreed on the condition we didn’t waste the day away watching trashy TV. I told her not to worry. We had important business to attend to, and by business, I meant burial.
We climbed out of the pink Cadillac and, still on a sugar high from the vanilla malts, raced into the house and up the stairs. Only, Ava Claire, two steps ahead of me, stopped at the landing and froze.
Vilonia Beebe Takes Charge Page 7