Vilonia Beebe Takes Charge

by Kristin L. Gray

  “What?” I asked, then looked down the hall. My bedroom door stood wide open, and inside, Leon had parked his sweaty self on top of my little white desk and was biting into an orange Creamsicle.

  “What are you doing in my room?” I ripped the KEEP OUT!!! sign off the door and waved it in front of his face. “Hello? Did you read the sign?”

  Ava Claire reached for my wrist, but I shook her off, primed for a fight.

  Leon pointed his Creamsicle at me. “I think the real question is why are you keeping Mr. Reyes’s fish in our freezer.”

  “Keep your voice down,” I snapped. My fingers pressed against my temples. With a fish to bury, I didn’t have time for a headache the size of L-e-o-n. “I can explain. But you can’t explain snooping.”

  “Calm down. I didn’t snoop. I grabbed a Creamsicle. Since when is that a crime?”

  “Since you made it one by getting involved in none-of-your-business.”

  “Did you really put Max inside a Creamsicle box?” AC asked.

  “No.” I flopped onto my fuzzy beanbag. “Behind it.”

  “Presto.” Leon reached behind him and placed the opened toothpick box on my yellow comforter.

  I groaned. My life was spinning out of control, like that dizzying teacup ride at the festival.

  Leon licked the juice from his Creamsicle before it dripped onto my braided rug. “So, what’s your plan? Are you going to tell Dad?” he asked, then slurped the last frozen bite into his mouth.

  “No way. I’m trying to be more responsible, not less.” I pulled my knees up under my chin. “If Dad finds out, my entire dog campaign backfires. Ugh. No way. No one can know about this.”

  Leon smirked and launched the wooden Creamsicle stick across the room. It pinged into the metal trash can by my door. “And he scores!”

  “I mean it, Leon.” I glared at him. “Ava Claire, please fill Leon in on the master plan. Which he will not repeat to anyone if he knows what’s good for him.” I could get used to giving commands.

  “Here’s the deal,” AC said, tightening the sophisticated knot of hair on top of her head. “We’re looking for a replacement.”

  Leon snorted. “That’s easy. Go to the pet shop.”

  “Yeah, except the pet shop’s sold out,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Seriously.” AC put a hand on her hip. “They’re all bought out as prizes for the festival, but I’m sure I could convince Neely to take us back to the mall when the shipment comes in.” She paused to inspect a minute chip in her fingernail polish.

  “But he said that wouldn’t be until Tuesday . . . I have to have a fish by Monday, eight a.m.” I thumped my gel pen against the notebook and tried not to wail. “Maybe if we all go to the festival and try to win one . . .”

  “Say you win a fish,” Leon said. “You’ve got to make sure it looks like Max. I mean, it needs to be the same size, have the same coloring.”

  My pen stopped. “I may be a fish killer, but I’m not a total doofus.”

  “Did I say you were?”

  “He’s only trying to help,” AC interrupted.

  I rolled my eyes. Since when did she start sticking up for him?

  “And you still have to do something with the body.”

  “Don’t be so morbid, Leon.” I shot him a look.

  He held his palms up in defense. “Hey, I’m not the one hiding bodies in the back of the freezer.”

  “Come on, you two.” Ava Claire snapped her fingers. “We’ve got to work together if we’re going to pull this off.”

  “She’s right.” I frowned, and as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I needed Leon’s help. “Three heads are better than two . . .” I drew circles in my notebook. “What do you think, Leon? We could look online to see who’s selling or giving away goldfish.”

  “No thanks,” Leon said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to some stranger’s home to become fish food.”

  Ava Claire winced. “Can we stop all the dead-body talk?”

  “Sorry.” Leon grinned.

  I chewed the end of my pen, riddling it with bite marks. “YOU GUYS. What am I going to do? I have to take a fish to school in three days.” I hugged my notebook to my middle and paced about the room, following the woven lines of my braided area rug.

  “Just stop.” Ava Claire clamped her hands firmly on my shoulders and shook me gently. “Worrying won’t do you any good. You will get through this, you hear? It may take a mani and pedi and a slice of Guy’s banana cream pie, but you will live.” AC’s eyes stared straight into me. Her voice was steady, strong. “All you can do tonight is bury Max.”

  “Bury Max,” I repeated, pulling away. “Let’s bury Max in the creek.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, what?” AC asked. “You know I don’t like it down there. Snapping turtles and snakes and even more snakes.” She shuddered.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking. Leon, remember last fall we watched that show on Vikings and Norsemen?”

  Leon nodded. AC stared at us blankly. I went on, “I think Max needs a traditional Norse pyro-funeral.”

  AC frowned. “ ‘Pyro’ as in fire?”

  “Yup,” I said. “We’ll set fire to his box and send him down the creek in a blaze of glory to his final resting place. It’s the least we can do.”

  “I don’t know. You can be so dramatic at times.” Ava Claire sighed.

  I turned to Leon. As his sister, I knew him best. He’d either go one of two ways, all in or be a total bully about it. “Well?”

  Leon leaned over his tennis shoes, picking bits of rubber from the toe. No response.

  “Leon?”

  My older brother looked up at me dead serious and said, “I won’t rat you out as a fish killer if you tell me where Dad stashed the Willoughbys’ sparklers.”

  I thought about it for a full two seconds. “You got yourself a deal.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  An hour later, we’d gobbled down dinner and cleared away the dishes. Cooking pasta had plumb wore Mama out. She’d gone to her room with a cup of tea, a sliver of thawed pound cake (because someone had stolen the last Little Debbie), and good intentions to write. Daddy kissed Mama good night, then went to his shop to make lures. Turns out, Leon, AC, and I made a great kitchen team. I scrubbed the pots and pans, AC dried them, and Leon put them away. Not where Mama stored them, but good enough. We had things to do, top secret things.

  “You should spend the night.”

  Ava Claire bit her lip. “I don’t know. I need to get some sleep. The pageant’s tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. All we’re doing is laying a fish to rest,” I said, wrapping up the leftover cake. “Then we’ll go straight to bed. And I know you. You’ve hung your costume by the door, packed your dance bag, and triple-checked for every hairpin and accessory you’d possibly need.”

  A smile spread across her face. “Okay.”

  While Ava Claire called Neely for permission to sleep over, I wrapped Max and his box carefully inside an old Crush shirt like he was the best present in the whole wide universe. Then I threw my notebook and flashlight that’s shaped like a hippopotamus (the light shines from its mouth) into my backpack. Once Ava Claire assured Neely she’d get to bed on time, she gave me a thumbs-up and hung up the phone. Together, we crept downstairs to the kitchen. The hum of the dishwasher, working its magic, masked any sounds we made.

  I found the book of matches inside the junk drawer, next to a bottle opener and some random birthday candles. I grabbed the candles on impulse. They were colorful and striped. I liked stripes.

  “I’ll get Leon,” I said to AC. “I don’t know what’s taking him so long. You collect the snacks.”

  I darted back up the steps to Leon’s room, but he met me on the landing. My jaw dropped. Leon, my impossible brother, had on his best white button-down with the shirttail out, a striped tie he’d obviously tied himself, and a fresh pair of blue jeans. Even his sandy hair looked t
amed.

  “Ready,” he said.

  AC let out a squeal of surprise.

  I blurted out laughing. “You cannot be serious.”

  “What?” Leon asked, cheeks red. “Haven’t you ever seen a man dressed for a funeral?”

  “Your tie’s nice,” AC said, and glared at me.

  “She’s right,” I said, smoothing my own crumpled tee. “You look . . . improved. Do you have the goods?”

  “Out back, under the willow.”

  I nodded. “Let’s do this.”

  Outdoors, the sun was going to bed, the moon hung low and faint in the sky, and the crickets sang their nightly song. Gravel crunched under our feet as we made our way down the drive to Daddy’s shop, really a corner of his boat garage. The shop consisted of the following: a table with a sink, a row of metal cabinets, one swivel stool, a refrigerator/freezer, and an old television that worked sometimes. Daddy said he didn’t care a lick about television besides the weather or an occasional game, yet he kept it “for company” while bending wires, threading hooks, or cleaning his day’s catch. Thankfully, tonight it worked fine. The Cardinals were playing the Cubs, and Daddy’s back was to us.

  We crept closer. A motion light kicked on and illuminated a pair of waders left out to dry. We jumped. We’d had so many raccoons and critters over the years, Daddy wouldn’t think twice about a tripped security light outside his shop. At least that’s what I told myself.

  Leon motioned for us to crouch underneath the window. Following his lead, AC and I slipped along the building into the shadows where our backyard merged with thick brush. The sky turned gray. An owl hooted. I dodged a low branch and brushed cobwebs from my hair. We were close. We reached the willow, and sure enough, behind its weeping limbs sat the sack of sparklers. Just like Leon said. He ran to pick them up while I unzipped my pack and slipped the hippopotamus light’s loopy handle around my wrist.

  A few more minutes of walking, and Leon announced, “We’re here.”

  I stopped. Ava Claire bumped into me. Even though it was only April, the night was plenty muggy. AC’s long hair stuck to the sides of her face. She took a sip from her water bottle, then offered me a drink. I pulled my spare hair tie off my wrist and gave it to her. “It’s not pink or sparkly.”

  “It’s perfect. Thanks.” She slipped her hair into a low ponytail. “So this is Mud Skull Creek?”

  “Yep.” I plopped my pack to the ground and began pulling out items. Finding my notebook, I ripped out a page and slipped it into my pocket.

  Leon opened the bag of sparklers. “Duct tape?”

  “Check.”

  “Shoebox?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “In the bottom of your bag. I thought we’d make a boat.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Wow. Leon was being awfully thoughtful.

  I handed him the box and saw he’d already stuffed his socks inside his shoes and had rolled up his blue jeans. I did likewise.

  “I hope we don’t see any snapping turtles.” AC chewed on her fingernail.

  “We won’t.” Leon looked over at her, tearing off another piece of tape. “Are you coming?”

  AC shook her head. “I’ll watch from here, thanks.”

  “So this is it.” I exhaled and unwound my tee from around Max’s box. The shirt fell into a heap on top of my sneakers. I cradled Max in his toothpick box and carried him down the muddy bank. It was dusk now, so the water seemed murkier than usual. Not clean and clear like the water Max was accustomed to. But it wasn’t sewer water either. Leon followed me, and I handed him the tiny casket.

  He took the birthday candles and taped one in each of the four corners first. I smiled. It was awfully sweet of him (and very un-Leon-like) to not only assist with but dress up for Max’s life celebration. He then taped the casket to more cardboard and reached into his back pocket for what I guessed was either the sparklers or Mama’s matchbook.

  “Wait!” I grabbed his arm.

  “What?” He stopped.

  “There was something I meant to read first. That’s all.” I unfolded the page I’d torn out. The sky had grown too dark to see the orange ink, so I clicked on my flashlight, even though I knew the words by heart.

  Clearing my throat, I spoke loud enough for Ava Claire to hear me above the creek’s babble:

  “A Eulogy for Maximus Tropicana, Library Goldfish.”

  Right away, I was interrupted by the sound of more tape tearing.

  “Um. Leon? I’m trying to have a serious moment here.”

  “Go on. I’m just making sure he’s secure.”

  I cleared my throat and started again:

  “Maximus Tropicana was, by all reports, a great library pet. Never once aggressive in his four short years, Max swam in circles, spreading joy to dozens of students occupying Howard County Elementary’s library. Max ate his favorite fish flakes at eight every morning. He played hide-and-seek behind the green plant in his fishbowl. Like we didn’t know where he really was. Faithful and true, Max lived his aqueous life to the fullest . . . until his scaly gills finally gave out. Many of you know I had the privilege to be Max’s charge for the duration of spring break. While we won’t know how or why Max was allowed to suffer, please know he handled this adversity with the kind of grace only a true fish holds. The world could use more fish like Max. The end.”

  “The end,” said Ava Claire.

  “The end,” added Leon, striking a match. The orange ball of flame lit his face, highlighting his long lashes; he really could be all right sometimes, in those rare moments he forgets to pick on me.

  “Rest in peace, Max.”

  The sparklers sputtered to life, spitting flames in the twilight, reflecting in the water. And so, Maximus Tropicana, Beloved Library Fish, began his last swim, down Mud Skull Creek to his final resting place. I stood, my bare feet mud-deep in the cool creek. I wanted to watch him drift away until he snuffed out like a candle in the night.

  Only the sky lit up like the flipping Fourth of July. Screech! Pop. Screech! Pop. Screech! Pop. POP!

  Ava Claire shrieked. I covered my ears and shimmied up the bank. Firecrackers screamed through the air, leaving a glittery wake. “Leon Ulysses Beebe! Those aren’t sparklers!”

  Leon beamed. “I know! Aren’t they GREAT?” Screech! Screech! Pop.

  “Are you BANANAS?” My voice climbed. “How many did you use?” Pop! POP!

  “Enough.” Leon grinned, all too pleased with his prank. He sprinted up the bank as the last pop pealed through the increasing dark.

  I stood shocked, staring into the still of the night. “Good-bye, Max,” I whispered.

  Pop!

  “Come on, Vilonia.” AC tugged on my arm. “We’ve got to get outta here before the neighbors call the cops.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I knew as soon as we climbed up the hill back through the brambles that trouble was brewing. Maybe the circling blue and red lights from the patrol car tipped me off. Or the neighbors’ frantic footsteps.

  I sprinted up to Leon, who had stopped long enough to let a fire engine roar past. “What’s going on?” I asked, grabbing his wrist.

  “Whatever it is, I don’t have a good feeling . . .”

  “Hey!” Daddy jogged over to us, carrying a lantern from his shop. “I’ve been looking for you. The Willoughbys’ henhouse is on fire.”

  “What?” I looked at Leon and then back to my dad. “What about the hens?”

  Daddy’s lips formed a tight line. “Come on,” he said. “We can walk and talk.”

  I motioned for AC to catch up while Daddy took the lead, his boots crunching gravel underfoot.

  “Ransom said he heard bottle rockets go off a few moments before the roof went up in flames. Of course, the hens’ bedding is mainly paper and straw . . .”

  Leon groaned.

  I stopped midtrot, fighting the urge to puke.

  “Wait a second.” Daddy turned his beam of light to my pack and the empty bag marked SPARKLERS stil
l in Leon’s grip. “You two didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

  “Better make that three, Mr. Beebe.” Ava Claire.

  “We were just trying to give Max a proper burial,” I said quietly.

  “Max? Who’s Max?” Dad ran his fingers through his thick hair.

  “Dad, I took the Willoughbys’ bag and swapped out their sparklers for old bottle rockets from your shop.” Leon kicked some dirt. “But, honest, I didn’t know they’d travel so far, especially from down there.”

  “Down where? The Willoughbys’?”

  “No.” My stomach churned. “The creek behind their house.”

  Daddy looked incredulous. “You know . . . just never mind. We can talk later. Mrs. Willoughby is in one heck of a tizzy. You three better start praying these hens are found alive and well.” He started in the direction of the smoke.

  “Wait!” I called after him. “Were all the hens put up for the night?”

  Daddy shook his head. “Don’t know. But Ransom thinks some got out when his mama kicked the door in.”

  “What about Eleanor?” I asked.

  “Eleanor?”

  “You know, Eleanor Roostevelt.”

  “How would I know? They’ve all got first lady names,” Dad replied. “Jackie Kennedy. Martha Washington. Dolley Madison . . . It’s like an American history class over there.”

  I tossed my backpack to Leon as Daddy took off. “The headlamps should be in the front pocket.”

  “What? Why?” Leon unzipped the bag.

  “We’re not sitting around like a bunch of bumps on logs. We’re going to make things right by finding those hens.”

  “Okay.” Leon shifted into action. “I’ll run after Dad while you and AC search by the Nutters’.” Leon tossed us each a light.

  “Got it.” I strapped my lamp to my forehead and helped AC adjust hers.

  Turning them on, we followed our bouncing beams of light slicing through the night. Shadowy figures called out, “Martha! Dolley! Mary Todd Lincoln!” But it was too dark to tell which neighbor was which.

  Of course, my mind was focused on Eleanor.

  “I’ve never been part of a search and rescue before, much less for a bunch of chickens.” AC shined her light up into a tree. “Jackie Kennedy?” she called. “You up there?”