“A lot of books? Really? Why don’t you come up and tell us about your favorite one.” The teacher sounded a bit sarcastic and June looked at him sharply, wondering how she had managed to get on his bad side so quickly. But if there was one thing June Sparrow didn’t like, it was having anyone doubt her word. Of course she had read a lot of books this summer. She wouldn’t have said it otherwise! She stood up, taking her notebook with her. Even though there was nothing written inside, it made her feel less alone.
She turned to face the class, but it was hard to get started. The last row had kids with their heads down on the desk and their legs stretched far out in front. The front row was mostly girls who had their desks perfectly arranged with matching binders and notebooks. The middle of the classroom was harder to define, but right now everyone was staring at her. They didn’t look unfriendly, but they didn’t look exactly friendly either, just blank eyed. Mr. Fitzroy nodded for her to begin and crossed his arms. There were large leather elbow patches on his jacket.
“My favorite book this summer was Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen,” June began. “Actually, I haven’t quite finished it yet—it’s a pretty long book, but—”
“Haven’t quite finished it?” the teacher interrupted. “But you know how it ends, don’t you? Since you saw the movie?”
June was shocked. “I didn’t see the movie,” she said. “I want to—but I never see the movie before I’ve read the book.”
“Oh, really?” asked Mr. Fitzroy sarcastically. “Perhaps you saw the miniseries?”
“Of course I haven’t watched the miniseries! I have about a hundred pages to go.”
“I doubt that,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “Pride and Prejudice is far too sophisticated—”
“But I am reading it!” June said. “I’ve been homeschooled, and—”
“Aha!” Mr. Fitzroy said triumphantly. “A homeschooler!”
“A homeschooler and a reader,” June insisted.
“You’ll have plenty of time to read in detention.” Mr. Fitzroy waved his hand as if he was brushing her away. “Please take your seat.”
“Detention!” June stared at him. She had just gotten here! The class had gone very quiet; most of the kids were looking down, suddenly absorbed in their notebooks. The back row lifted their heads for the first time, and from his desk in the middle row, the boy named Joe looked straight at her. They locked eyes for a moment.
“Detention,” Mr. Fitzroy said, returning to his desk as June got back into her seat in the front row. “Starting this afternoon through the end of the week.”
“But—” June began, but Mr. Fitzroy talked right over her. “For tardiness, lack of preparation, and”—he looked at her significantly—“unruly behavior in the classroom.”
June pressed her lips together. She realized she had been clutching her notebook so hard that the cover was bent over like a bow. She looked back at Mr. Fitzroy without saying a word. First class, first enemy. This was English, which she’d hoped would have some of the things she liked the most. She loved to read; why couldn’t he see that? A lump started in her throat. The truth was she had wanted to be wrong about school, and as a former stationery heiress, she admired the matching pencils and binders the girls had in the front row. It was so unfair. She felt like kicking over her stupid little desk and walking out of this place in a blaze of glory. Then she remembered that Indigo was waiting for her at home. Who knew what Aunt Bridget might do to him if she got thrown out of school? And if she was kept late and missed the bus, how would she ever get back to the farm? She didn’t even know her own address.
“Everyone please get out your notebooks,” said Mr. Fitzroy, and June picked up her pencil. She spent the rest of class drawing a long skyline sideways along the left margin: the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, and the Dakota. Just before the bell rang, she added clouds floating above the buildings in the shape of pigs and girls in pink tulle dresses.
Even though she had never been to school before, June knew what detention was, but in her mind the word transformed into “dungeon.” She walked into the classroom fully expecting to see bars on the windows and instruments of torture hanging from the walls, but it was a whole lot less interesting than that. There were desks and fluorescent lights, a few other kids, and Mr. Fitzroy sitting at the front of the room. He didn’t say anything when June came in, just checked off her name in a book on his desk and went back to his laptop, which was open to Facebook. Most of the other kids were either on laptops or phones, and nobody gave her a second glance, or even a first one.
June found a desk at the back of the room and did her homework quickly. She liked math but wasn’t familiar with this workbook and wished she could ask someone in the room if she was on the right track, but everyone was so absorbed in their devices that Mr. Fitzroy didn’t even have to ask them to be quiet. June looked at the clock: forty-five minutes to go. There were no windows in this classroom, but June figured that it must be getting dark out. What must Indigo be thinking? How would Aunt Bridget find out? She’d probably be forced to sleep in the barn tonight, June thought, and shuddered as she remembered the chopping block.
Just thinking about it made June want to bolt, but worrying about Indigo wouldn’t get her home any faster, and getting into more trouble could only make things worse. She scanned the room again, looking for anything to distract her. There was a bookshelf with a lot of empty space. June went over to look at the books, wondering if people were allowed to get up from their desks during detention, but Mr. Fitzroy didn’t seem to notice. There were two copies of Consumer Reports and four copies of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teens Talk Middle School. She grabbed one of those and settled down to read. Maybe there was a chapter on how to survive a mean teacher.
A ball of paper landed on her desk. June looked up. It was Joe. Why hadn’t she noticed him at the beginning? She opened the note: I like those books.
She looked up, wondering if he was being snarky, but he gave her a tentative smile. She wrote, I can’t decide if I love it or hate it, balled up the paper, glanced at Mr. Fitzroy, then tossed it back. It landed on the floor near Joe, who quickly scooped it up and read it. This time he grinned and nodded. June smiled back, her first real smile of the whole day. Passing notes in school was the best part so far. Maybe she would end up sitting in the back row with the bad kids despite her good intentions.
A girl with brown hair braided intricately along both sides of her head looked over at them curiously.
Who are you? she mouthed.
June Sparrow, June mouthed back, too afraid to whisper aloud. I like your braids, June mouthed again, patting the side of her head. Maybe this girl could teach June to do her own hair like that.
Just then the door burst open and Aunt Bridget strode in. She was wearing mud-caked rubber boots, and her hair was sticking up all over her head. Everyone stared. June cringed.
Mr. Fitzroy got up from his desk. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t you start with me, Henry,” Aunt Bridget said. “I’m here to pick up my niece. June, come along.”
“Your—” Mr. Fitzroy started, but Aunt Bridget cut him off.
“Yes, my niece.” She nodded at June. “Gather your things.”
June started cramming books into her bag.
“My niece, June Sparrow,” Aunt Bridget continued. “Whom you saw fit to put into detention on her very first day at this school.”
“Now, Bridget—” Mr. Fitzroy began.
Bridget? Henry? What was going on here?
“I don’t care what she was doing, or what she may have said to you,” Aunt Bridget declared, hands on hips. “It’s her first day, and she doesn’t need to be greeted with a punishment.” She turned to June.
“Did you cut class?” she asked. June shook her head.
“Did you write bad words on a bathroom stall?” June shook her head.
“Did you set fire to a wastebasket?” June shook her head.
“Well, then.” Aunt Bridg
et turned back to Mr. Fitzroy with a triumphant look. “You have already behaved far better than your teacher did when he was in middle school!”
Mr. Fitzroy’s mouth was literally open in shock. June had an irresistible impulse to laugh—almost irresistible. She didn’t dare look at any of the other kids or she would lose it.
“Come along, June,” Aunt Bridget said. June ducked her head so Mr. Fitzroy wouldn’t see her smile and followed her aunt out the door.
The Cadillac was still warm when June slipped into the passenger seat. Aunt Bridget turned the key and rolled down the window.
“Idiot!” she said as they pulled out of the school parking lot. “Henry Fitzroy was born an idiot and will die an idiot.”
June giggled, and her aunt gave her a look. “And what do you have to laugh about, Missy? Ending up in detention your first day! Minnie told me about it when you didn’t get off the bus.”
“Who’s Minnie?”
“Who’s Minnie? Your bus driver, of course. Minnie Mileto—known her since grade school.”
“You know everybody.”
“Can’t help that since I never went anywhere.”
June wanted to ask why Aunt Bridget had never gone anywhere, but was scared she might get on her bad side again.
“I didn’t do anything for detention,” June said. “I told Mr. Fitzroy that I had been reading Pride and Prejudice this summer, and he didn’t believe me.”
“I’m not surprised.” Aunt Bridget stepped harder on the gas though the speedometer was already well over seventy-five miles per hour. “I doubt that Henry Fitzroy ever read anything past the South Dakota driver’s manual. I was there the day he failed his driver’s test—for the second time.”
June laughed, and even though Aunt Bridget didn’t take her eyes off the road, June was pretty sure she saw the hint of a smile.
As soon as they got home, June ran to find Indigo. It was dark inside the barn, and the bare lightbulbs threw thick, barred shadows of the rafters onto the dirt floor.
“Indigo? Indigo?” She waited to hear his scampering feet. Nothing.
She peered over the door of the stall where they had slept the night before. Then took a deep breath and turned to look at the chopping block.
Nothing.
June ran from stall to stall with her heart in her throat, not caring if she frightened the horse and the cow, who rolled their eyes and stamped their hooves. The goat shook his little horns as if he wanted to pin her against the wall.
“Indigo!” she wailed. They had never been apart before; maybe Aunt Bridget had done something terrible to him! Or he had gone off to try to find June! But school was miles away, and if Indigo stayed out all night, he could freeze to death—or get run over by a car . . . or worse.
June ran back to the house. She would make Aunt Bridget go looking for Indigo; she would call the police; she would walk the fields all night with a flashlight if she had to! She slammed through the back door, not bothering to kick off her mud-caked ballet flats. “Aunt Bridget!” she yelled. “Indigo’s gone! I can’t find him out there! We have to—” She stopped dead. Right in front of the big metal gas heater was Indigo Bunting, sprawled out on a pink towel. He opened his eyes as June entered the room, but didn’t move. Hot air ruffled the soft white down on his exposed belly.
June took him in her arms, her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t know what was going on, but she had been so afraid that she couldn’t speak a word. Indigo snuffled into her ear and began licking her face.
“Seemed like the critter was getting cold,” Aunt Bridget said from the doorway into the kitchen. “Went out to muck the stalls this morning and he looked half froze. So I figured he could stay in here just for a little while.”
“Thank you,” June murmured into Indigo’s soft pelt. “Thank you so much.”
Aunt Bridget snorted and turned back to the kitchen. “Don’t like house pets, you know. An animal’s got to earn its keep on a farm.”
“Oh, he will!” June said, kissing the pink-and-black spot right on the top of his head. “He’ll work like crazy, you’ll see! We both will!”
Indigo raised an eyebrow at this and Aunt Bridget said over her shoulder, “He may not be a messy eater, but what about when he needs to do his business? It’s cold in the barn, but he’s a pig, understand me? I don’t want a mess in this house.”
“In the apartment we used a litter box,” June started, but Indigo squirmed out of her arms, marched right into the kitchen, and scratched purposefully at the back door, with a significant look at Aunt Bridget.
Aunt Bridget looked at him skeptically but opened the door, and Indigo trotted right outside with his curly tail in the air. “Well . . . ,” Aunt Bridget said, turning to June, who had followed Indigo into the kitchen. “As long as he behaves like a gentleman.”
“Oh, he will,” said June. “Indigo Bunting is nothing if not a gentleman.”
When June went up to bed that night, cradling Indigo in her arms, she was happy for the first time. “It’s only our second night,” she whispered to Indigo on the upstairs landing, “and you’re already in the house with me!” Indigo licked her ear. “Okay, okay, you can act like you knew it all along, but really, Indigo, it’s a miracle! You charmed Aunt Bridget!” She could swear that the quivering in his little body was from laughter. They went into her room and settled onto the bed. Indigo curled up in the crook of her arm like he always did, but June wasn’t tired. It was the weekend, and she wouldn’t have to face Mr. Fitzroy or the rest of them for two whole days. Two days had to be enough time to figure out how to get home to New York.
She turned on an old transistor radio that was next to the bed, and to her surprise it worked. She fiddled with the dials, and after spinning through some religious talk stations she found one that was playing country music. She didn’t really like country music, but she liked the dramatic story lines: all lost loves and cheating hearts.
She settled back on her pillows and stared at the ceiling. There was a long crack that went just about the length of her bed. She looked more closely. This crack was outlined in pencil. It was faded, but she could see that someone had drawn all along the crack, outlining the break in the plaster. June stood up on the bed to get even closer to the ceiling. Now she could see that the crack had been turned into a mountain range, with other mountains drawn behind it, getting smaller in the distance. Tiny pine trees dotted the slopes, with a stream leading down through a valley and a crescent moon just coming up behind the peaks.
June touched the faded pencil marks. It was a funny feeling, knowing that this was where her mother had slept every night before June was born, before she met June’s father, before anything had really happened. June plopped down on the bed again, waking Indigo, who had started snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. He looked at her irritably.
“No, Indigo, this is important,” June said. “Maybe things had happened already, even though she hadn’t met Dad and started having this big glamorous life.” Indigo looked quizzical. “I mean—what was it like? What was it really like to be her?”
June jumped off the bed and opened the closet door, pulling over the desk chair so that she could look at the top shelves, which were messy and crowded with an old Walkman CD player, headphones, and shoe boxes. A stack of CDs tumbled onto the floor as June tried to reach the first box.
“What’s going on in there?” yelled Aunt Bridget, who was (of course) already in bed with the lights out.
“Nothing!” June called back. There was a beat, and Indigo glared at her. “I know, I know we’re on probation,” June whispered at him. He glared harder. “Okay, you’re on probation.” He snorted.
“Turn off that radio!” yelled Aunt Bridget.
“Yes, Aunt Bridget,” June called. She climbed down to turn it off, and Indigo settled onto her pillow. After a few minutes June tiptoed over to the closet again. Indigo made an anxious whining noise down in his throat, but she didn’t look back. She climbed on top of the
chair and pulled down a shoe box that had the word PRIVATE written in black marker on the end of the box.
“Well, I guess we’ll start here,” she said, and brought it back to the bed. There was more writing on the top of the shoe box:
DO NOT OPEN ON PAIN OF LEGAL ACTION: THE KIND YOU DO NOT WANT
June smiled. Her mom was funny.
Indigo scooted up next to her and placed his trotters on the lid next to her hands. He looked at her questioningly.
“Of course we’re going to open it,” June said. “What does it matter now? This was all a really, really long time ago.” Indigo shrugged and removed his trotters from the lid, waiting.
Inside the shoe box was a cream-colored spiral notebook, but when June pulled it out, it felt strangely heavy. June sat cross-legged on the bed, with Indigo resting his head on her leg, and opened the notebook. On the inside of the front cover she read:
I don’t want anybody EVER EVER EVER to read this book! It is my own private Penny Book, and I will personally kill ANYBODY who takes it away. SIGNED IN BLOOD! (Well, not really.)
It wasn’t filled with pictures of boys she had a crush on; it wasn’t a scrapbook of a trip to the Grand Canyon: it was pennies. Page after page of pennies, and on the very first page were pennies glued to form letters spelling out MY PENNY BOOK. June looked up at the bedroom wall to the pennies glued there as well. So her mother was a coin collector from the beginning? A major teenage nerd. June would rather have seen pictures from her mother’s prom night or even drooling baby pictures. She turned the page, there was some writing next to a penny taped in the upper right-hand corner:
November 17, 1999. Penny found on steps on the way into school. I had a math test today. I have a pimple the size of Mount Rushmore. I wish I lived in New York City.
New York City! Now, this was getting a little more interesting! The penny itself was circled in pencil with an arrow pointing at it, with another date scrawled next to it: 1972!
June Sparrow and the Million-Dollar Penny Page 5