I keep thinking aloud. “I’m wondering if there’s some trick to this shrimp clue. Something like the tagine clue. Those spice colors seem important, but what do—”
Willa stands up and puts her phone into her front pocket. “I have to go.”
I throw up my arms. “What do you mean you have to go? We’re trying to figure out this clue, Willa.”
“Yeah, well, I’m out too,” Willa says. “I’m off the team.”
“No, you’re not.” I lightly slap her wrist.
Willa sits back down on the edge of the couch. Her face is unreadable to me. I’ve never seen her look so . . . blank. “Those texts I just got were from my mom, and the last one was from my dad, saying it’s true.”
“Oh, Willa.” Brie leans forward and takes Willa’s hand.
“Oh, Willa, what? What’s going on?” I look at my friends, first Willa, then Brie, then back to Willa. My eyes flick like Ping-Pong balls.
“My dad’s moving out.” Willa stares at me. “To live with his girlfriend. And Mom just filed for divorce. So, yeah, I have to go.”
Wait.
What?
Willa gets up and walks across the living room to the front door. There’s none of the Willa dance or lightness in her entire being. It’s like she’s slogging through a thick, muddy river. “Good luck, Mac.”
My mouth hangs open, as if I’m slowly sinking in her muddy river.
Willa’s parents are getting divorced? Her father has a girlfriend? How could he?
I always thought her parents . . .
“Brie? Did you know?”
She nods.
This explains all the weirdness from Willa. Her spending time with just her dad and Becca. Her mom’s tears that I witnessed the other morning.
“Willa told me they were arguing a lot. She said it was getting intense at home. I think she knew this was coming.”
I’ve never thought it was intense at Willa’s house. It’s always been a perfect comfort home, from the first time I ever stepped into it. There’s reclining sofas and chairs, gaming systems, a refrigerator with sugary sodas. Her mom drives a Chrysler minivan. Her dad wears a tie to his downtown office job. Her parents are normal professional adults, like the adult I once thought Coho was.
Willa has no chickens, no Earth festivals, no living room futon island.
No weirdness.
“Why didn’t she say anything to me?” I ask Brie.
But I also wonder why I didn’t piece it all together. There were so many clues, like all the texting, and how she was doing stuff with her dad, and how her parents were so quiet at the end-of-the-year picnic, not talking, turned away from each other, and Willa sitting between them, silent and still. That wasn’t normal.
I stare at Brie’s laptop. The food cart website fades away and a picture of a much younger Brie winning a swimming trophy half her size appears on the screen.
“Brie?” Her mother steps into the living room. “You have therapy in ten minutes.”
Brie nods at her mom, then grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Mac, I’m sorry we can’t help you on the hunt right now.”
“I’m sorry too,” I say. “I don’t mean about the hunt—I mean about Willa and her parents, and you and your shoulder. I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Brie squeezes my hand again.
I walk home, taking a long route, thinking about the past few days and how I’m such a rotten friend. How could I not have known about all the pressure Brie’s parents put on her to succeed in swimming, and how much she hates it?
A silver minivan rolls by, and I think of Willa’s mom and the perfect smell of her van. But clearly, nothing’s perfect in that car or in that house. How could I be such an idiot? Everything’s going to be different for her now. She’s probably not dancing.
What if she never dances again?
It’s about noon when I get home. Coral’s near the coop garage with a group of adults, including Coho. They all have their bicycles. The goats are chomping on the hay Coho spread for them in the yard. The White Leghorns are pecking the ground around them.
I recognize a few of the people. They’re part of Coral’s bicycling club.
“MacKenna.” Coral moves toward me and pulls me in for a hug. “I’m doing some fittings and adjustments for our big bike ride on Saturday evening. We’ve all got to be ready.” She winks.
I note her wink, but I don’t ask any questions. I know with Coral that it’s usually best to smile and move on.
“MacKenna’s doing food cart research this summer,” she announces to her group. “Finding the locally sustainable carts.”
There’s a general hum of oohs and aahs from the bicycling club.
One guy says, “I heard a bunch of carts are going to be at Cathedral Park for the ride on Saturday. We can get some grub before we streak off down the roads.”
Everyone laughs except me. Four or five hours earlier, that comment may have interested me. It may have been useful and worth checking out for the hunt, but not anymore.
Because my research is finished. I won’t be decoding hunt clues anymore. I won’t be going to coding camp either.
I pretty much figured that out on my walk home. It was an easy code to write.
Joey Marino can take the whole prize money and go open a library for the homeless, or whatever his next great community project will be. I’ll be stuck here with Hank and Coral, defending Coral’s garden from the yoga goats, feeding an evil chicken, sitting in drum circles . . . the life of Hippie Chick Goat Girl.
The food cart hunt is over. I’m off the team too.
Chapter Twenty-One
A Decision
After dinner, I retreat to my futon island. Hank, Coral, and Coho stay in the kitchen. I hear their voices. They’re discussing how to get Ziggy, Marley, and Emmylou to be more active during their goat yoga sessions. Hank says something about making a new drum. Coral says something about a naked bike ride, but I don’t hear any details, and I’m certainly not going to ask. I feel too empty to even worry about it right now.
I stare at my poster, whispering the words aloud: “‘Girls Are Supercoders.’”
Since there won’t be any coding for me this summer, I’ll have to wait and see what Mrs. Naberhaus teaches us next year. By the time I’m in high school, I’ll be way behind everyone else. I’ll always be playing catch-up because I’ll always be lagging behind, living with Hank and Coral.
I thought this hunt was my answer, but it was only a stupid dream. Did I really believe going to a computer camp behind Hank and Coral’s back was possible? And, even crazier, did I really believe I could wander all over town, searching for clues from food carts to win money to pay for the camp? What were my odds? Microscopically slim, that’s what they were.
And now there aren’t any odds to calculate because I’m out of the hunt.
I pull the folder with the clues and notes out of my bag. One last time, I look at the four clues I have. The first one that I had to write on a bookmark because Joey picked up the original. The second clue on the cup sleeve from the double-decker bus. The third clue from the napkin with the tagine, and the fourth one on the napkin around the Sunshine Tropics smoothie. I lay them out on my blanket and read them all one more time. Then I place them back in the folder and tuck the whole thing under my futon.
I find my little flipper and send texts to Willa and Brie to check in with them.
Willa doesn’t answer.
Brie responds, telling me she’s okay and that Willa hasn’t answered her texts either.
Around nine p.m., I get another text from Brie: You should keep doing the hunt.
But I don’t respond, because I’m not going to continue. Besides, I only have $4.15 in my life savings now. There’s no way I could keep hunting on my own. I toss my flipper on the bed and realize I need to figure out how to pay back Coho.
I’ll talk with Mr. Z about dog walking tomorrow.
And maybe I could offer to babysit Willa’s little sister, Becca, so Willa can do
what she needs to do with her mom or her dad. I won’t charge them, though. I’ll do that for free. I owe Willa that much.
And I’ll keep Brie company every day when she does her shoulder therapy.
That’s going to be my summer now.
About ten o’clock, I finally get a text from Willa: Don’t give up on the hunt.
I tap out a response: You okay?
Willa: Managing.
I realize that’s probably what she’s been doing for months. Managing.
Willa texts me again: Did you read me? Don’t give up on the hunt.
Me: The hunt’s done.
Willa: Doesn’t have to be.
I don’t text back, and my phone buzzes again. It’s Willa once more: Keep hunting!
I stare at my phone for a few long moments before tapping: Willa, I’m really sorry.
Then I add one final text: For everything.
I lie there on my island, thinking of Willa and Brie. Their texts keep scrolling in my head.
Did you read me? Don’t give up on the hunt.
Keep hunting.
But there’s no point in continuing.
There’s only four days left.
Certainly, there are others who have more than four clues. Joey Marino probably does. There may be someone who already has all ten! Could be that Shaggy and Scarface duo. There’s just no chance for me.
But I reach under my futon, and I slide out the folder, pulling out the clue from the smoothie cart.
“‘Green, gold, and purple,’” I say out loud.
I know those colors are a major hint.
Keep hunting.
“‘Shrimpy legs don’t let you dance, but you can sing a song.’” I stare at the fourth clue.
What if . . .
I really need to stop thinking about this hunt and these clues, but what if . . . what if I had someone else to help me?
What if I just asked . . .
What am I thinking?
No way.
My mind ticks back and forth. Ask! Stop! Ask! Stop!
I clasp my head, trying to squeeze away the relentless pendulum in my brain.
I stare at my poster again. Girls Are Supercoders.
I can’t quit.
I can’t.
I’ve never quit when I’ve had challenging computer programs. I’ve always gone over every step, troubleshooting the whole way.
So I will keep hunting. And I’ll ask Joey Marino to join my team.
But the problem is, I’ll have to find him. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know his number, and I doubt Willa or Brie would have it either.
How do you find someone who’s a phantom?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Patsy’s Diner
I gather the chicken eggs in the morning and return to the kitchen to find Coho standing there, holding open his wallet. I gulp and cling to the basket handle. He’s counting his money!
“Hey, Mac!” He pulls out a bill and shoves it in his pocket.
Does he know?
I blink at him. He said eye blinking was calming.
His eyebrows are neutral. That’s good.
He’s smiling. That’s good.
I blink again.
“How’s the research going?” Coho asks.
His voice doesn’t sound suspicious at all. Maybe he doesn’t know. I relax my grip on the basket.
There’s so much I want to ask Coho, like why in the world would he throw away his career? Why is he here bringing us goats and an ill-behaved chicken? I want to tell him how betrayed I feel, but Hank stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, and my moment is lost.
It’s just as well because I need to find Joey Marino today, and I thought of a way to locate him. Since I don’t have his apparitional skills, I must use the skills I do have. Searching the internet. I have one clue. It’s the name tag I saw on the woman who spoke with Joey in the hallway on our last day of school. Her tag said Patsy’s Diner.
The Belmont Library doesn’t open until ten, so I text Brie, hoping she’s up and will see my message and do some internet searching for me: What’s the address of Patsy’s Diner?
Three minutes pass, and Brie responds: 372 SE Alder. Why?
It’s tedious texting on my flipper phone. I want to tell Brie that I’m still hunting, that I’m going to ask Joey Marino to help, that I think I know where his mom works. I want to ask how her shoulder feels and if she’s heard from Willa this morning, but I stick with the questions I need answered right now.
Me: What bus do I take?
Two more minutes pass, then: 15. Get off at Morrison and Grand. WHY?
Me: Thanks!
In my mind, I’m sending her smiley and heart emojis. I will tell her later.
At nine fifteen, I step off the bus and walk two blocks to Patsy’s Diner. There’s a glass door that drags heavily across the floor as I push it open. The diner is small, maybe twenty tables, and there’s customers at each one. Most are old and are sipping their coffee and eating their scrambled eggs and pancakes. Two women in brown dresses are scurrying around with pitchers of water and plates of food in their hands. One woman sees me and slides her notepad into her apron pocket. She moves toward me, still holding the pitcher. “You all alone?”
I recognize her tight bun and the gray hair streaks. It’s the woman who spoke with Joey at school.
“Yes, but I’m not here to eat, I just have a question.”
“You need to speak to Clyde?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, to you, actually.”
“Me? Do I know you?”
I look at her name tag. Under Patsy’s Diner it says Aggie.
“I’m . . . um . . . just wondering if you’re Joey’s mom. Joey Marino, from Winterhill School?”
She puts the pitcher down on a nearby table. The man sitting there grumbles, but Aggie ignores him. “You’re a friend of Joey’s?”
Friend?
No, not really.
Only an acquaintance. But I say, “Yes, and I wanted to ask him something about his school projects, but I don’t have his number.” It was the line I’d rehearsed on the bus ride here.
Aggie’s eyes widen. “What’s your name?”
“Mac.”
“Joey doesn’t talk much about his friends at school.” She wipes her hands on her apron.
Joey doesn’t talk much at all, I want to say.
Grumbling Man at the table mutters again about the water pitcher, and Aggie grabs it, fills his glass, and then steps away from the table, motioning for me to follow.
“Aggie! It’s not your break time.” It’s a barking voice from the back of the diner, probably the kitchen, but I don’t see a face.
“This is my son’s friend, Clyde. Give me a few,” she hollers back.
“You get one!” Clyde-from-the-back shouts.
“Would you be able to give me his number?” I ask, and I can’t help but wonder if normal parents do this sort of thing. Do they give out their child’s phone number to a stranger? I don’t think I look intimidating or scary. I smile at her, and she looks like she wants to hug me.
“Aggie!”
She makes a fist, and I want to storm back there and tell Clyde about all the negative energies that he’s releasing each time he yells. That’s what Coral would do.
Aggie pulls out her order notepad and scribbles down a number. She tears off the paper and puts it in my palm. “Please call him,” she says. “He needs a friend.”
And so does she, I think.
“Aggie!”
“I’m working, Clyde!”
I watch her for a moment as she scurries to another table, grabs a pot of coffee, and fills mugs at several tables. In my head I’m pseudocoding her steps into a computer game: Turn 180 degrees. Move 200 steps. Open kitchen door. Remove apron. Throw apron at Clyde. Shout “I quit!”
Joey’s mom doesn’t deserve this treatment.
No one does.
But I leave the diner and pull out my flipper
phone, tapping a text to the number on the slip of paper: It’s Mac. Can we meet somewhere?
One minute later, my phone buzzes: Brooklyn Park. 30 minutes.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Proposal
Joey Marino sits on a swing in the Brooklyn Park playground when I arrive. He’s twisting in the seat, side to side, the toes of his combat boots dragging in the bark chips, forming a figure eight below him.
The park is mostly empty this time of day. Down on the field, a man tosses a tennis ball to his black Lab. A woman leans against the chain-link fence, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders even though it’s probably seventy degrees out.
Joey says nothing as I walk toward him and sit on the swing next to him. “Hi,” I begin.
He nods but still doesn’t say anything.
“You’re probably wondering why I texted you.”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Your mom.”
He freezes for a moment.
“I saw your mom the last day of school, and she was wearing a Patsy’s Diner name tag, so I found out where that was and went to see her.”
“Oh” is all he says.
We twist silently back and forth on our swings while I consider how to begin the conversation. I inhale deeply. “So, I have a proposal.”
Joey looks up, a rare half grin on his pale face. “We’re too young to get married, Mac.”
“What?” I frown at him. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m proposing . . .” His response has me rattled. I inhale again. “I was thinking that we could team up on the food cart hunt. I know you’re doing it too.”
He shoves his boot soles into the bark chips and stops twisting the swing. “What happened to Willa and Brie?”
“They’re a little busy right now.”
He starts to rock back and forth on the swing slowly, his toes staying on the ground. “Why are you doing the hunt?”
“Why are you doing it?”
“I asked you first.”
I push off and begin swinging, pumping my legs. “I need money.”
“For what?” Joey swings too.
“A camp, and maybe some other things.” This is our longest conversation ever, by far. “It’s the summer coding camp at our school. I want to go.”
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