Absolutely Truly

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  She waited until this morning, when we were trapped at the store under Dad’s watchful eye, to surprise us with them. Danny took one look and quickly played the homework card—So sorry, big physics test first thing Monday morning, gotta go study, yada yada.

  Dad wouldn’t let Hatcher and me off the hook, though. “Your aunt talked me into wasting money on these foolish things—someone is going to wear them!”

  And those someones were us, of course.

  “Thanks for throwing us under the bus,” Hatcher muttered as our older brother made his escape.

  Danny grinned and gave us a thumbs-up as he headed out the door. “Lookin’ good!”

  We didn’t, of course—we looked ridiculous. Hatcher was dressed as Cupid, complete with a Roman toga, gold-painted plastic bow and arrow, and gold wings. My outfit was even more horrible. I was stuck with a hooded red unitard, whose matching headband had sparkly red hearts bobbing on a pair of wobbly antennae, and a poufy heart-shaped pillow that strapped over my body like a sandwich board. It was shiny and red, just like my face.

  “At least we didn’t have to dress up for the walk over here,” said Hatcher grimly, tugging at his toga. “It could have been worse, right?”

  The two of us had dropped Lauren and Pippa at Belinda Winchester’s before heading to the bookstore. Belinda had offered to watch them until Story Hour, since the rest of us had a lot of work to do—setting up chairs for this afternoon’s reading, baking piles of mini whoopie pies, and filling the goodie bags we would be giving out with purchases.

  Belinda had met us at her back door wearing shorts, sandals with wool socks, a T-shirt, and a straw hat. “Groovin’ to the Beach Boys,” she said by way of a greeting, pulling out an earbud. She’d gestured at the blue sky and grinned. “Can you believe the weather this weekend? Made to order.”

  Pippa had given her a swift hug and run past her into the kitchen. Belinda Winchester’s house looks pretty much the way you’d think it would, except that it’s spotless. Cluttered as all get-out, but absolutely spotless.

  “I was expecting Tales from the Crypt and instead I found Mrs. Clean,” my mother had told my father the first time she stopped by.

  “Hi, Fern,” Lauren had said, bending down and scooping up the big tabby cat who’d been curled up by the woodstove. Belinda didn’t actually have as many cats as people thought—there were just two permanent residents: Fern and Avery. But there were a whole lot of visitors. Word was out in Grafton County that she’d take good care of strays, so baskets and boxes and even bags were dropped off on her doorstep, filled with felines in need of new homes. And somehow, Belinda always found them one. She had deputies in all the nearby towns scouting for potential kitten adopters, and she even had her own blog where she featured new arrivals.

  I’d handed Mrs. Winchester a loaf of my mother’s homemade banana bread. “My mom said to tell you thanks, and that she’ll see you later this morning.”

  Belinda had nodded, her earbud already back in, head bobbing to the strains of “Kokomo.”

  “Here, Truly,” said my aunt, thrusting a book at me and pulling my attention back to the task at hand. “Add this to ‘Miss Marple’s Picks,’ would you? It will make Augustus happy when he comes in this afternoon for his reading.”

  “Miss Marple’s Picks” was another one of Aunt True’s bright ideas.

  “Every bookstore on the planet has a ‘Staff Picks’ display,” she’d said one afternoon as I was finishing up a tutoring session. “I think we should do something different.”

  “Who’s going to care what the dog reads?” grumbled my father, after she explained her plan. Then he slapped his palm against his forehead in mock self-reproach. “Wait, what am I saying—dogs don’t read!”

  Aunt True laughed. “Everybody will care, J. T.—you’ll see.”

  And she was right. It’s been a huge hit with our customers. “What’s Miss Marple reading this week?” they’d ask, making a beeline for the shelf by the front door. Miss Marple has her own page now on the bookstore website (ghostwritten by Aunt True), which gets more hits than all the other pages combined. Just last week, the Pumpkin Falls Patriot-Bugle featured Miss Marple in their “Around Town” column, along with a fake interview and a picture of her sitting proudly by her namesake shelf. The story was picked up by the news wires, and we got a flurry of media interest from as far away as Australia. People everywhere love dogs, I guess.

  Mom says Aunt True is a marketing genius.

  Catching a glimpse of my poufy heart-shaped reflection in the front window, though, I wasn’t so sure. I sighed and placed Summer’s Siren Song by Augusta Savage face out on Miss Marple’s shelf. Looking at it more closely, I was tempted to turn it over. Someone should give the women on the covers of romance books turtlenecks to wear. It’s embarrassing.

  I went back to the counter to continue stuffing gift bags.

  “I keep thinking it just got misplaced and someone will find it,” Aunt True was saying to a customer. “I still can’t believe that someone would actually take it.”

  She was talking about Charlotte’s Web, of course.

  I’d come up empty-handed in my efforts to catch the thief. The mystery of the missing book was still unsolved.

  Two hours later, I’d replenished our supply of gift bags filled with bookmarks, discount coupons, a copy of our newsletter, and chocolate kisses, and I’d helped Aunt True bake several dozen more mini pumpkin whoopie pies. Hatcher, meanwhile, had set up all the chairs for this afternoon’s reading, waited on customers, sorted all the special orders, and was just finishing up getting things organized for Story Hour.

  “Mr. Henry!” said Aunt True as the bell over the door jangled. “Right on time. I see you’re dressed for the occasion.”

  The children’s librarian, who was wearing his trademark red-and-white striped sweater, laughed. “I’m always dressed for the occasion,” he replied. “You’re looking very Valentine-y yourself.”

  Aunt True wasn’t in a costume, exactly, but she’d decked herself out in red from head to toe—red skirt, red sweater, red tights, and red cowboy boots.

  “I’m not sure,” my aunt replied, plucking at the strands of silver paper hearts she’d strung around her neck. “I think I kind of look like Mrs. Claus.”

  “You couldn’t look like Mrs. Claus if you tried,” said the librarian gallantly.

  My mouth fell open. Was Mr. Henry flirting with Aunt True?

  Mr. Henry looked over at me. His eyebrows shot up as he eyed my costume. “And you’re, uh, very fancy.”

  I made a face.

  “The kids will love it,” he told me with a wink. “Trust me.”

  He was right. Hatcher and I might have felt humiliated, but we were the stars of Story Hour. The kids laughed themselves silly as we circled the children’s room with our trays of mini whoopie pies and heart-shaped shortbread cookies. Hatcher totally got into it, smiling his sunflower smile as he pretended to shoot his bow and arrow. I just stuck to handing out treats.

  Afterward, the kids all ran over and lined up to have their pictures taken with us, and with Miss Marple, who was also dressed for the occasion, thanks to Pippa and Lauren. My sisters had tied a big red bow to her collar and painted her toenails bright pink. With sparkles, of course.

  “Whoa,” said a voice behind me. I turned around to see Scooter standing there. Calhoun was with him.

  I didn’t even give Scooter a chance to open his mouth. Looking him straight in the eye, I said, “If you call me ‘Truly Gigantic’ or ‘Truly Drooly’ or anything else ever again, I swear I will deck you!”

  Scooter looked at the tray in my hand and laughed. “With what, a whoopie pie?”

  “Leave her alone, Scooter,” said Calhoun, giving the revolving greeting card rack a twirl.

  Scooter over at him. He frowned. “What’s up with you, dude? You’re no fun at all lately.”

  They didn’t stick around for long after that, thank goodness. They’d just come for the free
treats anyway. Believe it or not, though, that wasn’t the low point of the afternoon. The low point was after lunch, when the Patriot-Bugle showed up to cover Augustus Wilde’s book signing.

  “Ooh, look how cute you are!” said the photographer when she spotted me in my ridiculous costume. “Come on over—we need a shot of you standing next to Augustus.”

  Reluctantly, I did as she asked.

  “This is definitely front-page material,” the photographer assured us.

  Augustus, of course, was thrilled. I, on the other hand, was not.

  Just what I need to make my day complete, I thought sourly. Immortalized forever with Captain Romance.

  Hatcher, the booger head, was nowhere to be seen during all this, of course.

  I stomped off to look for him, fuming.

  “What are you doing back here?” my father asked when I poked my head in the office. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping man the cash register?”

  “Hatcher can help,” I said shortly. “Where is he, anyway?”

  My father shrugged. “Haven’t seen him. Go on back out there now, Truly. You know we’re counting on you.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said sullenly. How come you get to hide back here? I wanted to ask him, but I gritted my teeth and did as he asked.

  The book signing dragged on forever. I stood politely with Aunt True and listened while stupid Augustus in his stupid cape (a red one this time, in honor of Valentine’s Day) read from his stupid book. I stacked copies of stupid Summer’s Siren Song on the table and herded his stupid starstruck fans into line for the signing. I passed out stupid sticky notes so they could write their names down in case Augustus was too stupid to spell them correctly, and even submitted to posing for stupid pictures afterward.

  By the time everyone left and it was finally time to close up, I really, really wasn’t in the mood to go to the stupid dance.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?” Mom asked me back at home a while later. I was dawdling at the dinner table, picking at my macaroni and cheese. Hatcher and Danny and my sisters had already gone upstairs to change.

  I lifted a shoulder.

  “Come on, honey,” she coaxed. “It’s Winter Festival!”

  What it was was a disaster. It had been a terrible, horrible weekend so far, and it was far from over.

  “You’ve got such a pretty dress, and you’ve been practicing so hard for Cotillion,” my mother continued. “Time to strut your stuff.”

  I dragged my stuff upstairs to the shower. I didn’t feel like strutting anything, ever again.

  CHAPTER 36

  My spirits lifted slightly when I put on my new dress. Like I said, girl clothes are way up on the list of things I’m not good at, but this dress wasn’t so bad. It was close-fitting black satin on top, with spaghetti straps and what Mom called a “sweetheart” neckline, and white poufy material on the bottom. Not poufy like the horrible pillow-shaped heart costume, but poufy like one of those flowy ballerina skirts. For contrast there was a wide red velvet belt, plus the skirt part was sprinkled with red polka dots. It sounds weird, but it wasn’t. It was actually okay. And just the right length too.

  I slipped into my size-ten-and-a-half black heels—low ones, like Mrs. Abramowitz recommended, so I wouldn’t completely tower over my partner—ran a brush through my hair one last time, and grabbed my white gloves. Pausing to look in the mirror, I told myself that I was ready for anything. Even Scooter Sanchez.

  “Oh, honey,” said Mom as I came downstairs. “You look beautiful! Doesn’t she look beautiful, J. T.?”

  She nudged my father, who was trying to stuff his Ken hand into the arm of his jacket. He glanced up at me briefly. “Sure.”

  “Jericho Tobias Lovejoy, look at your eldest daughter!” Mom said sternly.

  My father knows an order when he hears one. His eyes widened as he turned to look at me. Really look at me.

  “How old is she, Dinah?” he asked.

  “Twelve, but only for another month,” Mom told him. “She’s not our little girl anymore.”

  He shook his head. “I can see that. Our Truly-in-the-Middle is truly growing up.” He smiled at me. “Your mother is right—you look beautiful, honey.”

  “Thanks.” A warm feeling flooded through me. I felt bashful all of a sudden, and dropped my gaze toward my toes. My great big Truly Gigantic toes, which had cost me the 100 Individual Medley. The warm feeling evaporated.

  “If it’s okay with you,” my father said to my mother, “I’m going to leave Ken home tonight. The useless thing is more bother than it’s worth.”

  “So will you go with the Terminator, or with Captain Hook?” Mom asked him.

  “Not sure yet. The Terminator was acting up a bit this afternoon—I’ll go take a look at it.” My father started back upstairs.

  I had a sudden wild urge to giggle. Did other amputee families talk like this?

  Silent Man had seemed a little more relaxed recently, and was even joking around a bit. Maybe my mother and Aunt True were right—maybe there had been a change in my father over the past weeks, a slow and gradual shift, quiet as the swing of a pendulum or the rise of a thermometer. He wasn’t back to normal yet by any means, but maybe he was inching in that direction.

  “Did you make vomit bars, Mom?” Hatcher asked anxiously as we pulled out of the driveway a few minutes later.

  She pointed to a plastic container by Dad’s feet on the floor of the van. “Right there,” she said. “As requested.”

  This time I did giggle. Anybody listening to my family’s conversations tonight would definitely think we were nuts.

  Vomit bars were what my brothers call Mom’s special seven-layer cookies. And it’s true, with all the nuts and coconut and other stuff in them, from a distance they do kind of look like somebody barfed. They’re our favorite dessert, though. Once, when we were little, our Texas cousins came to visit—all seventeen of them—and Hatcher and Danny were so afraid they wouldn’t leave any for us, they decided to try and gross them out. That’s when they came up with the name “vomit bars.” It worked, kind of. At least until the older cousins saw us eating them and realized they’d been tricked.

  A few minutes later we pulled up in front of Town Hall.

  “Here, Truly,” said my mother, passing me the container and giving Hatcher a stern look. “See that these get to the refreshment table safely, okay?”

  “Sure, Mom,” I replied, taking it from her.

  Hatcher grinned.

  “Mind the slush!” Mom called, just as Danny stepped out of the car and directly into a puddle.

  “Oh, man!” he groaned, and we all laughed.

  My sisters were beyond excited—unlike me, they couldn’t wait to show off their dance moves for the crowd, plus they had their own party to look forward to in the Town Hall basement afterward. I’d overheard Mrs. Abramowitz tell my mother that a magician had been hired to entertain them.

  My brothers, on the other hand, well, they might not have been dreading the whole thing the way I was, but I knew they’d much rather be at home watching hockey on TV. I was pretty sure Dad felt the same way, but he had his Lieutenant Colonel Jericho T. Lovejoy game face on as he escorted us inside.

  The hall was jammed. In one corner, a band was tuning up. In another, Annie Freeman’s mother was organizing the refreshment table. I delivered the vomit bars, then went to drop my jacket off at the coat check.

  People were streaming through the doors, greeting their neighbors and former neighbors and others who were in town for the weekend celebration. Everyone looked happy. Everyone but me, that is.

  Time to put your game face on too, I told myself, and went off to find my friends. I spotted Lucas first, looking painfully clean and neat. His hair was slicked back with gel, and he was wearing a tuxedo. This seemed like overkill, and was probably his mother’s doing, since the Cotillion guidelines only said that boys should wear a dark suit. Lucas looked like a licorice stick.

  “Hey,” I said.
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  “Hey,” he said back.

  “Nice tux.”

  He blushed. “My mother bought it for me.”

  Ha! I thought. I knew it.

  Jasmine jumped out from behind a pillar, beaming. “Notice anything different?”

  I looked her over. She was wearing a fire-engine-red dress that set off her shiny dark hair. “Your dress is really pretty,” I told her. “I like the sparkles.”

  “No, you dork, my braces! I got them off!” She beamed at me again, and I gave her a high five. So did Lucas. “Scooter still has to keep his on for a few more weeks, though.”

  That was the best news I’d had all day, and I perked right up.

  Cha Cha waved from across the room. “You guys look great!” she called in her deep voice, coming over to join us.

  “You too,” I replied, admiring her black velvet strapless mini. “You look at least fifteen.”

  A moment later the lights dimmed and the band struck a chord. Cha Cha’s mother tugged her husband into the middle of the dance floor.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Mr. Abramowitz said into his microphone. His greeting echoed through the crowded room. “And welcome to the one hundredth annual Pumpkin Falls Winter Festival!”

  A deafening cheer went up from the crowd.

  “As has long been our town’s tradition,” he continued, “we ask our young people to help kick things off in style.”

  That brought another cheer.

  “And so, without further ado, I present to you the Daniel Webster School square dancers!” He motioned to the orchestra, who struck up “Turkey in the Straw” as the younger kids all marched out in pairs for their square dance.

  “Oh, how adorable!” squealed Jasmine, pointing to Pippa and Baxter.

  The two of them were holding hands, and they both wore grave expressions. Pippa took her responsibility as the opening act for the big dance very seriously, and she and Baxter had been practicing their steps faithfully.