chapter 5

  Animal Nature

  I wake up early to the sound of squawking. When I look out my window, I see a poor little bird flying in clumsy loops. That’s not right! It must be sick or injured! Every few seconds, the bird looks like it’s going to crash.

  Gran is out by the berry bush, picking blueberries and dropping them into her little red pail. Why isn’t she more worried?

  I’m downstairs and out of the house in a flash. “Call 911!” I yell as I start running in my own circles. “Danger, danger! Bird in trouble! We need to get that poor bird over to Mom and Dad, pronto!”

  Gran looks up and shades her eyes with a hand. “It’s just a little baby hawk learning to fly.”

  “Wait, what? Really?” I stop and watch. Now I see. The squawking must be the hawk’s parents giving instructions. The baby hawk is only testing his wings.

  He’s going to be just fine. No crash landings.

  Time to take a breath and check in on the morning. The air smells clean like cut grass. I see green apples on the apple trees and the meadow is full of blue flowers that Gran says are chicory. I shout so many Hellos and Beautiful Alerts that my voice gets hoarse.

  “Ready to give Pickle and Chew their breakfast?” asks Gran as we drop off the berry-full pail in the kitchen. “Animals have to eat first, you know.”

  “Um, sure.” Now that it’s morning, I’m nervous. Pickle and Chew are Gran’s donkey and mule. As I recall, they’re both cranky. And the henhouse has got its own set of problems.

  But I’m a country kid now. I can handle any animal, right?

  Together, Gran and I walk up the path to the pony barn. Gran pours out two buckets of breakfast oats. We add water, because Pickle and Chew both are so old that their teeth have gone soft. Gran unhooks two round brushes from the tack board.

  “These are curry combs,” says Gran. “After Chew and Pickle are done eating, you can groom them. Keep your eyes peeled. Check for rashes, cuts, bites, and dry patches.”

  “And report on any suspicious activity,” I tell her. “If you see something, say something. That’s always a good rule.”

  Gran nods. “Exactly.”

  I copy Gran’s circle-rub style. I keep my hand steady on Pickle’s backside as I walk around her. But I have to jump to avoid her kick.

  “Donkeys can kick at any angle,” says Gran. “Even sideways.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I say. “I am filing it under suspicious activity.”

  “And animal nature,” adds Gran.

  When we’re finished, Gran gives me two carrots. “Let them know you’re friends.” I feed each animal from my hand. Their mouths feel so alive, it tickles my palm.

  “Good job,” says Gran. “Think you can do this alone from now on?”

  “Sure.” Then I make myself say it, even though my skin prickles. “Let’s go collect the eggs.”

  Gran gives me a look. “Are you sure? Last visit, you ran out of the henhouse like your hair was on fire.”

  “I know.” I close my eyes and try to replace that embarrassing memory with the picture I drew of Noble, dog of my dreams. How will I get a dog if I’m jumpy and squeamish about other animals? “I wasn’t as country, back then.”

  Gran keeps ninety-seven chickens in her flock, which give about eighty eggs a day. That’s a lot of chickens—and as Gran says, it’s hard to predict what they’ll do. The reason I ran out of the henhouse last visit was because Gran’s prize New Hampshire Red hen, Laying Godiva, pecked my leg so hard she left marks like pinholes. They stayed so long I got to show them to Caleb when we came back to the city.

  But that was then. Now: No more being chicken about chickens!

  When they see us coming, the chickens begin to cluck and squabble. A few hurry past us, ducking out of the henhouse to strut around the run. Others jump into their nesting beds. Archie, Gran’s white Muscovy duck who helps to protect the henhouse, honks a friendly hello.

  On her perch at the end of the coop, Laying Godiva ruffles her red feathers and gives me her meanest bull’s-eye stare.

  I pecked your leg, says her stare. I might do it again.

  Even roosting, Godiva is one of the tallest hens. She is also one of Gran’s best because she checks the three boxes of Gran’s “r” list—robust, reliable, and ribbons. Robust means that Godiva can handle any weather from hot summer days to rain and snow. Reliable means that there’s usually an egg in her nest. Ribbons means good-looking. Ribbons is not as important a category as the other two, but plump, tawny, feathery Godiva is a lot easier on the eye than some of Gran’s more frizzle-feathered and scrawnier-necked breeds.

  Too bad Godiva also checks that final “r” on my own private list: Rude!

  Gran hands me a basket. “We’ll wash all the eggs after we collect them.”

  There’s lots of eggs in the nests. White, pale green, soft blue, sand, gold, golden brown, reddish brown, and medium brown. The tinge of the egg depends on the breed of the hen. Gran’s henhouse has lots of variety.

  I am super-careful to take from nests that only have eggs, no hens. Gran is braver. She can slip her hand under the broody hens to get their eggs.

  At one empty nest, I reach in carefully for two reddish-brown eggs and—

  “YOUCH!” Laying Godiva! She races up and pecks me so quick I don’t have time to dodge. “MY THUMB!”

  The mark on my thumb is bright red. “She fooled me again!”

  Gran scoops up her hen. “There, now.” She makes that special tsk tsk noise she uses for comforting her chickens.

  “I’m the one who got pecked! Why is Laying Godiva so mean to me?”

  “Godiva just gets rattled,” says Gran. “Chickens have lots of emotions.”

  “Godiva’s main emotion is rage.”

  “Fear, more likely. She’s a chicken, and it’s her animal nature to size you up,” says Gran. “Meantime, giving your chicken a cuddle can do her a world of good.”

  There’s no way Godiva would ever let me hold her like Gran does, hand under her bum and close against Gran’s side. If that’s a cuddle, count me out.

  Godiva’s got her eye on me, but I’m not playing her game. I drop our staring contest first.

  Gran and I leave the henhouse with eighty-eight eggs in all. We rinse, dry, and box them into seven egg cartons to sell at Branch’s.

  “With four eggs left over to make egg salad sandwiches,” says Gran.

  “Or a butter cake.” I love Gran’s butter cake, because it’s not too sweet.

  “How are you feeling about your first day of chores?” she asks.

  I think about that. I can probably handle a kicking donkey and a noisy henhouse. I’m not so sure about Laying Godiva. But a real country kid doesn’t run away from a big fat hen. A country kid stays calm.

  At my old school, Mrs. Wallerby, our crossing guard, made a hand signal with one arm raised up and her fingers motioning the okay whenever it was time to cross the street. Everyone followed Mrs. Wallerby’s signals, because she always looked kind, sensible, and correct.

  I do one of Mrs. Wallerby’s hand signals now. “Easy peasy mac and cheesy,” I say. “These chores have officially crossed over to being my responsibility.”

  Gran gives me her wink. “Attagirl.”

  chapter 6

  No Pink, No Polka Dots

  Everybody’s in the kitchen when I come inside. Dad is making his from-scratch pancakes using Gran’s fresh-picked blueberries.

  “Three pancakes for me, please!” My thumb already feels better.

  Dad makes his pancakes with buttermilk. It’s a secret ingredient that everyone knows about. Still, Dad’s “mystery” pancakes are a Branch family treat that we only get once in a while. Dad makes them either when we’ve done something good or when something bad is about to happen.

  I close my eyes to savor their fluffy warm blueberry pancake goodness and hope the only thing behind this breakfast is a cozy farm welcome. But my stomach also gets that ant-crawling feeling that bad news is ahead.

  Mom saves it until we’re stuffed full and licking the sticky bits of syrup off our fingers.

  “Becket and Nicholas, listen up,” she says, folding her hands in an arch. Her face looks serious too.

  “Uh-oh.” Nicholas is the twin who dreads things. I’m the twin who gets excited for them. I’m sort of surprised that he didn’t sense it was coming.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Dad and I have signed you both up for Young Explorers summer day camp. They’ve just sent me a list of the supplies you’ll need. Since today’s a light day at the clinic, I thought I’d take off the morning so we can go into town and shop.”

  “Camp?” But this whole farm feels more like a camp than Camp Easy Breeze, where Nicholas and I went last year.

  “I don’t like camp!” shouts Nicholas. His eyes are already red. It’s never too early in the day for Nicholas to cry.

  “I loved Young Explorers when I was a kid,” says Dad. “It’s got a creek you can swim in. The hiking trails are really cool. You’ll get to meet a bunch of kids. Also, while Mom and I are at work, we’ll be happy knowing you aren’t just sitting around.”

  “Last summer in the city, you won Camp Easy Breeze’s Spirit Award, remember, Becket?” says Mom.

  “Yup.” I nod. Camp Easy Breeze was fun, but I keep my face a secret. I want to see how bad Nicholas reacts first. Nicholas is a “squeaky wheel,” which means that if he gets really unhappy, then my parents will try to give him special extras to put him in the right mood. Squeaky-wheeling has been working a lot for Nicholas lately. Like getting to sit where he wants at the table or picking his favorite movie. So maybe this is a good opportunity for me to be not so much of a smooth wheel.

  “Are you both nuts? I’m not good at camp at all,” reminds Nicholas. “This will be pure torture!”

  “Young Explorers is only half days,” says Mom. “Dad will drop you both off in the morning, and I’ll pick you up later in the afternoon. Afternoons, you’re free as a lark.”

  Caroline is keeping her eyes on her fork as she skates her last bite of pancake through maple syrup.

  “Is Caroline doing camp, too?” I ask.

  “Caroline is almost twelve—old enough to help out at the store,” says Dad. “So she’ll be working there in the mornings with Gran.”

  “Look, I’m fine to go to camp, but just to remind you, this was not on my list, folks!” I say. “You didn’t tell Nicholas and me one thing about throwing us away into Young Explorers Camp. I feel like you owe us both a big one, if we have to go there.”

  “We’re not throwing you anywhere. We’re placing you gently. Young Explorers is down the road, over at Boggs Hollow Elementary, where I went to school and where you’ll be going this fall,” says Dad.

  “I’m young. I explore. I’m already a Young Explorer,” I remind him. “I’m agreeing to go to this camp because I am also a team player.”

  Nicholas is so upset he runs upstairs. We all hear the slam of his door and then he does some thudding around.

  “Heeeere we go,” says Mom. Sure enough, soon the weepy scrape of “Thrown Away into Camp” cello music floats down to us.

  “Thanks for being a good sport, Becket,” says Mom. “Knowing you, by next week you’ll be on your way to your next Spirit Award.”

  But Mom can’t smooth-wheel me away that easy. “Maybe, but maybe not. The important thing to remember here is how mature I’m being, even though I don’t want to go to camp, either.” And since I don’t have a Clive, I scrape my chair hard from the table and clear my plate using as much noise as it takes, plus a little extra. Smooth wheels can squeak a little, too!

  Mom goes upstairs. After a few minutes, she comes down with a smile and with Nicholas, who is dressed for the day.

  “Nicholas and I are going into town to get brand-new cool camping supplies.”

  Nicholas looks guilty. Shopping is his weakness. That’s how Mom tempted him. “Get dressed quick and come along?”

  “No, thanks. Just get double of whatever supplies Nicholas gets.”

  “No outer space stuff or orange, right?” asks Nicholas.

  “Pick out anything, I don’t care.” Shopping is not my weakness.

  But after they drive away, I think about how bleh I’d feel if they came back with outer space or orange. I go find Caroline.

  “Get out of my room, please,” she says.

  “Cheese and crickets, I’m just in the doorway. Can you text Mom no outer space and no orange, no pink including hot pink, no mermaids, no princesses or fairies, no reptiles, no polka dots, no stripes?”

  “Got it, now go away, go go go.” Caroline is like an evil queen in the kingdom of her new room. I know it was the main thing she was looking forward to about moving, but why does she have to rub it in so hard?

  Like it was such a torture to share a room with me!

  “Okay, but also just text yes to all greens except mint green, yes to rainbows, yes to baby hamsters, baby turtles, baby penguins, yes to puppies especially German shepherd puppies, yes to erasers with faces—”

  “This text is way, way too long,” says Caroline. “You should have gone with Mom and Nicholas if you want stuff just right. I don’t have to do this. I’m not your babysitter.” But she comes out into the hall—no way will she invite me into her precious room—and we sit at the top of the steps, texting with Mom until she’s found everything I need.

  “I gotta go down to the store,” says Caroline, clicking her phone off.

  “Can I go?”

  I take her shrug to mean yes. In my room, I change into my rainbow shirt and jeans shorts. I stick Punkin into the hatband of a cute straw hat I find in my closet. I make sure his eyes are peeking out so he knows what’s going on.

  Halfway to the store, I have to take my glasses off and rub the lenses in case my eyes are playing tricks.

  He is tied by a leash to a tree outside. He is even more perfect than I imagined. Pale gold with white markings on his face and paws. Warm, smart, chocolate eyes. Soft, floppy ears and a long, brushy tail.

  Noble, my country dog, has leapt out of my billboard and is standing right in front of me.

  chapter 7

  ¡Hola, Oro!

  There’s a sign outside Branch’s door that reads push hard.

  I do—maybe too hard. The door slams against the wall as the antique doorbell tings overhead to let Gran know when a customer is here. But I need to know who belongs to that dog right away!

  Inside, it’s dark and cool just like I remember. I take a deep breath of that familiar scent of fresh-baked bread and brown sugar. Some of the best Beautiful Alerts happen through the nose.

  Gran signals me to the front counter. “I’m giving Caroline a cash register lesson,” she says. “Want to learn?”

  “She might be too young,” says Caroline.

  “Punkin will help,” I say. “He’s great at math.” I scoot next to them behind the register, but my eyes are watching the dog owners. They’re the only customers in the store—a man and woman by the freezer section, along with a girl who might be my age. Her skin is a couple of shades darker than my peach tone skin, and her hair is a coppery-brown puff held back in a headband. She’s wearing a dress with sparkles on it. A sparkly dress wouldn’t be something I’d pick for myself, but I know a Beautiful Alert when I see one.

  Is that your dog? I want to ask her. Even though I know it is.

  All that happens is my face gets hot. At my old school, I’d known everyone since kindergarten. During the summer, half my school went to Camp Easy Breeze. Come to think of it, I haven’t met someone new for a long time. I’m probably out of practice.

  Gran is explaining about the cash register, but Punkin and I aren’t paying any attention. When the girl’s parents come over to set down a few things, I see that the dad has the girl’s same hair, and the mom has her same tea-brown eyes.

  “Good morning, Maria and Lucas! Morning, Frieda! Girls, I’d like you to meet our neighbors, the Francas, and their daughter, Frieda.”

  “You two girls must be about the same age,” Frieda’s mom says, pointing to her daughter and me.

  “Becket and her twin brother, Nicholas, are both going into fourth grade at Boggs Hollow Elementary this fall,” volunteers Gran.

  “Just like you, Frieda!” says her dad.

  Gran keeps a jar of barley-sugar lollipops by the register to hand out, and now she gives one to Frieda.

  “Thanks,” says Frieda.

  What breed is your dog? How old is he? When did you get him? My questions are right on the tip of my tongue.

  But where did my voice go?

  Frieda Franca stares at me. Slowly, she unwraps her lollipop and then pokes it in her mouth. Does she want to say something to me as much as I want to say something to her?

  Meantime, the Francas gather more grocery items: one carton of eggs, a bottle of milk, a bottle of half-and-half, and a tub of yogurt. The whole time, they’re chatting with Gran and Caroline about the deliciousness of yogurt and other foods you can add to yogurt, like dates and granola.

  Yogurt is gross, and granola cannot change that. Dates are gross, too. This is a gross conversation. I move my ears away from the register to the jams and syrups section.

  Frieda Franca takes a few steps until she is right near me.

  What’s his name? Does he sleep outside or inside? Is he friendly? Is he smart?

  I sidle over to the dry goods shelves. I try to feel how my questions would sound if they came out of my mouth instead of swirling around in my head. Frieda creeps over, too. I move to the bread shelf. Frieda again.

 

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