That Girl Lucy Moon Page 2

  "I might as well see how far I can get tonight," she said slowly. She flashed a quick smile. "I'll call and write postcards, and then I'll be home in November." She glanced at her watch. "Oh, I've gotta hop to it!"

  Her mom hugged Lucy and gave her a kiss. She lifted the yellow-and-green hat off Lucy's head and handed it to her. "Take the hat off sometimes, okay, Lucy?"

  Then her mom planted a quick kiss on her dad's cheek.

  Lucy thought the way her mom kissed her dad was a little odd, and not very nice, but when her mom got all happy like this, there was no telling what she'd do.

  Still her dad smiled. "You have a good trip, Jo. I love you," he said.

  "Yes," she said, glancing between them. "You know I love both of you very much."

  Her mom said she would call when she reached Duluth.

  Bach blasted from the stereo as the car turned right onto the road. Her mom said listening to Bach gave her the guts to try new things. Lucy hated the word "guts," because of roadkill.

  A few moments later, the car disappeared from sight, and all that was left was a gassy cloud.

  That was when Lucy realized that she hadn't asked her mom about junior high and hormones, and if she was becoming the wimp of the world.

  Lucy kicked at the snow collecting in the gutter. It was rude to be that happy leaving, she thought. Her mom should at least pretend to be sad!

  "How about pizza for dinner and a nine thirty bedtime?" said her dad, putting a hand on her back.

  Bedtime? Good grief, thought Lucy. Couldn't he wait five seconds before laying down the rules? Still, Lucy nodded and picked her backpack up off the lawn.

  But before she followed her dad inside the red house, Lucy took a last look at all the snow, and thought of sledding on Wiggins Hill. There was enough snow now, thought Lucy. Too bad Miss Wiggins was such a stickler about sledding past dark.

  Then Lucy stepped inside, the screen door slamming behind her.

  Not long after the Moons had said their good-byes, a champagne-colored Cadillac lurched backward and forward at the side of the road, its wheels spinning in fresh fallen snow. Finally, the car rolled back, jolting to a stop deep in the ditch. A long moment passed, and then the driver's side door opened. A small foot in a fur-trimmed boot appeared.

  The chief executive officer of Wiggins Faucet—Miss Ilene Viola Wiggins—stepped out of the car, holding an alligator briefcase in one hand and her car keys in the other. For a minute, Miss Wiggins stood by the side of her stuck Cadillac without doing much of anything. She wiped at her eyes with the back of a gloved hand and nearly wiped her glasses off her face.

  "Idiot driver!" she said as she hit the Cadillac's hood with a kid-gloved fist.

  Then Miss Wiggins slammed the car door shut, locked it, and began trudging up, up, up the remaining blocks home.

  Yes, Miss Ilene Viola Wiggins lived at the top of Wiggins Hill—the only good sledding hill in Turtle Rock— and she ran that hill just like she ran the town. Miss Wiggins didn't let kids use toboggans (snap your back) or slide past dark (decapitate someone). Sledders dreamed about that extra slide, when the air turned so blue that the whole world looked like it was underwater, and the only light came from the reflection of the dusk moon on the blue-white snow. Those blue-lit runs were crazy, out of control, rushing, rushing, with roots of trees, clumps of snake-grass, and gopher holes taking on different shapes.

  When a bold someone finally tried one of their schemes, they found out that Miss Wiggins was a force unto her own. Their friends would quickly tell them that if they didn't stop sledding, Miss Wiggins might not pay for the new school auditorium, or the machine for the hospital that mapped out a person's insides. Or if they didn't get off the hill, that movie theater with "all-around sound" was a pipe dream. For those undeterred—and there were always a few every year—they would find out that Miss Wiggins could see through snowsuits and ski masks, and that she knew the names (and more important, the stories) of that person's parents, grandparents, and extended relations. Even five-year-olds who couldn't tie their own shoes got the hint: there was no messing with Miss Wiggins.

  An hour after her car got stuck in the ditch, Miss Wiggins sat in her kitchen (still wearing her coat, water puddled around her boots), speaking to a police officer.

  "It was Josephine Moon," she said. "You know who I'm talking about—the postmaster's wife." She cocked her head and crossed her arms. "Driving like a maniac. She forced me clear off the road."

  "Are you sure, ma'am? Josephine Moon?"

  "That woman turned and waved at me—while driving, I'd like to point out. Minnesota plates 1PHT0GRL."

  The police officer nodded and wrote it down. "Certainly must've been upsetting."

  Miss Wiggins snapped her head up to look him in the eye. "At sixty-eight, I'm beyond needing any psychological mumbo jumbo," she said, pointing a finger. "Just do your job."

  "Yes, ma'am," said the officer, quickly stuffing his notebook in his pocket.

  He was halfway out the door when he turned and said, "Ma'am? You've got some sledders on your hill—right near that big sugar maple. They might rip it up with those sleds."

  "Sleds? It's October. . . . Oh, for heaven's sake. Well, arrest them."

  "What?" said the police officer.

  "You heard me. Arrest them and charge them with trespassing," Miss Wiggins said.

  "They're only kids . . . and this is the sledding hill."

  "I don't care," said Miss Wiggins, reddening. "It's my hill. Those kids know not to be sledding past dark in an October snowstorm."

  At eight thirty that same night, Lucy Moon put down her pen, straightened her hat, and read through her essay:

  Why Thomas Poke's Bra-Testing #2. Pencil Is Sacred

  by Lucy Moon

  It's hard to figure out why Thomas Poke's pencil is "sacred," but that's what you said to write about, so I am trying to do it.

  "Sacred," according to the dictionary means, "set apart for worship," or "dedicated to a single use," or "worthy of reverence and respect." You probably didn't mean the first two meanings, because in the first case, no one wants to worship Thomas Puke's tooth-dented pencil. And in the second case ("dedicated to a single use"), if Thomas had only used his pencil for schoolwork I wouldn't be writing this now I am not kidding when I tell you that Thomas used his pencil for a second purpose—the daily bra-check.

  So now, all I've got is the third meaning: "worthy of reverence and respect." But I'm having trouble feeling reverent about Thomas Puke's pencil—even if he didn't sit there and run it up and down my back hoping for a bra bump day after day after day (I don't even respect my favorite pencil, and that pencil is made from recycled Christmas trees!)

  But let's say Thomas kept his pencil to himself I agree that he would have had a right to use his pencil as long as he wanted, without me breaking it. I agree with that.

  Here's what I think is sacred: justice, fairness, friendship, loyalty, truthfulness, and a place to live and learn without bullies. Mr Skoglund, why should 1 have to wear a training bra just to sit through homeroom in peace? (Though, even a training bra might not stop Thomas and Ben completely.)

  I know you're going to make me write this essay again, but at least I told the truth.

  Lucy grinned. Mr. Skoglund probably didn't mean that the pencil was really "sacred," but he had said it, and anyway, it was a lot more interesting to write about. Clearly, Lucy had some fight left in her! Maybe it just took a little impetus, like a bra-check, for Lucy to start acting like herself in a brand-new school.

  "Ha!" Lucy said, putting the paper down.

  She pulled off her hat, rolled the brim, and listened to the snow outside. The snow fell in sheets—shh, shh, shh. This time of night, Lucy's mom was usually clanking around in the kitchen, cleaning. She'd be singing along to the music Ken and Julie played on WBRR, North Country Radio. But tonight, Lucy heard only the groans of her dad's lounger. If Lucy listened hard enough, she might hear the page of a magazine turn!


  The blue walkie-talkie on Lucy's bedside table jingled.

  "Lucy? Are you there? Lucy? " A grainy-sounding voice came through the speaker. A bit of static followed, and then silence.

  Lucy grabbed the walkie-talkie.

  "Hey," she said. Lucy got up off her bed and looked out her window. Light streamed out of the diamond-shaped window of the yellow house next door. Zoë stepped into the window and waved.

  Lucy waved back.

  "Sooooooo," said Zoë, stretching out the word, "sledding tomorrow?"

  "We've got tons of snow," said Lucy.

  "Early?"

  "Of course."

  "Over and out."

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was either very late or very early when moonlight finally filtered through a parting in the storm clouds. Around this time, the walkie-talkie on Lucy Moon's bedside table jingled.

  A bit of static followed and then, "Lucy? Lucy? Aren't you up yet?"

  Lucy snorted and rolled over.

  When she finally opened her eyes, the walkie-talkie voice was going on about a cave collapse: "Fifteen minutes of air left. Aaron glanced at his spelunking companions. Sheila gingerly touched an ankle that would later prove broken. Bill, farther back, breathed with difficulty— four broken ribs . . ."

  Was it that late? When Zoë used the walkie-talkie to wake Lucy, she usually started with talk, moved to hypnosis, sang camp songs ("The Lonely Loon Wails for You" was a Zoë classic), and then started reading from her "Saved from Certain Death" books. Lucy glanced at her alarm clock. 5:30 A.M. 5:30 A.M.?

  Lucy sat up and pressed the button on her blue walkie-talkie: "How did they know there was only fifteen minutes of air?"

  She let go of the button and sank back into her pillow, rolled over, and closed her eyes.

  "Is that you?" came the voice on the walkie-talkie. "I've been reading to you for ten whole minutes! Do you want to be first on the hill or not?"

  After thirty minutes of hard slogging through drifting snow, Lucy and Zoë stared up at Wiggins Hill and knew they weren't the first sledders. Piles of fresh snow lay on the hill, but underneath the new snow an experienced eye could see trails left by sleds and divots made by boots from the night before.

  Still, it would be one of the first runs of the year, and they'd settle for that. This was Wiggins Hill, after all. Tough Minnesota grass bent over by the snow waited for a chance to pop up like whips. Land a trip into the blackberry brambles lining the hill's edges, and a nylon jacket came out looking like confetti. But the hands down best danger during first-of-the-year runs was the giant sugar maple in the center of the hill. It stood its ground, thick as a small silo, its limbs cross-hatching the sky, and its roots lacing that hill like a boot. Early in the season those roots surfaced unexpectedly, and a sledder hitting one sailed on a trip they weren't likely to forget anytime soon.

  And since it was morning, Miss Wiggins wasn't likely to bother them at all.

  Zoë kicked Lucy on the behind and took off running up the hill. Lucy chased her. Pretty soon they were sledding. Lucy and Zoë flung themselves down Wiggins Hill for more than three hours that morning. They sledded backward, forward, belly-up, belly-down, and cross-legged. They surfed, they water-skied, and they tried horseback-riding tricks they'd seen at the circus. They made snow ramps to jump their sleds. They exaggerated their falls: jumping, rolling, somersaulting, and then playing dead. At the bottom of the hill, they lifted their bodies from the snow, raised their arms in triumph, and tromped back to the top to do it again.

  It was later that morning—while Lucy and Zoë sat in their long underwear in the Rossignol kitchen, eating day-old pastries and rehashing the morning's near-death, Wiggins Hill experiences—when the phone rang. Zoë picked it up and then signaled to Lucy to get on the other line. It was Edna—Zoë's make-it-by-hand friend from the cafeteria. Had they heard the news? Last night two junior-high students were arrested for sledding on Wiggins Hill.

  What? Lucy's heart raced. She asked Edna who had been arrested. Edna said she didn't know.

  Lucy and Zoë hung up, unable to believe what they'd heard. People did not get arrested for sledding! Then they began to call one person after another—anyone who they thought might know something—to find out more.

  Lucy and Zoë weren't the only ones phoning that morning. As the midday sun melted the snow, word of the arrested sledders seeped out. The news trickled through Turtle Rock on phone lines not downed by the storm, over neighborhood fences and coffee cups. Junior-high students awakened by the ringing found parents whispering into the phone, covering the receiver with their hands so the story wouldn't escape (though spoken word has a tendency to slide up air ducts, underneath doors, and between cupped fingers, finding waiting listeners). By midafternoon, when thoughts had strayed to the Saturday Afternoon Special (fresh double chocolate—chunk cookies) at the Rossignol Bakery, nearly everyone in Turtle Rock knew that two unidentified students had been arrested, and every kid found themselves sternly told that they were not to go sledding on Wiggins Hill.

  In the end, it seemed no one quite believed that the police had done this on their own initiative. People had sledded on Wiggins Hill for as long as anyone could remember without getting arrested! So everyone came to the same conclusion: if it had happened at all, Miss Wiggins had a hand in it.

  For a lot of folks, the rumor was enough, satisfying in itself. But for Lucy and Zoë it wasn't. Lucy, in particular, felt an outrage that stirred her deeply, at the DNA level, and boy, did that feel good. Her anger at the daily bra-check had felt like a start of something, but this? Lucy welcomed the feeling like an old, old friend.

  Now Lucy turned to Zoë, who stood next to her flipping through the phone book. "We've got to do something!" said Lucy.

  Zoë snapped the phone book closed and grinned. "Lucy Moon is back."

  As they walked downtown that afternoon, they discussed all the possibilities, went back and forth, and forth and back, and came to one conclusion: they'd wait until the Turtle Rock Times came out on Thursday and see what it had to say about the incident. That might help them decide what needed to be done.

  Lucy did think about what it might mean socially if she organized a protest at the new school, but she brushed the thought aside. Anyway, if everyone wanted a definition of who she was, well, at least she'd be providing it.

  That week, Lucy found herself waiting not only for the Turtle Rock Times, but also for a chance to teach Thomas Duke and Ben Furley a lesson. Nothing seemed to have happened with the "Why Thomas Duke's Bra-Testing #2 Pencil Is Sacred" essay. At the very least, Lucy expected Mr. Skoglund to ask her to write it over, but instead he remained silent. Meanwhile, Thomas Duke and Ben Furley continued their extracurricular pencil activities.

  Lucy spied her chance as she and Zoë were making their way to English class. Thomas Duke and Ben Furley were leaning against their lockers, rating the passing girls. Lucy met Thomas Duke's glance, and he held up two fingers. He leaned toward Ben Furley and whispered something. Ben Furley's eyes zipped up and down Zoë's body and he held up seven fingers.

  "Did you see that?" said Zoë. "Yuck!" Zoë stuck her tongue out at them.

  Then Lucy saw an opportunity in the hallway ahead, and everything fell into place. Yes! Lucy made a U-turn and walked up to Thomas and Ben. "I dare you to bra-check the new girl." She nodded in the direction of a petite, black-haired girl who was having an animated discussion with another student.

  "You dare me?" said Thomas Duke.

  "I double dare you," Lucy said.

  Thomas Duke looked at the girl's thin back, and smiled slightly at Lucy.

  "Bra-check!" yelled Ben Furley, and, pencils out, the two of them strolled over to the girl and dragged their pencils up her back.

  "Yup," said Thomas Duke.

  "A genuine bra-wearer," said Ben Furley. "Yes-siree-bob."

  And that's when "the new girl" turned around. It was the eighth-grade accelerated math teacher who came in on Tuesdays from the
high school. Though small, she competed in triathlons, and at one time was the All-State Swimming Champion. She grabbed Thomas Duke and Ben Furley by the ears and dragged them into Principal Adams's office.

  "By the ears," said Lucy, clapping her hands to her mouth.

  "I can't believe anyone really does that," said Zoë. "It's so Dickensian."

  Then they looked at each other and laughed until they cried.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Turtle Rock Times was published only once a week, and it hit the newspaper stands and the front steps (and hedges) of houses every Thursday. On Thursday, October 9th, the headline blared "the blizzard issue—28 inches!" (Some people thought that it was overstating the case by calling twenty-eight inches of fluffy snow a blizzard.) Folks had been stranded in their cars on the highway—a lesson to all who did not have kitty litter, candles, canned soup, bars of chocolate, and old sleeping bags stowed in trunks. Pastor Leeson's column told how a family found hope that stormy night by singing "Warmed by the Spirit's Holy Fire." There were articles about the old north section of Turtle Rock losing power: how Miss Eneborg of Ives Lane nearly lost all of her venison rump roast until she realized that it was snow, so why not just stick the rump out in God's snowy handiwork? The Times even interviewed Clare, of Clare's Meats & Foodstuffs. "I had to post a sign, 'Leave snowshoes outside,' if you can believe it."

  Ken, of the Ken and Julie Show on North Country Radio, WBRR, declared the Turtle Rock Times's blizzard news "old and moldy."

  "The snow is almost gone!" moaned Ken. "You betcha, I've moved on—I'm a man of the future."

  Julie snorted and said slyly: "Okay, listening audience, check out the man-of-the-future's playlist: up next, the Whistling Bulgarian puffing his way through 'Greensleeves.'"