The Secrets of Tree Taylor Page 16

  “Then that’s it,” Penny said.

  “I reckon you’re right, Penny,” Mrs. Kinney agreed.

  “Wait—you’ve lost me,” I said.

  “Mind travel,” Mrs. Kinney explained. “We’ll make it so Gary can travel in his mind.”

  From there, we tossed out ideas like crazy, popping them off right and left. Mrs. Kinney may have moved like a turtle, but her mind hopped like a hare. She came up with five ideas to every one of mine.

  We finally settled on getting Gary to Camelot, where King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table—and plenty of dragons—lived.

  “His birthday is tomorrow,” I said, wondering if we really could pull off this plan. “Eileen saw a musical called Camelot at the Kansas City playhouse, but there isn’t a city called Camelot, right?”

  “I got pictures of Essex in England and Cadbury Castle in Somerset,” Mrs. Kinney offered. “That’s as close as we’ll get to what them Arthur legends talk about. Only my pictures are mostly tore from magazines. I wish they was bigger.”

  “We can make them bigger,” Penny said.

  “How?” I asked.

  “If we had poster board, I can copy from a magazine picture. Then we can color it in. I could start now if we had everything.”

  “I can write up some of my facts on that area,” Mrs. Kinney said. “I suppose Gary’s mama could give everything to the boy, let his mind do the rest.”

  I stood up. “I’ll go get poster boards and markers right now. And I can stop by Dad’s waiting room and see if any of the magazines have anything we can use.”

  “Penny and I will get started here. Tree, you go and hurry back, now.”

  I found markers at home and took time to call Jack to tell him what we were doing. He had to work or he would have come to help too. Then I biked to town for poster board. I bought six, which was all I could balance on my bike basket. Then I stopped by the office and flipped through old magazines. I found stuff about England and castles in two Looks and also the newest issue of Life.

  On the way back, I passed the Hamiltonian office. Randy was smoking out in front. I gave him a chin wave because my hands were full with my overflowing bike load.

  “How’s that article coming along, Tree?” he called.

  I pretended not to hear. I didn’t want to think about it. Not now.

  He hollered something else to me. It sounded like, “You’ll get me in hot water one way or the other!” But I was already too far past him to ask what he meant.

  When I got back to Mrs. Kinney’s, I knocked and heard her shout, “Come on in!” She and Penny were down on the floor, Mrs. Kinney printing facts about dragons and Penny drawing dragons and castles.

  The three of us worked the rest of the afternoon and through the evening. I ran home and brought back sandwiches for us. Mrs. Kinney and I colored in Penny’s pictures, which were so good.

  “Penny, these are even better than the magazine photos,” I told her.

  “Anybody can copy,” she said.

  “I sure can’t,” Mrs. Kinney said.

  “It’s getting dark,” I said, stretching out my cramped back muscles. If I was this stiff, I could only imagine how Mrs. Kinney’s back felt. “We’ll have to finish up tomorrow morning before I go in for work.”

  Mom and I drove Penny home, and on the way, Penny and I took turns describing our birthday project.

  “I think this is wonderful, girls. You should be very proud of yourselves,” Mom said.

  “It was Mrs. Kinney’s idea,” Penny explained.

  “Well, she should be proud too.”

  Mom didn’t ask Penny for directions to her house. Unlike Dad, Mom always seemed to know where she was going.

  “You should hear some of Mrs. Kinney’s weird facts about dragons, Mrs. Taylor,” Penny said. “The English dragons were supposed to be fire-breathing and mean. But Chinese dragons were wise.”

  “I’m giving Gary that book about King Arthur, the one Aunt Vin sent me last year,” I said. “The only thing we’re missing is music. Eileen bought the forty-five of ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ last month. You think she’d let me borrow it and her portable record player tomorrow?”

  “I’ll just bet she would,” Mom said.

  Mom proved to be right. Eileen gave us her blessing and her record player, along with “Puff the Magic Dragon.” Mom called Mrs. Lynch and worked out the details. Mrs. Kinney, Penny, and I finished everything by noon, but we still had to deliver our gift. So I called D.J., and he said I could come in late. He didn’t expect a crowd because storm clouds threatened pouring rain at any minute.

  We must have looked like an odd trio walking to Gary’s dark house. I carried Eileen’s precious record player, with “Puff” ready to go. Penny and Mrs. Kinney were loaded down with posters and sheets of fun facts about dragons and Camelot.

  Penny rang the bell with her nose and got a classic ding-dong in return.

  The second Mrs. Lynch opened the door and saw us, tears burst out of her. “This is … well, it’s beautiful. I can’t believe you went to so much trouble. I will never forget this. And neither will Gary.”

  We helped her get everything inside, but we didn’t go in.

  “Did Gary’s Secret Dragon stop by?” I asked.

  Mrs. Lynch grinned. “This morning before dawn, I found a giant stuffed dragon sitting on the porch. Gary went absolutely crazy. I told him he had another surprise coming, so he’s been excited all day.” She hugged us, one by one. “Thank you. I … well, just thank you.”

  We didn’t say much as we walked away from Gary’s house.

  We were almost back at Mrs. Kinney’s when Penny said what I’d been thinking. “I wish we could be there when Gary goes to Camelot.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Kinney said, walking up her porch steps. “I reckon we can go there with him … in our minds.”

  33

  Teed Off

  The phone woke me Friday morning. Mom answered it, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. Then it rang again. And again.

  They couldn’t all be Donna.

  I stumbled into the kitchen. Mom, still in her robe and slippers, was on the phone.

  I slid into the booth and drank my orange juice. Mom always had juice set out for each of us. That’s how I could tell who was already up. Dad’s juice was gone. Eileen’s still sat at her spot. She could sleep through anything, even a barrage of phone calls.

  Mom hung up and took a seat across from me in the booth. “Nice of you to join me, Tree.”

  The chill in her words made me rack my brain for what I must have done wrong. Took out trash. Cleaned the bathroom. Put away my clothes. Besides, Mom already said she was proud of me for giving Gary a great birthday. Maybe I was just imagining the chill in her voice.

  “I guess you’ve noticed we’ve had quite a few calls this morning,” Mom said.

  “Yeah. What’s the deal? Is Donna on a roll?” I chuckled. By myself.

  “No. But half the town seems to be. The half who get their Hamiltonian in the morning, that is.”

  I had no clue what she was talking about or why I was about to be blamed for it.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a poet?”

  “What?”

  “A poet with social commentary.”

  “Mom, you’re acting weird.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “The paper? Your poem?”

  “My poem? What—” I stopped. A creepy feeling inched up my spine.

  “Now it’s coming back to you, is it? Well, here you go. Donna was kind enough to drop by with her paper. Front page, Tree. Congratulations.” Her tone was anything but congratulatory.

  I took the paper from her, and there it was, right in the middle of page one: “ ‘Ode to a Lifeguard’ by Tree Taylor.” I had to admit that seeing my name in print like that nearly took my breath away. They published my poem? They published my poem! On the front page! I had a byline.

  “Do you have anything to say, Teresa? As you can guess, this t
ook me by surprise.”

  “Mom, I didn’t send this to the paper. I just wrote it after that woman wrote the letter complaining we closed the pool early.”

  “That woman? As in Mrs. Cozad, who called around seven, right before Mr. Cozad called and asked to speak to your father? And, let’s see, that was a few minutes before a friend of Mrs. Cozad called and launched into me without so much as a hello. I believe she said—right before she hung up on me—that she’d be nominating me Worst Mother of the Year.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I protested. “I’d nominate you Best Mother of the Year any day.”

  Her expression didn’t change.

  “What’s Tree done now?” Eileen had sneaked into the kitchen in her frilly nightgown.

  I got up from the booth to let her slide in. “I didn’t do anything, but thanks for asking.” I turned to Mom. “I never sent that poem to the newspaper. I didn’t even take it to the pool. The only person who’s even read that poem is—” I stopped because it was all coming clear now.

  Jack!

  I tried calling Jack at home, but he’d already left for work. I tried him at work, but he couldn’t come to the phone. Or wouldn’t.

  He must have given my ode to Randy. And that’s what Randy meant about me getting him in trouble. His dad would not have liked my social commentary.

  I was not looking forward to going in to work. The board had probably been getting more calls than we had. What if my ode got D.J.—and all of us—fired?

  I biked to the pool, then shoved my bike against the tree where I always left it. As I hopped the counter into the basket room, I braced myself for whatever hassles I’d caused with my stupid poem.

  I could have killed Jack for sending it to the paper without even asking.

  Laura, Mike, D.J., and Sarah were all waiting for me with the front page of the Hamiltonian spread out on the pool counter, held securely in place by two baskets.

  I opened my mouth to apologize when they burst into applause. D.J. grabbed the paper and shook it over his head. “Tree, my ace!”

  Sarah shouted, “Three cheers for the best writer in Hamilton!” Her smile stretched her face. It tore me in two because this was the Sarah I wouldn’t have to cheer me on next year.

  “Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!” They all joined in.

  I had officially entered the Twilight Zone.

  I got so many pats on the back I nearly toppled over. “So we’re not in more trouble because of my lifeguard poem?”

  “Are you kidding, kiddo?” D.J. said. “Phone’s been ringing off the hook! We aren’t the only ones who know the truth. We’ve gotten calls from a dozen mothers who witnessed those kids shivering and wrapped in towels. And they didn’t just call us. They called the board. And the mayor himself! I am officially the man!”

  “You always were, D.J.,” I agreed, more relieved than I’d have thought possible.

  “And you, Tree?” He bowed, like I was royalty. “You are the golden girl.”

  “Fine as wine!” Mike chimed in.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what a golden girl fine as wine was, but it sounded good. I returned the bow.

  As the day wore on, I got a lot more comments about my poem. Most kids thought it was pretty cool. Adults were harder to figure out. A few glared at me as I took their baskets. Several said things like, “I saw your piece in the paper,” and left it at that. Two of my old grade-school teachers, Miss Tomlin and Mrs. Cox, said they always knew I’d be a writer.

  Maybe I’d have to forgive Jack after all.

  I felt a little bad when the Cozad kids were dumped off at the pool, though. So I bought them each a candy bar and kept a close eye on them.

  Later, when Penny walked up to the basket counter, she crinkled her lips, like she was trying to hold in a smile. “Here.” She handed me a copy of “Ode to a Lifeguard,” which she’d secured between two sheets of plastic. She’d punched holes around the edges of the plastic sheets, then stitched the newspaper inside, using brown yarn. “I thought you might want to hang on to this. It’s really good, Tree.”

  I took the gift from her. “Wow! This is great. My mom probably burned our copy. Thanks, Penny.”

  Late in the afternoon, Ray dropped by as I was taking my break. He followed me to the snack bar, and we both bought peanuts. We took the same spot as before. On our table. I loved the sound of that.

  Thank heavens I’d kept my vow and was wearing my green swimsuit.

  The first thing Ray said after we’d settled in was, “I think your letter to the editor was awesome. And funny.”

  We sat and talked way past my break, but I didn’t think D.J. would complain. Not today.

  Ray brought up music again. Then we switched to talking about school and when we could get our driver’s licenses. I told him about Sarah moving to Kansas, and he said he was sorry—for her, and for me.

  I tried to focus on every word he said so that later I could replay our conversation in my head. But how could I focus on anything except his full lips? And his eyes. Plus, his arms, all bronzed from the sun, and hunky from all that lifting and unloading.

  I had to get a grip. “Have you seen Dr. No yet?” I asked. “I heard it was unreal.”

  “Saw it right after it came out. A bunch of us went to the Cameron drive-in. You should have come.”

  I would have if you—or anybody—had asked me. That’s what I was thinking. But after rewriting in my head, I said, “I’ve read a couple of James Bond novels and really liked them.”

  “I didn’t know he wrote books. Anyway, Dr. No was one fine flick! You ought to see it.”

  “I love movies, and I love drive-ins,” I said. Hint, hint.

  “You should come with us next time. Hey! Maybe you should write movies instead of books … and poems.”

  We both cracked up, and I hoped my face didn’t turn red. Or if it did, I hoped he’d blame the sun. It felt great to be laughing with Ray Miller, sitting on our table, and—

  “Ray! There you are!” Wanda, barefoot and bikini-clad, tiptoed over the gravel toward our picnic table. “Come on! We didn’t come to the pool to sit in the shade. Snap! Pop! You don’t have much time before your shift.” She held out her hand.

  Ray hopped down off our table and walked over to her. “See you, Tree,” he said.

  Wanda latched onto Ray’s arm as if she’d fall without it.

  I was sure she was ignoring me, but she turned back. “Tree, I almost forgot. I read your little poem in the paper.”

  “It was great, wasn’t it?” Ray said.

  “Bet that got you in trouble, huh? Snap.”

  “Not really,” I answered.

  “I’m surprised,” Wanda said. “It’s the kind of writing Aunt Edna—Mrs. Woolsey—calls ‘inappropriate.’ She says we have to respect our readers. I ran into her this morning and told her you had no way of knowing that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” She waved with her free hand, while clinging to Ray with the other.

  So Mrs. Woolsey hated my poem? Great.

  I couldn’t remember which author wrote the quote from a few days earlier:

  A writer needs to write something that pleases himself because he can never please everybody else.

  I hadn’t understood it then.

  I did now.

  34

  Casualties

  For the first time I could remember, not counting when we all had the flu, the Adamses and the Taylors did not get together on Sunday night. I didn’t ask whose decision it was, but I didn’t like it.

  As the week wore on, life got back to normal. At the pool, the only thing anybody wanted to talk about was the steam engine show. At home, Eileen moved on to the respiratory system. Mom experimented with chili recipes and worked on our prairie dresses. Dad barbecued hamburgers on the grill, and we ate as if nobody had ever threatened to nominate Mom for Worst Mother of the Year.

  I kept writing, clinging to my latest writer’s quote, which was from Epictetus, who Eileen the Know-It-All s
aid was a Greek philosopher:

  If you wish to be a writer, write.

  I started recording Mrs. Kinney’s odd facts about faraway places. She’d come up with the great idea of taking Gary to different places in his mind each month. We’d settled on Romania for July because she knew a dragon story from there. Plus, she said Romanians used to believe it was dangerous to sleep with your mouth open because your mouse-shaped soul might escape. And tickling used to be outlawed in Romania. I was getting quite a collection. Nothing Walter Cronkite would have bothered with, but at least I was writing.

  Then on Saturday, everything changed.

  It was the hottest day yet, and the pool had been packed all afternoon. Sarah volunteered for the evening shift, but I was itching to get back to kitchen air-conditioning.

  Even the fast bike ride home did nothing to cool me off. The house was quiet, except for the banging of pots and pans. I headed for the kitchen, eager to feel that cold breeze on my hot face.

  Mom was washing strawberry pans from the garden. Her apron covered her navy pedal pushers and a sleeveless shirt that tied in front.

  A bowl of fresh-picked berries sat beside the sink. I popped a couple into my mouth. “Hey, Mom. Don’t mind if I snarf a few, do you?”

  Mom didn’t look up from her Brillo pad. “Why should I mind? Not that it would matter what I mind or don’t mind around here.” She was scrubbing the silver off her pans.

  I took another handful of berries and moved over to the AC. I had to kneel on the booth seat and turn one of the vents down. The second that air hit my face, summer disappeared. My head froze. I’d waited all day for this.

  A pan banged. Then another. Something was definitely going on.

  “Um … Anything I can do, Mom?”

  “I think you’ve done enough, thank you. And now, so has your father.”

  “Dad? Did he do something? Did I?” I backed out of the booth, hoping to make a clean getaway.

  Mom harrumphed, then muttered, “Lucky me—two writers in the family.”

  The phone rang. When Mom made no move to get it, I did.