Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy (21 page)

Dad watched as I let go.

The slingshot bands snapped, and the stale pink mini-marshmallow shot forward. It hit the target Dad had taped to the outside of the basement door with a soft thwack, then tumbled to the ground, leaving a tiny pink smudge on the paper. It was inside the second circle, but nowhere near the center.

“Better,” Mom said from the table, underneath the big green umbrella. She turned a page in her
Newsweek
magazine. I didn't think there was an article about me
or Cissy and Doc in that issue. Stuff seemed to be dying down a little, so we could live without reporters popping out of bushes and trash cans to get a comment.

“Honey, it's time to give this thing with the Joneses a rest,” Dad said. “Regina Jones has always been wonderful to you. And Peavine and Angel didn't do anything wrong.”

I fished a stale green marshmallow out of the bag. “Says you.”

“Some secrets shouldn't be secrets, Footer.” That was Mom.

I sighed.

Mom had been home for almost two weeks now and taking her medicine. Her hands trembled as she held the magazine, but only a little bit. Her mind seemed to be hers again, so of course the first thing she did was start running my life. I had been to two therapy appointments to talk about “what happened the night of the fire,” and I hated them completely, but Mom said I'd be going back
until
. As in,
until
she said otherwise.

“I'm not talking to Peavine,” I grumbled as I fired the green marshmallow and missed the door completely.

Dad shrugged and headed back to the grill, opening the lid and letting out the delicious scent of hamburgers and brats. “Then it's going to be a long afternoon.”

A few minutes later, Captain Armstrong showed up dressed in green fatigue pants, a green T-shirt, and an Alabama ball cap to aggravate Dad and me. He brought his
famous baked beans, the best ever, steeped in brown sugar and heaped with bacon. When Steph came with Cissy and Doc, they had chips and soft drinks, even though Steph didn't approve of too much junk food, strictly speaking.

“Excellent!” Steph chirped when she saw the slingshot and marshmallows. “See? I knew you could find something safe to do with your father.”

Dad kept his back to her and continued messing around with the meat on the grill. Mom hardly paused in her chattering at Captain Armstrong. I chose a pink marshmallow and loaded it up as Cissy came to stand with me. She watched me shoot the edge of the target. Then she took the slingshot and fired a green marshmallow dead center into the red dot.

Steph clapped, then turned her attention to the Jones family, who were coming around the far side of the house carrying dishes covered with aluminum foil.

I looked away before I could pay too much attention to Peavine, then got seriously annoyed when I realized my heart had started to beat faster.

Cissy looked like a new person in her jeans and yellow sun top. She had her hair back off her neck, tied with a yellow bow. She handed me back my slingshot, then said in a low voice, “I'm figurin' Steph doesn't know these come in sniper versions with thirty-five-pound pulls and forty-four-caliber ammo that can kill deer?”

“Ssshh.” I shot another pink marshmallow and missed
the back door totally. The marshmallow bounced on the ground and hit Doc's white sneaker. He was standing with Angel, looking at one of her megabooks. He actually had it open, like he might be reading the pages.

“Is Doc talking yet?” I asked Cissy.

“Some. I think it's going to be a while. He already met Angel in summer school, and I think she's helping.”

I sighed. A conspiracy. That's what this was. I shot a green mini-marshmallow at the target and managed to hit inside the second circle.

“Not bad,” Peavine said from over my left shoulder. “Think you could get good enough to kill a snake?”

My cheeks burned. I tried to look at Cissy instead of acknowledging Peavine, but Cissy walked off fast, like she had it planned all along. There was just enough of a breeze for me to catch the scent of his favorite barbecue potato chips. He probably ate them for breakfast.

My stupid heart beat even faster . . . and then I just didn't want to be mad at my best friend anymore. I closed my eyes and imagined myself looking all red-faced and ticked off. Pretty stupid. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I should give it all a rest.

“I could probably kill a snake,” I said, “but I don't think I could kill a walrus.”

Peavine came up beside me then, planting his right pole close to my foot. “What about a creep eating hot dogs and wearing plaid?”

I shook my head. “I'll leave that to Dad and his friends at work.” Would my hair look better pulled back like Cissy's? Jeez, I should at least comb it now and then. When I glanced over at Cissy, she was sitting next to Mom. They were both reading
Newsweek
.

Peavine held out his hand for the slingshot. I passed it to him and whispered, “Don't tell Steph you can use this to fire stuff other than marshmallows, okay?”

“Okay.” He held on to my hand, our fingers closed around the slingshot's frame, the bands dangling down and bouncing against our wrists.

When I looked into Peavine's blue eyes, they were wide and sweet and sad. “I'm sorry I let Angel get hold of your note, Footer.” His voice came out low, just for me to hear, and I could almost count all the tears he had cried, and all the tears I had cried. “I'm sorry I didn't try to talk Mom out of giving it to your dad. It's just—I was so worried about you. I really thought it was the best thing.”

“I'm sorry I ignored your texts and calls and e-mails,” I said. He nodded and let go of my hand to take the slingshot. My fingers tingled where he had touched me, and emotions I couldn't name choked me up and made me add, “Peavine, maybe you shouldn't keep trying to be my friend. Even though I'm not sick now, you know I'll probably wind up like Mom.”

He picked out a green marshmallow, propped his elbows on the arm grips of his poles, and fired. The
marshmallow bounced off a basement window. “If you get sick, you'll see the doctor and get medicine, and I'll still be your friend and so will Angel.”

Friend. Yeah. That's what Peavine was. My best friend. He always had been. That's what he should be. The unnamed emotions swirled faster and harder, and then I felt disappointed, which made no sense at all.

He handed the slingshot back to me and grinned. “Want to go for a walk later?”

“Sure, we could pop tar bubbles. It's hot enough.”

“I was thinking more like the path in the woods, only west, not south, away from the Abrams farm.”

“Okay.” I was about to ask him if he wanted to pick up horse apples to put in the road for cars to hit so their tires would stink, but I realized he was pulling something out of his pocket.

A box, wrapped in purple paper, with a tiny golden bow on top.

He held it out to me, his expression shifting to nervous and worried.

I dropped the slingshot onto the marshmallow bag and took the box. It was months to my birthday. Why was he giving me a present now?

He looked too nervous for me to ask him, so I slid my finger into the paper and unwrapped the box. When I pulled off the lid, I found a leather bracelet inside. Its center held a pretty brass flower, painted white with soft
pink tips on the petals, just like clover. On either side of the brass clover flower, one of the bracelet's leather strands had been strung with shimmering green rocks.

“Those are aventurines,” Peavine said when I touched one smooth stone. “They're for courage and luck. You got a lot of the first, but I figured you could use some of the second.”

“Yeah, I could,” I whispered, letting the box drop on top of the slingshot and marshmallows and holding on to the bracelet. The soft leather must have been worked a long time before it got turned into jewelry. When I touched the flower petals, they were still cool from being in the box. I fastened the bracelet around my right wrist, since it wouldn't fit over my cast. As soon as it settled into place, my fingers went straight back to the aventurines.

“They're green like your eyes.” Peavine sounded less nervous. “That's why I picked them.”

I looked at him to see if he was kidding.

He wasn't.

He seemed to be waiting for me to understand something, but I just kept touching the aventurines. Their smooth perfection made my worries feel small and distant and fading, like birds flying toward the sun.

Peavine pointed to the brass clover, then one of the aventurines. “Flower and rock, see? It's the answer to that question you asked me, out on the playground that day when—you know.”

That day when I kissed him. Yeah, I knew. I stared at him, right at his face. He was standing so close to me that I could have counted his freckles. How many freckles did I have? Had Peavine ever wanted to count my freckles?

My face got hot all over again, and not because I was trying to be mad.

“You asked me if I thought you were more like a flower or a rock.”

“Okay.” I kept my fingers on the bracelet, but my gaze stayed firmly on his face. Had his eyes always been this blue, or did the sun make them brighter?

“Flowers are soft and pretty and bloom over and over again. Rocks are pretty too, but stronger, and they last longer.” Peavine's grin came so naturally that I had to smile back at him. “I got that bracelet for you because you're both to me, Footer. You're a flower, but you're a rock, too.”

If I kissed him after lunch, he would probably taste like hot dogs, or maybe the sweet brown sugar and bacon from Captain Armstrong's baked beans.

That would be okay by me.

“A walk would be real nice later,” I said to Peavine.

He kept grinning, and so did I.

Then we went to eat lunch with Mom and Dad and Ms. Jones and Steph and Captain Armstrong and Cissy and Doc, and no copperheads, no walruses, and no serial killers. I thought about taking pictures on my phone like a good journalist, but sometimes pictures don't
say everything, and besides, I didn't want to be a journalist anymore.

Maybe I could make jewelry like my beautiful bracelet, or be in the army like Dad and Captain Armstrong and join a police department when I got out, or make bright, colored casts like the orthopedist who fixed up my wrist. There was always dancing, too. Maybe I shouldn't have given up so easily on being a ballerina or a poet or an artist. Social worker recently made the list too, thanks to Steph—or maybe I could just win some lottery money like Ms. Jones. After all, I had luck now, right?

I'm a flower and a rock
, I thought as I passed Peavine a plate full of hot dogs and a big, giant helping of baked beans. I held up my bracelet, loving how the green stones winked and glittered in the sun.
I'm a flower and a rock, and later I'll take a walk with my best friend.

That seemed like a pretty great afternoon to me.

Writing middle-grade fiction was a new venture for me, and so many people deserve thanks and recognition.

Of course my family gets a nod, for putting up with my writing process, and listening endlessly to all the chapters. Gisele, JB, and Gynni, you are great. Karen, thank you, too, for sitting through all the readings and never beating your head against a wall.

A big, sparkly bow to Stelmo, for reading. Thanks to Judy and Julie and Shannon and Jennifer for encouraging me with my writing. Blushing appreciation to Charlotte and Mom and Lindy and Valerie for being proud to show people my books. Massive hugs to Rondell and Tina for giving me social-work advice and opinions, and special kudos to Chris, who answers every technical and mechanical question I come up with—and without ever laughing at me! Thank you, Jim, for keeping my spirits up during a dark time.

For my wonderful agent, Erin—what can I say? You knew I wanted to do this, and you knew I could, and you held my hand. Thank you so much for searching with me until we found the right thing for me and for my writing. Sharyn, thank you for breaking the Facebook wall and giving me encouragement, too. One day when the time and the story are right . . .

And now for Sylvie, my editor. I'm so happy to be working with you! I can't express enough gratitude to you for taking the chance, fighting for my book, finding a title I didn't hate, and being SO EASY to work with, on little things and big things and everything in between. I love your style and your feel for character and voice, and your willingness to teach me in this area I know so little about. Thank you also for the cool mailer, for using the actual U.S. Mail to reach me in rural Kentucky, and for thinking my giant dog is adorable. And big. Yes, he's big. I promise to find someplace the monster can't reach, so I never have to actually call you and tell you the dog ate my edits (hey, it was a near miss).

From the Notebook of Sylvie Frank, Editor (‘Cause Ms. Malone is right, interview notebooks are totally fun