The Mighty Quinn (18 page)

“Tanning?” Sam rolled up his sleeve and tapped his fingers against the freckles on his pale skin. “Does not compute.”

Quinn held his arm out and compared it with his friend's. “I'm way darker than you.”

“Way?” Sam smirked. “Lily is way. You are barely way.”

“Hi, Dad. We just finished eating.” Neally stood up and pulled her parka out from underneath Quinn's thermos, and Quinn looked longingly at the rest of his lunch. “We're going to check out a stream over there,” Neally said, pointing to the southeast corner of the meadow, “before we have to head back.”

Quinn and Sam exchanged what-is-she-talking-about? glances. “That's exactly what we're going to do,” Quinn said. Neally stuck out her tongue at Quinn, but her eyes were merry.

“Care for some company?” Mr. Standers looked at his watch. “We've got a few minutes before the clicker tolls.”

“Most certainly.” Sam grabbed his pack and tied his parka around his waist.

The three students and one adult headed for the stream. Sam rolled his sleeves back down, and Mr. Standers pointed at Sam's forearm. “I had an aunt who said freckles came from angel kisses.” Sam's face reddened, and Mr. Standers quickly added, “But she was a crazy old bat.”

Neally ran up the footbridge that crossed over the small stream. “This is more like a pond,” she said, leaning over the handrail. “The water's barely moving. I can see my reflection.”

Sam tossed a pebble over the handrail. Quinn looked into the water. “It's like her skin.” He felt three pairs of eyes upon him, and realized he'd spoken his thought aloud. “Lily's mom,” he explained. “She's got the sparkliest skin.” He rolled up his sleeve and rested his forearm on the handrail. One by one Neally, Sam, and Mr. Standers did the same.

“Cool!” Neally said. “You move down there.” She directed her father to trade places with Quinn so that the four arms were lined up in order of increasing brownness, from Sam to Quinn to Neally to her father. “We could do the whole class. Kelsey would be there,” she pointed at the spot in front of Sam.

“And Arturo there,” Quinn said as he pointed to the spot between Neally and her father, “and Teena ...” He closed his eyes and tried to picture his classmates.

“And Brandon there!” Sam pointed toward a port-o-potty at the far corner of the meadow. He looked thoughtfully at Mr. Standers. “Why is Lily's skin so much lighter than her mom's?”

Quinn felt uneasy, but wasn't sure why. He had wondered the same thing himself. For all the talk of how wonderful people were because of their differences, it seemed to Quinn that adults often pretended not
to notice the differences, and then acted annoyed or embarrassed when the kids did. But Mr. Standers wasn't the least bit troubled by Sam's question.

“Lily's family is multi-ethnic. That means ...”

“We didn't just fall off the diversity truck,” Neally huffed. “We know what that means.”

“Daughter, must I invoke the dreaded Peanut Gallery Rule?”

Quinn and Neally giggled. Sam looked confused. Mr. Standers spoke to Sam, using an accent Quinn had heard in an old vampire movie. “Ve shall ignore des peasants.” He nodded at Neally and Quinn. He continued in his regular voice. “Lily's mom is from Namibia, in Africa. Lily's dad was born in the United States, and his parents were from Northern Africa and France.”

“That's way more interesting than being from Spokane,” Neally sighed.

“Think of the frequent flyer miles they could earn, going to family reunions,” Sam noted.

“I've never been to another country,” Quinn said, “but I was named after my Dad's friend, who lives in Ireland.”

Click click, click click
.

Ms. Blakeman stood in the center of the meadow. She turned slowly in a circle with her hands held above her head, her frog clicker inside a piece of paper that she had folded into a cone shape, like a megaphone.

“That's our five minute warning. Remember where we regroup?” Mr. Standers looked around the meadow, his gaze stopping at the oak tree. “Whose bottles are those?”

Neally and Sam scampered to fetch their water bottles. Mr. Standers leaned back against the handrail. “You look ready to go,” he said to Quinn. Quinn nodded, picked up a handful of pebbles, and dropped them one by one into the water.

“So tell me, Quinn, what do you like to do?”

Quinn froze for a moment, but just a moment. “I like dropping rocks into water.”

Mr. Standers sounds like Neally when he laughs
. Quinn was pleased to have sparked that laugh from Mr. Standers. Everything Quinn knew about Neally's father made Quinn think that Mr. Standers didn't expect the usual answers to the usual questions. Quinn hated it when adults asked him the what-do-you-do question because he knew what they really were after. They wanted you to talk about what distinguished you from other kids. They wanted you to spew your list of hobbies, your many accomplishments in sports, your baseball or game card collections—things kids get known for.

Mickey could at least talk about her swimming. Quinn was looking for something to call his own; something to make him special. He had confided that to Neally, on the way home from school, just last week.
Your name goes on the certificate if your class wins the community service project, he'd said. Your own, individual name, not just your class. And the names are carved into a plaque, which goes up at city hall, and stays there forever, for everyone to see.

Quinn wondered if Neally had said anything to her father.
No, she wouldn't do that
. Quinn handed some pebbles to Mr. Standers, and they stood in comfortable silence for a minute, dropping the small rocks over the handrail into the water.

“Time to join up,” Mr. Standers said. He and Quinn headed for the drinking fountain at the southwest corner of the meadow, where the rest of their group gathered around their equipment. Mr. Standers began counting tools and gloves.

“The rest of the groups have already left.” James glanced anxiously toward the trail.

“We can catch up,” Mr. Standers said. “I just want to make sure we've got everything.”

“Aren't we done?” Josh asked.

“We'll double check for trash on the way back, but yes, we're finished.” Mr. Standers looked around the meadow. “We're missing seven gloves. Three of the smaller pairs, and one of the larger ones. Who used the smaller pairs?”

Lily smiled shyly. “It was mine, the big one. I ate there, with my mother.” She pointed toward a grassy knoll on the other side of the stream.

“Lily, James, AnnaClaire, and Arturo, you come with me and we'll check for the gloves,” Mr. Standers said. “The rest of you take the trash bags and go on ahead. If we haven't caught up by the bridge you can keep going, but wait for us at the boardwalk.”

Matt, Josh, Quinn, and Kristen started back on the trail. As soon as they were out of sight of the North Meadow, Matt and Josh ran ahead, leaving Quinn and Kristen behind. Kristen clutched her trash bag in one hand, and leaned down to pick a purple wildflower from the right side of the trail. She put the flower behind her right ear and looked around for another one. Quinn walked down the trail, thinking he should remind Kristen that she shouldn't pick wildflowers. Hadn't she heard Ms. Blakeman's instructions? It was against city regulations.

“Hey, Kristen?” Quinn turned around. Kristen gave no indication that she'd heard him. She was twenty feet behind him, on her hands and knees, intently examining the left side of the trail. “Something yellow,” she mumbled.

Fine, Quinn said to himself. Let Mr. Standers catch up and play nature cop. He continued alone down the trail, noting with approval that there was not one bit of trash anywhere he looked.

No—no no no! Why did it have to be me!?

Quinn dropped his trash bag. Matt and Josh were sitting on the railings on the bridge over Rock Creek. They doubled over with laughter as they looked down at the chalk-streaked planks of the bridge.

Ducks Rule! Beavers Drol!

Quinn stood as if he'd sprouted roots. Matt and Josh hadn't spotted him yet. The slogans were also scrawled on the railings and side supports, in huge, bright pink and blue chalky letters, and in each case the word “drool” was misspelled “drol.”

Josh hopped off the railing and wiped his hands on his pants, leaving a pink streak down the side of his jeans. “No, wait,” Matt said. He whacked his gloves against Josh's legs, dusting off the telltale chalk, then wiped the dust off his gloves on the grass by the side
of the bridge. Quinn saw a pink splotch on the seat of Matt's jeans, just the kind of mark a large piece of painter's chalk might leave if you pulled it out of your pocket.

“Uh oh.”

Quinn started at the sound of Kristen's voice. Matt and Josh whirled around, and Matt's eyes narrowed into slits.

“How long have they been ...”

“Shut up,” Matt shushed Josh.

Kristen stood three feet behind Quinn, fingering the purple, yellow, and white flowers she'd tucked behind her ear. Matt looked right through Kristen; Quinn turned around and saw the rest of their group approaching the bridge.

“Hey, Mr. Standers.” Matt waved his arm. “Look what happened—somebody messed up our clean bridge!”

Mr. Standers dropped his duffle bag. He hugged his arms across his chest and shook his head. “Does anyone know ...”

“It was already here. It must have been one of the other groups. They went first.” Josh ignored the
shut up, dummy
glare Matt gave him. “It was already here when we got here.”

“Well, we're not leaving until it's
not
here.” Mr. Standers reached into his duffle bag. “Everyone put their gloves on and dip them in the water, right here, by the creek bank. We'll scrub it down.”

Arturo, AnnaClaire, and Quinn already had their gloves on, and one by one they dipped them into the pond. Mr. Standers tossed gloves to the other students and dipped his own into the water. He looked at Kristen, Quinn, Matt, and Josh. “I'll ask again, did anyone see anything?”

“I saw
them
.” Kristen pointed at the three boys.

“I bet it was Brandon.” Matt's voice was as cool as lemonade, and he looked calmly at Mr. Standers. “Mrs. L'Sotho's group was ahead of ours.”

“Yeah, Brandon always brings chalk to school, and he's always saying, ‘Go Ducks.'” Josh's nervous laughter sounded as if he were attempting to choke a chicken with his tongue.

“But Brandon's parents went to Oregon State, not U of O,” AnnaClaire said thoughtfully. “Brandon's a Beavers fan,” she explained to a puzzled Mr. Standers.

“And Brandon knows how to spell.” Quinn concentrated on relaxing his fists as all eyes turned to him.

Mr. Standers raised his hand, and the students in his group knew that they were not to speak unless spoken to. He focused his steady gaze upon Quinn. His curious but firm expression let everyone know he suspected that Quinn had seen something.

“Go on,” Mr. Standers said gently.

Quinn could feel Matt and Josh staring at him, as if their eyes were hurling javelins between his shoulder
blades. He told himself everything would be fine as long as he didn't look at them. He fixed his eyes on Mr. Standers' beard and described what he'd seen.