The Mighty Quinn (25 page)

“The field's dry. Let's play tag,” Brandon suggested.

“Not freeze tag,” Josh said. “Let's do hop or spin tag.”

Sam, Quinn, Neally, and Tay started to follow Brandon and Josh to the field. Josh held out his arm to block Neally and Quinn. “This is invitation-only tag. Scouts and soccer players, way. Rat finks,
no way
. This is rat-free tag.”

“Unbelievable.” Neally stood with her hands on her hips, her mouth twisting with disgust as she watched Josh, Brandon, and Tay jog toward the field. When they reached the center of the field, Tay turned around and motioned for Sam to join them.

Sam waved at Tay, but stayed on the blacktop. “It's okay.” Sam winked at Quinn and Neally. “I happen to like rodents.”

What is she doing here?

For a moment Quinn considered walking back through the school doors. His mother never came to pick him or Mickey up from school, not unless it was the storm of the century or one of them had a dentist appointment. But there she was, standing by the bus loading zone, talking with Neally's father.

Quinn plastered a smile on his face and waved to his mother. He'd planned on telling his family at dinner about what happened with Matt. Mr. Shirkner had said there was no need to call Quinn's parents. Had the principal changed his mind?

“Hello, Quinn,” Mr. Standers said. “Your mother and I were finalizing plans for a family date this weekend.”

“All this time, why didn't we get around to it sooner?” Quinn's mother said to Neally's father. “Jim and I adore Neally, and we've been meaning to have your family over for dinner. I'm looking forward to meeting your wife, and
Mickey is always thrilled to have the opportunity to be with Neally.” She placed her hand on Quinn's shoulder. “Here's the plan. We'll all pile into our van and go for a picnic at the Noble Woods. You and Neally can give us a tour of your class's project.”

“Yeah, that'd be great. Uh, Mom, why are you here?”

“Nice to see you too.” Ms. Lee placed her hands on her hips in mock indignation.

“Have you seen my daughter?” Mr. Standers asked Quinn.

“Neally stopped off at the office to get the book. The one you brought to her today.” Quinn felt his face getting warm. “Thanks, thank you a lot, for bringing it.”

“You're most welcome,” Mr. Standers said. “Such an urgent phone call, then she's cool as a cucumber and won't tell me a thing, so I came back at lunch recess and spoke with Ms. Blakeman, and then with Mr. Shirkner.” He tapped his finger against his forehead. “That was some bit of thinking you and Neally pulled off this morning.”

“And Sam,” Quinn added.

“And Sam. You should be proud of yourself, Quinn.”

Quinn smiled shyly. “You should be proud of Neally.”

“Believe me, I am.” Mr. Standers turned to Ms. Lee. “Your son has quite the story for the dinner table this evening.”

“So I gather.” Ms. Lee's eyebrows arched, and she looked expectantly at Quinn.

“I won't spoil it.” Mr. Standers' eyes danced merrily. “Suffice to say, Quinn has ...”

“Dad!” Neally ran down the sidewalk and threw herself into her father's arms.

“Hey, Mom! Hey, Quinn! Hey, Neally Neally Neally!”

Mickey skipped toward her mother, followed by her teacher, Ms. Reese.

“I hope I didn't alarm you with the phone message,” Ms. Reese said, “but I thought Mickey could use a ride home. I was concerned that she might drop the jar, and ...”

“But I carried it all the way to school without dropping it,” Mickey protested.

“Mickey, don't interrupt.” Marion Lee smiled at her daughter's teacher. “I'm a bit confused, Ms. Reese. What jar are you talking about?”

Ms. Reese held up what appeared to be a small glass jelly jar. The jar had no label and had been scrubbed spotless, and was empty except for a small mouse. A small, dead mouse.

“She insists on holding the jar and not carrying it in her book pack,” Ms. Reese said. “Mickey shared this with the class today, during our weekly show-and-tell time.”

Mr. Standers stroked his beard and chuckled softly. The color drained from Quinn's mother's cheeks and settled into her throat, and she gingerly took the jar from Ms. Reese. “Mickey, where on earth did you get a dead mouse?”

“At Cole's house. He lives down the street,” Mickey explained to her teacher. “He's five, so he's not in real school yet, just preschool. We found it in his basement. It's my new friend.”

“That's the one you wanted me to help you bury, and you brought it to school?” Quinn gasped. “It's dead, Mickey.”

“Well,
duh
.” Mickey's jaw jutted up and out. “It's my new dead friend.”

A small group of students had gathered around Quinn's mother. Kelsey King squeezed past Quinn and looked admiringly at the jar. “HEY, IT'S DEAD! LOOK AT ITS TEETH!”

“Cole's mom put out mousetraps, and we rescued this one,” Mickey said.

“Mickey, you know better than to touch a mousetrap,” Ms. Lee scolded. “You could have broken a finger, or ...”

“MY MOM CAUGHT HER FINGER IN A GOPHER TRAP WHEN WE WERE ON VACATION IN TEXAS. YOU SHOULDA HEARD WHAT SHE YELLED!”

“We probably did.” Neally elbowed Quinn.

“NAH, THAT WAS LAST YEAR.” Kelsey looked quizzically at Neally. “YOU WERE STILL UP IN SPOKANE.”

“Like I said, we probably did,” Neally said flatly.

“I am so, so sorry.” Quinn's mother gingerly wrapped her hands around the jar. “I had no idea she'd brought this to class.”

“Oh, this is nothing.” Ms. Reese fluttered her fingers. “I've been teaching for thirty years, starting at the old schoolhouse in Groner's Corner. In my second year, one of the farm boys asked if he could bring something for show and tell. I said yes, of course, and the next day he brought in the ears, feet, and snout of a freshly butchered hog.”

“Oh my,” Ms. Lee gulped.

“Perspective is everything,” Mr. Standers said.

“I'll keep that in mind.” Ms. Lee raised the jar, as if proposing a toast. “To perspective!”

“Snout, that's the
best
word!” Mickey's eyes widened. She stood on tiptoes and tried to grab the jar from her mother. “Who wants to see a freshly dead mouse snout?”

“Mom! Dad! Quinn! Come see!”

“How did it get to be past eight a.m. with me still in my pajamas?” Mr. Andrews stood in the master bedroom doorway and glanced back at the clock on his dresser as Mickey scampered up and down the hallway, rapping her knuckles on each door she passed. “Okay, Mickey, that's enough; we're all awake now. Honey, are you in the shower?” he called down the hallway.

“Quinn, Mickey, are you up yet?” Ms. Lee emerged from the bathroom, already dressed for the day. “Neally's dad asked us to let them know when we'd like to get going.” She ran her fingers through her freshly washed hair. “Quinn, would you phone Neally after breakfast and ask if ten o'clock is okay?”

“Sure.” Quinn leaned against his bedroom doorway. “What's up, Mickey? Did Peppy bust his wheel again?”

“Something way better—come and look!” Mickey's parents and brother followed her into her bedroom, and
Mickey pressed her nose against the window. “I can see the day!”

Billowing clouds filled the horizon, from east to west. Backlit by the morning sun, the clouds looked as though they'd been stroked across the sky with a rose-orange watercolor brush.

“Isn't it lovely? I wish we could catch it!”

“Me too.” Ms. Lee hugged her daughter and kissed the top of Quinn's head. “It's going to be the perfect day for a picnic.”

“Wait!” Mickey unbuckled her seat belt and climbed over the seats. “'Scuse me,” she said, as she stepped on Neally's mother's lap. “I forgot to brush my teeth. Is the back door open?” She did not wait for an answer, but slid the van's side door open and ran into the garage.

“Mickey loves to brush her teeth,” Quinn explained to a bewildered Neally.

“This might be a good time to fill you two in,” Mr. Standers said. Neally's parents sat in the second row of the van. Mr. Standers turned to look at Neally and Quinn, who were in the back row. “I phoned your folks last night, Quinn, after I'd spoken with your teacher. There's no need for Mickey to hear this, but the kids in your class will likely be talking about it.”

“Is it about Matt?”

“Yes. Matt won't be returning to school for a while. He'll be attending another school while his situation is investigated.”

“‘His situation.'” Neally snorted to Quinn.
“Translation: that's what adults call holding back details of something they think you can't handle.”

“Neally!” Ruthanne Maxwell looked at Quinn's parents although she aimed her comments at her daughter. “Sometimes I think you were born forty.”

“They say that all the time,” Neally whispered to Quinn. “I don't get it.”

But Quinn could tell from Neally's face that she did.