Three Times Lucky (6 page)

“I
was
looking, Mo,” the woman said, trying to stand up straight. “Were you?”

“What?” I rolled onto my back and squinted into a shockingly familiar face: Miss Retzyl, my fifth-grade teacher from last year. She’s also my sixth-grade teacher
for next year, having suffered the dreaded Curse of the Combined Grades. “Miss Retzyl? You should be careful! You could have killed us both!”

She smoothed her starched white blouse, then her hair.

I sighed. The truth is, I adore Miss Retzyl, who is tall and willowy, with red hair and brown eyes. She’s smart and poised, and always on time. She has an average house and drives a dark blue convertible. When it comes to Predictable, a quality rare in my life, she’s the real deal. Plus, she likes me. I cast about in my mind for something brilliant to say. Sadly, I came up empty. “Good Lord,” I muttered instead, pointing to her legs. “What are those?”

She stepped back nervously, looking at her sandals. “What do you mean?”

“Knees,” I answered. “You got knees.”

She frowned. “Of course I have knees, Mo. Everyone has knees.”

“Right. But I never saw them before. You always wear those old-lady dresses. And shorts!” I cried. “Miss Retzyl, you’re wearing shorts!”

She smiled uncertainly. “Are you all right, Mo? Did you hit your head?”

“I’m fine,” I said, swiping the gravel off my shins. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m … here for the races.”

“Really? Dale’s brother is in the next one. Me and Dale are timing laps for him.”

“Dale and I,” she murmured.

“Right. You remember Dale? Third row, fifth seat from the front? Blond hair, bad at math, wears a lot of black?”

“Of course I remember Dale.”

“His brother, Lavender, drives the thirty-two car.”

“I’ll be sure to watch for him,” she said, edging away. “Well, this has been nice, Mo, but my friend is waiting, and—”

“Friend?” I gasped. “You got friends? I figured when the school year ended you’d go home and watch TV, maybe read. I never considered friends.”

She smiled. “Of course I have friends, Mo. See you soon,” she said, and faded into the crowd. I wound my way back to Dale, who stood just one person away from the concession stand.

“You won’t believe who I ran into,” I said. “Miss Retzyl.”

“That’s nothing,” he said. “Look over there.” I followed his gaze.

The second shock of the evening fell like an ax. “Miss Retzyl and …”

“Joe Starr,” he said, his voice grim. Detective Joe Starr handed Miss Retzyl a hot dog, and smiled. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Miss Retzyl and Joe Starr? Together? Had the world gone mad?

“What’ll you have, baby doll?” the lady behind the counter rasped, her cat-eye glasses sliding down her narrow nose as she glanced at Dale.

“Six fried baloney sandwiches, three orders of fries, and as many M&M’S as I can get with whatever’s left,” he said, pushing the twenty-dollar bill toward her. “You want anything else, Mo? I got our reward money from Mr. Jesse,” he said, tugging his pocket open to show off two five-dollar bills.

I snagged a five and shook my head.

We made our way to the infield clutching greasy bags of race chow. I was right about Sam’s friends: a couple of big-haired, thin-faced twins named Crissy and Missy. They sat on lawn chairs in the back of the GMC, sipping Diet 7UPs and winking at Lavender and Sam. Dale stepped gallantly forward. “Care for a baloney sandwich?”

Crissy peered into the bag. “No thank you, sugar; we’re dieting. But
you’re
so sweet, I could eat you with a spoon.”

Dale turned red as their nail polish, shoved his bag at me, and bolted for Lavender. I sauntered behind him, queen of the eats. “Watch the inside of the fourth turn,” Sam was saying, over by the car. “It’s running loose, you’re liable to slide.”

Lavender grabbed a sandwich. “Mo, Dale, I want you two on the truck.”

“With the twins? Buffy and Muffy?” I asked, passing fries to Sam.

“Their names are Crissy and Missy and I’m not marrying either one of them, so play nice,” he said. “Dale, I’d like for you to time the laps,” he said, handing him a stopwatch. “No rounding off. Mo, I need the times in this ledger, please, ma’am. I want to see how we’re running, lap by lap. Okay?”

I nodded. Dale stuck out his hand. “You can count on us.”

Lavender hid a flicker of surprise. “I know I can,” he said, shaking his hand. “That’s why I asked you.”

As Dale and I settled on the GMC’s tailgate, our backs to the twins, Lavender stepped into his well-patched race suit, wiggling it over his hips and shrugging it across his shoulders. He clamped his helmet on, swung his legs in through the driver-side window of number 32, and fishtailed onto the track.

“Look,” I said, elbowing Dale. Across the way Starr plowed through the tide of race fans like a tugboat, Miss Retzyl bobbing along in his wake. “They’re gonna miss the race,” I said as they exited the gate. I caught a flash of siren-blue light in the parking lot. “I hope Miss Retzyl ain’t under arrest,” I gasped as a siren wailed.

“For what?” Dale asked. “Bad taste in boyfriends?”

Lavender jostled in the pack, revving his engine. “He’s headed to the starting line!” Dale shouted. “Here we go.”

The flag fell.

The night roared.

The race was on.

Dale called out the times, lap after lap. On the twenty-eighth lap, Sam waved Lavender in, shouting and pointing at the rear left tire. Lavender slammed his palm against the dash and roared back into the race, tires screaming.

Sam stomped over and grabbed a soda from the cooler. “What’s wrong?” Dale asked. “Why’s Lavender mad?”

“Oh,” Sam fumed. “It’s probably nothing. That rear left tire don’t look right and your brother’s so damn stubborn. …” He took a deep breath. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Dale. Lavender’s right. I worry more than your mama does.”

The crash came three laps later. Lavender skidded sideways through the fourth turn, his back tires billowing smoke. The crowd rose like a thousand openmouthed puppets played by the same string, and I held my breath as Lavender hung sideways on the track—sliding, sliding, sliding—cars swerving miraculously by. Finally the number 45 car clipped his bumper, spinning
him headfirst into the concrete barrier by the stands.

The night fell into slow motion as Lavender’s car somersaulted down the wall, bounced right side up, and wobbled to the infield. I found myself running toward him before I knew I was standing.

Dale sprinted past and lunged through the driver’s window. He and Sam pulled Lavender free, but he lay still in their arms as the EMTs rushed toward them.

A half hour later, Lavender sat in the rescue truck door, Doc Aikin turning his arm in the flat, yellow light. “It’s a wonder you walked away from that crash,” Doc said. “You could use some stitches in this arm. You got insurance?”

Lavender winced. “Are you kidding? Just tape it up, Doc.”

Doc nodded. “I’ll give you some antibiotics, then. As for your head …” he said, tilting Lavender’s head back and shining a pin-light in his eye. Again.

“What’s wrong with his head?” Dale asked, his voice wavering. He had barely spoken since Lavender came to sputtering and kicking on Doc’s gurney.

Doc’s a walrus of a man, tall as Lavender and twice as wide, but he gave Dale a kind smile. “He may have a concussion,” he said. “It’s too soon to tell.” He fished his card out of his wallet and stuck it in Lavender’s shirt
pocket. “He needs to rest. But if he can’t stay awake or starts throwing up, you call me and I’ll meet you at the hospital. Pronto. Insurance or not. Understand?”

Dale and I nodded like dashboard dogs.

“Now, Lavender, where are you headed from here?”

Lavender was watching Sam winch what was left of the race car onto the flatbed truck. “I thought I’d take my crew home and go by Sam’s …”

Doc followed his gaze. “Nope. No alcohol, no women. Especially no twins.”

Dale touched Lavender’s hand. “You could stay at the house,” he said. “Just for tonight. Mama would be glad of it, and Daddy … probably wouldn’t mind.”

“Excellent,” Doc said. “Here’s my offer, then. Go to your mother’s with my appointed deputies here, or go to the hospital.”

“Deputies?” I repeated, standing tall. “Are badges involved?”

“It’s your choice, Lavender,” Doc said. “What’s it going to be?”

Lavender frowned. “I guess one night at home won’t kill me,” he muttered.

“Good. Of course you’re not driving with a head injury, so …”

I felt it coming: a phone call to the Colonel, begging him to collect us up like a pack of slick-nosed kids. I
had to act fast. “Actually, Doc,” I said, “those big-haired twins over there are pining to drive us home. Crissy can take us three in the GMC, and Missy’s wild to drive the flatbed if Sam’s too upset. Those twins are willing, plus they’re sober out of their minds from sipping Diet 7UP all night. Don’t take my word for it. Give them a blood test. I don’t mind.”

It worked like a charm.

“You sure you know how to drive this truck?” Lavender asked Crissy a few minutes later as she slid behind the wheel of the GMC. “Because she’s a classic, and—”

“Ready!” I shouted, plopping down beside Dale and leaning against the cab. Crissy ground the gears, and we lunged into the night.

Dale and I dozed until an artless downshift woke us at the outskirts of town. “Must be taking the shortcut over Fool’s Bridge.” Dale yawned, peeking around the cab. Swirling blue lights swept the night. “Looks like a roadblock.”

“Maybe they’re breathalyzing everybody,” I said.

He shook his head. “Nah, too many lights. Cop lights, rescue lights, headlights. An accident, maybe,” he said. “Looks like they’re turning people back.”

Sure enough, a white Cadillac purred up the narrow road toward us and oozed to a stop. The window whirred
down. Pinch-faced Mrs. Betsy Simpson—mother of my archenemy Anna Celeste—squinted in the dark. “Hey, Mrs. Simpson,” I said. “It’s Mo. How are you?”

“Mo,” she said, her eyes following the GMC’s lines. “In a jalopy. Not my taste, exactly, but how nice for you.”

Mean runs in the Simpson family. “It ain’t a jalopy, it’s a classic,” I said.

“Whatever it is, you might as well turn it around,” she said, glancing at Crissy. “Fool’s Bridge is closed. The police won’t let you through.”

“Closed?” Dale said. “Why? What happened?” But her window whirred back up, and she was gone.

Crissy did a surprisingly nice three-point turn and we detoured to Miss Rose’s house. As we lurched to a stop, Dale vaulted over the side of the truck. “You all wait out here while I see if Daddy’s up,” he said.

“Sorry to ruin your plans, sugar,” Crissy said, hopping out. “But I got to pee. So does Missy, I’m sure,” she said as Missy wheeled into the drive. The four of us traipsed onto the front porch, where Dale held the screen door for the twins.

“Mama,” he called. “I’m home.”

Miss Rose sat in her armchair, scribbling on a legal pad and listening to the radio. “Hey, baby,” she said without glancing up. “How’d it go?”

“Evening, Miss Rose,” I said, stepping into the lamplight.

“Hello, Mo.” She saw the twins for the first time. “My goodness,” she said, jumping to her feet. “I didn’t realize you’d brought company home, Dale.”

“They ain’t Dale’s, they’re Sam’s,” I said. “Miss Rose, I’d like to introduce you to twins. This one’s Crissy and that one’s Missy. Or the other way around.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”

“They can’t,” I said. “They got to pee.” I pointed to the hall. “Bathroom’s on your right. The light switch is in the hallway, by the door. Miss Rose,” I continued, “I think you better sit down yourself.”

Dale nodded encouragingly, and Miss Rose drifted to the settee. Miss Rose is the most graceful person I know. “Mama, where’s Daddy?” Dale asked.

Miss Rose hesitated. “He’s resting.”

Dale looked relieved. “In Lavender’s old room?” She nodded.

Dale’s daddy sleeps in Lavender’s room when he’s had too much to drink, because Miss Rose can’t stand having him around her. I know that because Dale told me. It’s not something Miss Rose and me talk about. “He’s sleeping pretty sound?” he asked.

“Sleeping pretty sound” is their code for “passed out cold.”

She nodded slowly. “What’s this about?” she asked.

“Let me tell her, Dale,” I said. “The way you tell things, you’ll kill her.”

“Tell me what?” she asked, her green eyes suspicious.

I took a deep breath. “Miss Rose, I hate to mention it, but your firstborn’s crashed headfirst into a cement wall at maybe a hundred miles an hour, which we can all be grateful hard-headedness runs in your family. He’s outside right now hoping his daddy will let him in without any nastiness, and
we’re
hoping he don’t get medically no worse, because Doc Aikin says if he goes concussion, we got to rush him to the hospital. Dale and me are Doctor Appointed in this,” I concluded.

Miss Rose was already halfway across the room. “Lavender Shade Johnson, you get yourself in this house this instant,” she said, pushing the screen door open.

Lavender stepped in, looking embarrassed. “Hey, Mama,” he said.

She gasped. The bruise on his forehead had run dark, hungry fingers to his eye. “You sit down,” she said, pushing him onto the settee. “Dale, get me a towel and some ice. And bring a pillow off my bed.” She leaned down to tug Lavender’s boots off, pausing when she got a look at his socks—one gray and one black. “Thank God you
didn’t
have to go to the hospital,” she said. “Where’s Dale? Where’s that ice?”

“Hey, Miss Rose,” Sam said, stepping gingerly into the room. “Can I help?”

Miss Rose stood up and slugged him in the arm. Hard. “You’ve done enough,” she said. “Getting my son into racing. What on earth were you thinking?”

Lavender grinned.

“Me get
him
into racing?” Sam said, rubbing his arm and backing toward the door. “Miss Rose, I never—”

“He might have been killed,” she snapped.

“That’s the truth,” I added. “Doc Aikin said so. More or less.”

“And who’s responsible for those twins?” she demanded as the toilet flushed. “What do you have to say for yourself, Sam Quinerly?”