Full Cicada Moon (14 page)

Something's going on today

at school,

like a party or a special visitor—

the president or maybe an astronaut.

In the halls

girls are whispering at their lockers,

and boys are looking at the floor

more than usual.

I put my books in my locker

because I won't need any for first period,

home ec. This might be a good time

to go to Mr. MacDougall's office

and tell him I've reformed.

“Hi, Mimi,” someone says. It's Victor. “You're back.”

Then lots of kids stop and say “Hi”

and “Wow, you're back” and “Nice vacation, huh?”

and even “We missed you.”

Then they look at one another

like they know about the party

or the astronaut.

The air in homeroom prickles with energy,

like right before a thunderstorm.

But Mr. Wall takes attendance as usual

and as usual Mr. MacDougall makes announcements over the loudspeaker.

Finally, the bell rings

and I walk to home ec.

I'll need to show Miss Whittaker

the list of balanced meals I made at home.

But when I get to the classroom,

something's different—

I've gone to the wrong room!

and step back,

look down the corridor. No,

this is the right room.

But, it's filled with boys.

Andrew, sitting closest to the door,

waves wildly for me to

go to . . .

“Shop?” I ask.

“Yes!” he mouths.

I walk as fast as the rules allow

to shop,

and see a room full of girls.

And Mr. Sperangio with his hands on his hips.

“Look here, young ladies,” he's saying to them. “You can't be here.

And what did you do with the boys?”

When I walk in, and he says,

“This is all your idea, isn't it, Miss Oliver?”

Karen says, “No, it's not. She was on suspension, remember?

And that was all your idea.”

I can't believe what's happening,

but Karen pats the empty stool beside her

and I sit.

“You'll all go to where you belong

or to the office,” Mr. Sperangio says.

“Let's go to the office,” Debbie says. “The boys

are probably already there.”

In the office, Mr. MacDougall does his finger push-ups

and stares at us. There are thirty-three kids in the room

and he opens the windows

so we can breathe.

He doesn't say we'll be suspended

for being silly or defiant. But he does say,

“Do you honestly think you can change the rules,

change the world,

by switching classes?”

Andrew says, “We didn't think it was fair

to punish Mimi and Stacey for trying.”

Mr. MacDougall stares some more

and lifts some papers on his desk,

as if a script for his next lines is under them.

He says, “If you go back to your classes—

where you're supposed to be—

I promise to think about this.

Agreed?”

We all look at one another,

and yesses grow slowly in the room.

Then the boys go to shop,

and the girls go to home ec.

Mr. MacDougall said he would think about it—

he promised.

Pattress has adopted the turkeys.

Every day she has sat by the fence, guarding them

until she's called into her house.

But when I go out today to feed the turkeys,

Pattress isn't at her post.

And when I feed the turkeys,

one is missing. I count them,

and still one is missing. Rufus,

the little one, is gone,

and a clump of feathers lies

behind the coop.

I run to the house

screaming, “Mama, something got the turkeys!”

Mama runs out with me, pulling on her sweater,

and I think a horrible thought:

Did it get Pattress, too?

“We have to find her . . . them. Quick!” I say,

and we go in different directions—

Mama looks around and inside the coop,

I circle the house

and then zigzag the backyard,

checking Mr. Dell's yard, too.

But we don't find Rufus or Pattress.

“I'm going to the woods,” I call to Mama.

She catches up with me,

and we run, calling “Pattress! Pattress!

Where are you, girl?”

All I want

is to see her running and leaping and barking.

“Pattress,” Mama calls, then puts her finger to her lips

for quiet. We listen,

and hear a low howl sift through the trees.

“Pattress!” I call, running toward the sound.

It gets louder.

Mama and I keep calling

as we run through the woods

toward it.

We find Pattress—

she's lying near a tree

on her side. She lifts her head when we come near

and whimpers.

Feathers surround her,

and I know Rufus is dead.

But Pattress is alive

and when I touch her, she nuzzles my hand

and tries to lick it.

Blood oozes from her torn ear

and ragged scratches on her side.

“Get Mr. Dell,” Mama says. “I'll stay here.”

But I ask, “Can you?” I don't want to talk to him.

“I—can't, Mimi. You know him better.”

I don't like Mr. Dell,

and I don't care if he doesn't like me.

But I love Pattress, so

I pat her head. “You'll be okay, girl,” I say,

afraid she won't be,

and run back out of the woods

to Mr. Dell's steps.

“Everything will be okay,” I tell myself,

afraid I won't be.

I step up to the back door

and bang on it,

and bang

again,

but no one answers.

W
hat if he's not home?

What if he doesn't want to answer the door?

What if he tells me to go on home?

Then I run to the garage

and bang on that door

and again.

Finally it slides open,

and Mr. Dell stands there, looking fierce.

I push away my fear

and say, “Pattress is hurt, she's in the woods, and she can't walk.”

“Wait here,” he says gruffly.

He goes deep into the garage

and comes out pushing a wheelbarrow

with a blanket in it. “Let's go,” he says.

I run back to the woods,

and he follows.

It is sad and sweet

to see how tenderly Mr. Dell touches Pattress

and talks to her. “Good girl,” he says.

She whimpers back at him.

“Something got your turkey,” he says. “Probably that coyote

we've been hearing.”

“And Pattress tried to get it,” I say.

“She saved the rest of the turkeys,” Mama says.

Mr. Dell says, “We have to get her on the blanket

and lift her. Help me,

please.”

It's the first thing he's ever said to us

nicely.

Pattress's paws hang over the edges

and her head lolls. I steady her

as we wheel her slowly to the garage.

Then we slide her onto the seat in Mr. Dell's pickup truck.

I fold the edge over her so she'll stay warm.

I want to go to the vet with Pattress

but not with Mr. Dell.

Mama and I walk home together

slowly.

She's looking at the ground

and moving her lips,

saying a prayer, I think.

I don't know who she's praying for,

but I say one for Pattress.

There has been no word about Pattress,

no words from Mr. Dell,

though I've been hoping for some

news—

words like

The vet said she'll be okay,

or

She's injured for life,

or

Thank you for finding her,

or even

It's all your fault for having those turkeys.

But Mama and I heard none of them

while we searched for Rufus

and picked up what was left of him—

more feathers, a foot,

and part of his beak—

and buried him under a maple tree in the backyard.

We've heard nothing tonight

after dinner

and dishes

and homework at the kitchen table,

until

G
unshot—

the exclamation point

of a sentence with no words.

It shakes the glasses in the drainer

and rattles my chest.

Papa swings open the back door

and looks outside.

That's when we hear the words

Mr. Dell shouts from the fence.

“You won't have to worry about that coyote

getting any more of your turkeys.”

Thanks to Mr. Dell, the turkeys will be safe.

But I'm still worried about Pattress,

and slip under Papa's arm.

“Is Pattress okay?” I call.

Mr. Dell shoulders his rifle.

“She'll be fine,” he says,

and nods

so deeply that it could be a bow.

Toshiro Mifune had been living in our house

since last night, when

Walter Cronkite showed President Nixon

pardoning a turkey

so it wouldn't get eaten for Thanksgiving.

Now my mama has returned, and says,

“Mimi-chan, draw a big sign—

Pardoned Turkeys
—

and put it in the front yard.”

Then her eyes fill with tears for Rufus.

We come up with a plan:

Anyone who wants a turkey

has to sign a paper

promising they'll keep it as a pet

and let it die in its sleep

after a good, long life.

I tell Mama, “Rufus would be happy to know

he saved all the other turkeys

from Thanksgiving dinner.”

Mama wipes her eyes,

and I make the sign and type the promise

on nine pieces of paper—one for each turkey.

Pattress will be okay, and now

the turkeys are pardoned.

I run to the coop and tell them

they have something to be thankful for.

Stacey and I are doing homework together

in her bedroom. It's the first time I've been to her house

since she invited me in May.

Her house is smaller than mine,

but they have a garden in the backyard.

In the middle sits a silver ball on a pedestal

that reflects things almost all the way around.

She calls it a gazing globe,

and when I go home tonight

I'll ask Mama if we can have one,

so we can see the moon and the stars

without looking up.

I'm propped on Stacey's big bed,

and Tinkerbell, her cat, is stretched out beside me.

Her purring sands the air.

Stacey looks up from her history book

and puts her head in her hand. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

“Oh,” I say, marking my place with my finger. “I'm not going.”

She lifts her head. “Why not? Oh . . . ,” she says,

remembering what happened last spring.

“I'll stay with you the whole time. I promise, Mimi.

So, will you go?”

“Why do you want me to so bad?”

“Because dances are fun . . .

and . . .” She looks at her book.

“What?”

“Well, do you like Victor? I mean,
like
him.”

“No, but you do.”

She waits for me to say “That's dumb” or “That's great.”

Instead I ask, “Did you tell your mom?”

“No—never!” she says.

Then she sits next to me on the bed.

“I'm sorry, Mimi. I didn't mean it that way.”

I know what way she meant,

but I don't want to talk about it with her.

She and Timothy are the only people

who don't make a big deal

or act funny around me,

and I don't want that to change.

But she talks about it anyway:

“You know Mother. I mean, look how long

it took for her to invite you over.

She never invited my Black friends back home.

I'm so sorry about that.

I don't care if Victor is Black. I don't care

if he's dorky. Actually,

I like that about him.”

“That he's Black or he's dorky?” I ask,

stroking Tinkerbell. “Or maybe you like him

because your mother won't?”

She pets Tinkerbell, then says, “No, I'm sure

that's not why. He's just interesting and smart and nice.”

“And cute?”

Stacey giggles and covers her mouth. “Yeah,”

she says, and falls onto the bed.

“So, do you like me because I'm Black and Japanese?”

“Wha-at?” Her face tells me I'm so wrong. “Of course not,

Mimi. I like you because you're brave

and dorky.”

And we both laugh.

“So, why do you like me?” she asks.

“Because . . . you don't care

what people think,

except when your big toe is showing.”

“Oh, that!” she says, and giggles. “That was a disgrace.

And then we caught the cooties.”

“Cooties are stupid.”

Then Stacey rolls over and says, “I was wondering if . . .

you would pretend to be at the dance with Victor

if anyone asks.”

“Do I have to hang around him

and dance with him?”

“No, I want to do that. But, like, if my mother asks.”

“Okay,” I say, “but I don't think you have to worry.”

“There's something else . . . ,” she says. “Do you think your mother

would make me a dress?”

“I'm sure she would, but you have so many cute ones.”

“Your mom makes beautiful dresses,” she says.

“And I want to look beautiful. If you want,

you can wear one of mine to the dance.”

“Like from Bonwit Teller?” I ask.

“From anywhere!”

Then, we forget about our homework

and talk about the dance—how we'll switch dresses

and become each other.

But we don't talk anymore about why

she wants to keep her crush on Victor a secret.