The Summer of Bad Ideas Page 5

  “Good try,” Mitchell says when I sit back down. “Just next time, try not to be so scared.”

  “Scared?” Is it really that obvious? I feel as ashamed as I would if he’d told me my underwear tag was showing.

  “If you’re calm, they’re calm,” he explains. Then he points to a tree stump. On it, a smaller frog sits waiting. Then he looks back up at me and gives me a go-for-it nod.

  I try to think calm. I try to breathe calm. I try to look calm. And then I crawl up behind the frog, like I’m in slow motion. When I’m close enough, I sweep forward, gently cupping my hands around the tiny creature. Even though my skin is prickling with creeped-out goose bumps, I feel myself smiling.

  The frog squirms in my hands—UGH—and I open my palms to release it. It springs away. “Did you see that?” I ask Mitchell.

  Before he can answer, we hear a shriek. A frog leaps from Henry’s hand. He is holding his hands as far away from his body as possible, his eyebrows squeezing together tightly, his mouth open with alarm. “It did something!”

  “Oh.” Mitchell grimaces. “It probably just peed on you. Sometimes they do that.”

  “I guess they don’t teach that in school,” I say to Mitchell, and he looks at me, a dimple forming in his cheek. My face feels a little warm.

  “Edith!” It’s my mom’s voice calling out. Her worry is making its way all the way down to the swamp’s edge. She’s obviously discovered us all missing in action.

  “Carp!” I say. “We better go back.”

  “Carp?” Rae asks. “Isn’t that some type of fish?”

  Believe it or not, sometimes I forget what a Whitman’s Sampler box of freaks my family is. It’s only possible for five minutes max. “My parents—well, we’re not allowed to say crap. So that’s what we say instead.” I nervously clear my throat.

  “So you speak in typo?” Rae jokes.

  “Edith!” Her voice is getting nearer.

  “Let’s get back,” I say. “It sounds like she’s starting to freak out.”

  And then we hear, “Hey, sport!” It’s Uncle A.J.

  “Great. So is he,” Rae says.

  That’s freaking out?

  I’m about to say good-bye to Mitchell when I turn and see my mom. “Oh, honey,” she says, noticing the mud on my shirt. “What happened?”

  “We were catching frogs and you’re supposed to sneak up behind them and Edith slipped in the mud and the frog got away!” Beatrice says.

  “Aunt Hannah, this is Mitchell. He’s a neighbor,” Rae says.

  “Oh, hello, Mitchell. I’m Hannah Posey-Preston. Petunia’s daughter. Pardon me. I was just a little worried about the kids.” She smiles and extends her hand in the same professional-convention way, and he shakes it.

  “We wanted to catch snakes, Mom!” Henry says.

  “Yeah, but he made us put the snakes back!” Beatrice says.

  Mitchell says, “Sorry, I had to. Petunia taught me how to take care of them, and they don’t like being taken out of their enclosures like that.”

  “I have to agree with Mitchell, kids. You really shouldn’t disrupt the snakes.”

  “Well, it’s not like they’re poisonous,” Rae says.

  “No, but you can catch salmonella from snakes. Anyway, it’s best not to disrupt their environment. They are living creatures.”

  “Mitchell already said that,” Beatrice says.

  My mom smiles at him. “Mitchell, we’ll have to have you over for dinner sometime. We’d like to thank you properly for taking good care of Petunia’s snakes.”

  Really, Mom?

  “Oh, uh . . . sure,” he says, but he looks uncomfortable.

  “Great! Okay, come on, kids. Go get cleaned up.”

  My mom and the twins start up the path.

  I turn to Mitchell. “Thanks for the frog lessons.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Mitchell says. “Catch you all later.”

  And this time our eyes connect, something strange happens. It’s like there’s an extra second added to the day. But Rae grabs my hand and pulls me out of my mini time warp, and we say bye to Mitchell and start back toward the house.

  “So, what do you think of Snake Boy?” Rae asks me.

  “Oh.” I let out a gust of breath, suddenly aware that I’ve been holding it. “He’s kind of—crazy,” I say. It’s the one thing that I’ve found I can say when I don’t know what to say, because crazy can be either good or bad.

  “I know, right? Nice enough, I guess, but kind of a weirdo,” she says.

  “Sorry about the snakes,” I say. And in a way, I mean it. I wish I naturally had the guts to catch a snake bare-handed, like Rae does, and didn’t have to work so hard to pretend that I do.

  She pulls out her phone and looks at it. “Well, I’m not! Look at this, Edie, already eighty-two likes!”

  I wonder what it’s like to have eighty-two likes—let alone eighty-two friends. I think again about Taylor. I’d be happy to have just that one.

  Chapter 7

  Scoop

  “I’m king of the world!”

  I’m crouched in the rear basket of what turns out to be not a bike, but an adult tricycle—my grandmother’s preferred mode of transportation. I’m holding on to the back of Rae’s seat for dear life while she stands up on the pedals, shouting out lines from some of her favorite movies. In the four days we’ve been here, I’ve learned she does this a lot.

  “You ever see that one, Edie? Titanic?”

  “No,” I say. I realize I look like an idiot, but as it turns out, the shame of being stuffed into a trike basket is only slightly outranked by the danger of first-degree burns. Metal is a way-too-effective conductor for the ninety-plus degrees of sticky Florida heat, and in my shorts and T-shirt, I have way too many vulnerable spots.

  “You should. It’s a classic!”

  With the adults distracted by decaying roof beams at the house, Rae and I are on a covert mission into town to find a metal detector. We’re looking for a hardware store. While I still haven’t caught a snake, Rae’s eager to start a new adventure—item two on the list, “discover hidden treasures”—especially if it results in a post-worthy bling shot. Hopefully our parents won’t even notice we’re gone.

  We sail by a few old houses and a small church. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry. This town’s the size of a Tater Tot.”

  We ride by a large abandoned building with a painted-over sign stretching its span, just a few letters slightly visible under the coat of thick white paint. It looks like it used to be something significant—a theater, maybe, or an auditorium. Whatever it was, it seems to have outlived its purpose and now stands empty, forgotten. Even though everything around me feels scalding hot—the air, the sun, the trike’s basket—I get a little chill as we ride past.

  Rae, on the other hand, is too busy carpe dieming to notice. She pushes the pedals hard and stands up to soar. Releasing one hand into air, she calls out, “I’m flying, Jack! I’m flying!” It must be another quote from Titanic.

  Just then, a bike bolts across the road in front of us, and Rae jams on the brakes. The trike makes a screech and my body jolts forward. I manage not to topple over by grabbing onto the side of the basket. My scream sounds more like a wail.

  “Hey!” Rae yells to the fleeing wild-haired kid. “Watch it!”

  He disappears around the corner.

  “He kind of looked like Mitchell,” I say as I catch my breath.

  “Snake Boy?” Rae asks.

  “Yeah. Him.”

  But then two boys charge across our path on foot. They’re laughing, running after him. “Hey, come back, Ed!”

  “Well, guess it’s not him,” Rae says. “Apparently this town is full of Snake Boy look-alikes.”

  “Weird,” I say. And then I notice that we’re just across the street from a hardware store. AUGUSTUS TOOLS, the sign says in capital letters. Underneath, in a slanted font, it reads AND TREATS. Through th
e big front window, you can see a small ice-cream counter.

  “Ice cream!” Rae’s face lights up. “Finally! Something in this town that I like.”

  We leave the trike on the sidewalk and go in. A bell jingles when we open the door, and a man in a red apron looks at us in a not-so-welcoming way. There’s a sign behind the counter that says NO UNACCOMPANIED MINORS. I’m pretty sure that applies to us, and I feel a little self-conscious, like I’m a member of some unwanted population.

  Rae notices my hesitation. “Come on. We have as much right to be here as anyone else. We’re paying customers,” she says, and charges on.

  “Help you?” the man in the apron asks.

  It’s a small store. Besides the ice-cream counter, there are only four rows of shelves, all jam-packed. In addition to tools, Augustus seems to carry a random supply of household items. Cake mixers, turkey basters, food coloring, egg slicers, and very odd things like a bone-shaped plastic apparatus designed to better scrape condiments out of their jars: the Mayoknife. There’s no sign of any metal detectors.

  “First things first,” Rae says, and takes a seat at the ice-cream counter, as if she’s an eagerly anticipated guest. She offers her smile like a gift. “We’d like some ice cream.”

  “Your parents around?” the man asks.

  “They’re not, but . . .” She puts a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “I hope that’s okay.”

  The man glances at the money. I settle onto the stool next to Rae.

  There’s an old woman sitting on a stool at the counter farther down. One pair of glasses hangs on a chain around her neck; she has another pair perched on her head. She wears bright-orange lipstick, and her dyed hair nearly matches the color. She’s watching a tiny TV that’s propped up on a shelf—a soap opera without the sound.

  “We hear you’ve got the best ice cream in Pinne,” Rae says.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Pinn-ey?”

  “Isn’t that how it’s said?” she asks. I have the same question.

  “It’s Pa-inny,” he says to Rae. “Try again.”

  “Pi-inny?” Rae aks.

  “I didn’t say Pinny. You make it sound like a one-cent coin! No, listen: Pa-inny,” he says again. “There’s sorta like a pause in there.”

  “Pa-hinny.”

  He smirks. “Not Pa-hinny. Where you getting the H sound? See, look.” He takes a letter from his mail stack and runs his finger over the town’s name. “P-I-N-N-E. No H.”

  “No A either,” Rae says.

  He shakes his head. “Never mind. What can I get you?”

  Rae just sighs happily and glances at the list of flavors written in chalk above the cash register. There are only three—vanilla, chocolate, and something called Surprise Me! “What do you think, cuz?”

  “Ya’ll are cousins?” the man asks, looking from me to her, no doubt seeing the vast differences between us.

  “Yep,” Rae says.

  “Welles, give those squirrels a glass of water,” says the old lady.

  I look for squirrels. Stuffed squirrels, in particular. Maybe mounted on a wall, like Herbie, or on a wooden stand, like Albert/Odysseus. It seems like stuffing and mounting is the thing to do in this area. But there are none.

  The man’s expression goes a little soft. “I’m sorry about that. She’s a little . . .” He does a finger-loopy gesture next to his head. Then he fills two tall glasses with water and passes them across the counter to us. “It comes and goes. She’s got the auld-timer’s, but she’s still my ma.”

  “Always liked the squirrel. Smart thing, a squirrel.”

  “Ma, these are girls, they’re not—” he starts, but interrupts himself. “Keep having to remind myself that the doctor said no use arguing.”

  “It’s just the droppings that I can’t stand—”

  “Ma!” Welles looks down and shakes his head.

  “Well, she’s got a point,” Rae says.

  The man smiles. Then he extends his hand, first to Rae, then to me. “Welles Augustus,” he says.

  “I’m Rae.”

  “And I’m Edie.” Saying the name is like trying on a new pair of jeans that I desperately want to fit.

  “Pleased to meet you. All right, squirrels.” He gestures toward the chalkboard. “Three flavors. What can I get you?”

  “What’s a Surprise Me?” I ask him.

  He does a quick look back at his mother to make sure she’s not paying attention. She seems to be entranced by the silent drama on the small television. He puts a hand along one side of his face, like he’s telling us a secret. “I don’t actually know. That’s what my ma gets up to with her ice-cream maker. Keeps her occupied, you know.” He winks.

  I give him a smile and choose vanilla. Rae chooses Surprise Me. The seize-the-day kind of choice. Of course. I feel a little ashamed of my vanilla.

  “So where y’all from?”

  “I’m from L.A.,” Rae says. Even where she’s from sounds cool.

  “Well, Cally-fornia,” he says. “You a— Hey! Haven’t I seen you on the TV?”

  She winces. “A couple stupid commercials.”

  “Commercials! Get a load of that! For . . . uh, remind me?” Welles steps back. “Wait, I know. You were bouncing around with a chicken!”

  “Pollo Mio,” she mumbles.

  “That’s right! Well, I’ll be,” he says, with a huge grin on his face.

  I study her for a second, feeling the difference between us. I can’t help but wonder how it feels to stand out—in some sort of celebrated way, not in the sore-thumb way I sometimes do. Even if Rae’s dismissive of her national TV spot, this Welles person is clearly impressed.

  “And what about you?” Welles turns to me. “You from L.A. too?”

  I sigh. “No,” I say, “Boston.” And prepare for the response we usually get whenever we travel and are asked the same question.

  “Ah, Baaas-tin.” There it is. “So what brings you to Pinne?” he asks. Those three syllables, that hanging pause.

  “Our parents grew up here,” I say.

  “Maybe I know them. What are their names?”

  “You probably remember my dad, A.J. Posey,” Rae says.

  “Oh, well, let’s see. An A.J.?” He seems to think about it. Then he says, “Oh! A.J. You mean Hannah’s brother!” He looks at me. “You Hannah’s daughter, then?”

  I nod. Oddly, he seems way more interested in my nerdy mom than my friendly uncle.

  “Now, holy. Hannah Posey?” He slaps the counters and breaks into a full-faced grin. “I’ve been wondering where she went off to. She in town?” he asks, but immediately shakes his head, looking down at the counter. “Course she’d be. On account of her mother passing. That right?”

  I nod.

  “Well, my condolences. She sure was something.” He turns to the old lady. “Hey, Ma. This is Hannah’s daughter.”

  His ma swats at a fly.

  He tries again. “Ma, remember Petunia? These are Petunia’s grands.”

  “Petunia’s?” She scrunches up her face.

  “That’s right.”

  “I never liked her.”

  “Ma!” he scolds, and looks over at us with an apologetic half smile.

  “So you knew her?” Even though I shouldn’t be surprised, with Pinne being so tiny, it still feels a little strange that everyone knew her except for me.

  He smiles. “Sure did. Smart as a whip. Stubborn as a mule. And wild as a thicket of blackberries.”

  There’s a look of unmistakable admiration on his face, and I feel a little puff of pride about the grandmother I only wish I had met.

  “You know,” he says, his eyes really coming to life. “I remember one time, she used to pick me up before school sometimes, and one day she was like, ‘Welles, I have a car, and we have the whole day ahead—’”

  Wait. Before school?

  “Hang on,” I interrupt him. “Petunia picked you up for school?”

  “Petunia? No, I thought you were asking about
your mom. Hannah.”

  I blink, confused. I guess he has Hannah on the brain.

  “Well, go ahead, what happened?” Rae asks, smiling in a mischievous way.

  “Aw, well, uh, you know, I’m having trouble remembering now.” He tilts his head, a hand wrapping around the back of his neck. Then he seems to get a brilliant idea. “Hey, you girls want any more ice cream?”

  “No, thanks, I’m full,” Rae says. I’ve eaten all of mine, but Rae’s barely taken a spoonful of hers. She says in a quiet voice that only I can hear, “Tastes like hooves.”

  “WHAT IN THE SAM HILL?” Welles’s ma is up from her stool, her arms flailing about.

  “What’s the matter, Ma?”

  “We’ve been burgled! Must have been a cat burglar! Snuck in here while I was making the ice cream!”

  “What’s missing?”

  “My spare pair!”

  “Ma?”

  “Damn thief took my spare pair of glasses!”

  “Ma!”

  “Call the nine one one, Welles! Call Elwayne!”

  “Ma, lift your hand—”

  “Fine, I’ll do it myself!”

  “They’re on your head, Ma!”

  “My what?”

  “Your head.”

  Her hand flies to her pink-red fluff of hair. “Oh,” she says.

  Welles chuckles. “All right, looks like Ma’s needing her break. I’m going to close up shop and drive her home soon. Wasn’t there something else that you needed?” He walks over to the shelves. “How ’bout a Chick-a-Dee egg separator?”

  “Actually—” Rae tries.

  “Or a finger fork?” He slides a contraption over his finger. The end of it has four prongs.

  “Actually, we were looking for a metal detector,” Rae tells him.

  “A metal detector!” Welles’s eyes get big.

  “You have one?” Rae asks.

  “Oh, boy, do I! Y’all wait here.”

  When Welles reappears, he’s brandishing a long instrument—a generously padded handle on one end, a large, round sensor on the other. “Edie, Rae, may I introduce you to my dear friend, the Bounty Hunter. Professional, four-mode operation, a ground-balance monitor, a blanker system—”