The Summer of Bad Ideas Read online

  I think he’s in love with this device. He’s practically in a trance, talking about a “sniff mode” and a “notching system.”

  “Great, we’ll take it,” Rae says.

  He beams. “Okay, girls, that’ll be a hundred and sixty-two dollars.”

  “Oh.” I realize that the only way we can afford it is if we buy it on credit and repay it with all this buried treasure we may or may not find. Welles is apologetic but doesn’t take us up on our offer.

  On the bright side, he sends us off with a toothpick truck—a tiny truck-shaped toothpick dispenser. It’s not exactly a hidden treasure, but when Rae smiles like we’re sharing some sort of secret, it feels like a decent consolation prize.

  The ride downtown might have had us practically flying, but the ride home is a different story altogether. While “flying,” Rae accidentally veers us right over a nail in the road. The front tire becomes a little droopy, then saggy, and then, halfway home, it flattens into the hot black asphalt. We end up having to push the trike home on foot.

  When we’ve finally made it home and we’re wheeling it back toward the garage, I notice Mitchell. He’s walking down the path between our houses with a bucket in one hand—probably some roadkill he’s about to give to the snakes, I shudder to think. With his loose T-shirt and the way the sunlight shoots through his manelike hair, I realize he’s the boy we almost collided with earlier.

  “Hey, that was him,” I tell Rae. “He was going fast, but that was him.”

  He overhears me. His eyes snap to mine.

  “Wait, that was you?” Rae asks. “Don’t those guys know your name?”

  He shrugs.

  I ask, “Who were they?”

  “The Pinne Mafia.” He smiles, and that dimple pops into his cheek again.

  “The Mafia, huh?” Rae says, grinning back. “Well, you almost ran right into us.”

  “I thought you were going to kill me with that thing.” He gestures toward the trike.

  “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already,” she says in this mysteriously low voice.

  Mitchell looks surprised. “The Godfather! You’ve seen it?”

  “Of course,” Rae says. “It’s a cinematic masterpiece. Who hasn’t?”

  Me. That would be me. I’ve heard of it, just enough to know that I wouldn’t be allowed to watch it, not in a million years.

  “Leave the gun, take the cannoli,” Mitchell says in a gravelly voice, and the two of them break into a fit of laughter. I smile awkwardly, adjust my glasses, and wish I wasn’t stuck on the outskirts of their little private joke.

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about us killing you again—this thing is out of commission. We ran over a nail.” Rae makes a womp-womp sound and says, “Anyway, where were you going so fast?”

  “I was hoping to find an alligator,” he says.

  “Oh, yeah. Dead or alive, right?” Rae jokes. “Well, did you?”

  He frowns. “Nope.”

  Forget the dimple. I remind myself that he’s a reptile lover, probably even a certified, card-carrying one—and what’s a dimple anyway? A dent in someone’s cheek? Big deal!

  And then I hear, “Mom! She’s heeere!”

  Beatrice stares at us from the porch.

  “Great,” I seethe, although I’m glad for the quick exit from this conversation. “My mom’s going to have a fit.”

  “Let me handle it,” Rae says. She waves over her shoulder at Mitchell, and we make our way up to the house and into the kitchen, just as my mom charges into it.

  “Hi, Aunt Hannah!” Rae smiles.

  “Girls! Where were you? I looked everywhere!”

  “Aunt Hannah, we just met an old classmate of yours! His name is Welles Augustus, and he runs a hardware shop that serves ice cream—can you believe it? He says you should come say hi.” Then she lowers her voice and puts her hand to the side of her mouth. “Just stay away from the Surprise Me.”

  My mom puts a polite smile on her face. “Well, that’s very nice. But Edith . . .” She turns to me. “Do I understand this right? You girls went downtown? On your own?”

  Rae seems oblivious. “Yeah. Luckily Petunia had that trike.”

  “Hold on,” my mom says, all traces of her smile completely gone. Her hand goes over her heart. “Do you mean to tell me that you rode Petunia’s tricycle into town?”

  “Mom, please.” I beg her with my eyes to try to let this go. “We’re fine, okay? It’s fine.”

  “Edith, no, it is not fine! You’ve could’ve had an accident!”

  Uncle A.J. comes into the kitchen. “Oh, come on, Hannah. I think they can handle themselves okay.”

  “A.J., they’re still children, I might remind you!”

  Children.

  “Do you know how many bicyclists are injured in motor-vehicle collisions? More than forty thousand a year!”

  “Hannah, if you want to talk about research, I can guarantee you that most research tells you that exercise is actually good for kids.”

  My mom opens her mouth, but before she can say anything else, Rae clasps her hands to her own heart and says, “Aunt Hannah, I’m so, so sorry if we worried you. It was my idea, not Edie’s. We should have told someone—I mean, asked someone.”

  The should language. Rae’s speaking it. My mom sighs and releases her shoulders away from her ears, and sends us off to the study. Maybe I should be relieved that we haven’t been punished, but I’m not. I know she’ll be keeping a closer eye on me. How am I going to do all the things on Petunia’s list if my mother won’t let me out of her sight?

  In the study, Rae sits at the desk and tries to check her phone. “Welcome to the internot.”

  “No service?” I ask.

  “It must be down. Great.” She puts her phone on the desk and looks at me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, although I’m still annoyed with my mother.

  “Okay? If you say so.” She jumps up from the desk chair and runs over to a rolling ladder in front of the bookshelves. She climbs up a few rungs. “Hey, Edie, give me a push.”

  I give the ladder a little push. It only edges over an inch.

  “Oh, come on, Edie. A real push.”

  So I push harder, and she laughs and swings out a little to give it a little more speed. Then it stops, and she looks at me.

  “Edie, seriously, what’s wrong?”

  I shrug. “It’s just my mother.”

  “What about her?”

  “You saw how she is. She treats me like I’m four sometimes!”

  She leans back from the ladder, looking at me upside down. “She’s just, you know, one of those worry kinds of moms. Now, this time, push like you mean it.”

  I give her the biggest, strongest push I can, and she yells, “Wheeeeeeee!” and I miss Taylor more than ever. At least she knows what it’s like dealing with a hovering mother.

  It was actually our overprotective moms that brought Taylor and me together in the first place: a big overnight class trip to New York City in the fourth grade. My mom wouldn’t let me go because of the sleeping arrangements: with four girls to a hotel room, she was sure we’d suffer sleep deprivation. Taylor’s mom wouldn’t let her go because of her allergies—there was a chance Taylor would accidentally eat something that would make her sick. So when the class went away, our parents let us hang out together all day, enjoying old Harry Potter movies and stuffing ourselves with dairy- and gluten-free treats. The rest is history.

  Or it was. Until Sophi Angelo entered the picture.

  A ding comes from Rae’s phone on the desk. “Service, finally!” she says, and jumps off the ladder.

  As she checks her phone, I sneak upstairs. I have to call Taylor. Even if there’s not much to brag about yet. I just need to hear her voice. On the landing at the top of the stairs, I pick up an old-fashioned phone, yellow, almost gold, with a curly cord. I’m glad I have my mom’s gift for memorization, and I punch in the ten digits.

  “Hello
?”

  “Hi, Mrs. McGowan. It’s Edie. Is Taylor there?”

  “Sorry, who is it?”

  “Oh, it’s—it’s Edith.”

  “Oh, Edith! How are you? How’s Florida?”

  “It’s okay, it’s—”

  “Hot as heck, I bet.”

  “Yes, it is. So . . . uh, is Taylor home?”

  “Oh, no. I guess she didn’t tell you?”

  “No . . . uh, tell me?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I’m sure she meant to before she left. But honey, she’s at Camp Berrybrook.”

  I recognize the name. My throat tightens and my stomach sinks. Camp Berrybrook. Sophi’s beloved summer camp. Where they will have adventures—excitement galore, no doubt—without me.

  “You let her go?”

  “Well, she’d been wanting to, and a slot opened, so . . .”

  “But what about the gluten?”

  Her mom pauses, then says, “Well, honey, the camp director knows all about her allergies, of course—”

  “And dairy? What if they serve ice cream?”

  “Edith, you’re a good friend to be so concerned, but Taylor’s really become good at managing her allergies on her own lately, and she’s ready to do some new things, so . . .”

  New nonboring things. With new nonboring friends.

  “So, I’ll see her on visiting day, and I’ll make sure she calls you—”

  “When’s that?”

  “Oh, visiting day?” she asks. “It’s in a few weeks.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  She gives me the date—it’s three weeks away. I give her the address and phone number for Petunia’s house, and she gives me Taylor’s address at Camp Berrybrook in case I want to write a letter. But when we hang up, I just stare at it through the tears that are filling my eyes. I mean, what would I even write to Taylor? That I didn’t catch a snake? That my mom still treats me like I’m a toddler, while hers seems to suddenly think she’s an adult? That I’m as boring as I was two weeks ago, when I last saw her?

  “Hey,” I hear. I turn and see Rae at the foot of the stairs, looking up at me.

  “Hey!” Carp! I blink, and a tear spills out. Luckily she doesn’t seem to notice. I quickly wipe it away.

  “You sneaking off to make a call means one thing.”

  “It does?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She smiles. “Klaus.”

  “Oh. I, uh—” Here’s my chance to right this wrong. Maybe I can just ditch this imaginary boyfriend and be done with this charade. Carefully, of course. I don’t want her to know that I’m such a loser I had to make him up. “Um, you know what? I’m not even sure we’re still going out.”

  “Couldn’t get ahold of him, huh?” She sighs. “I know. I hate when that happens. I mean, with Leo back home in California, and me here, it’s like, how are we going to keep this together?”

  “Yeah.” A gentle snort seeps out. Ugh.

  “But I have another question for you.”

  I brace myself.

  “Why on earth don’t you have a phone? I’ve had one since I was eight!”

  It feels almost shameful that my parents won’t let me have one, but at least it gives me a reason for not having frequent long, lingering, possibly lovelorn conversations and texting sessions with Klaus all summer.

  “I’ll probably get one when we get back,” I say. And that part’s true. The part I don’t tell her is that my parents have talked about getting me a Jitterbug phone. It’s made for old people. No internet, no texting, just phone service. With a dial tone, to avoid further confusing the elderly and demented.

  “Yeah, you definitely need one,” Rae says.

  “Very true,” I say. And it is. I mean, I know a girl who’s Amish, and even she has one. My parents, however, don’t find that a compelling argument.

  “Well, you can use mine whenever you want,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Sure.” She gives me a big smile, like that solves all my problems. I only wish that it did.

  Chapter 8

  This Old House

  Rae and I are in the kitchen, eating Pop-Tarts and drinking coffee. Black with sugar.

  Apparently she’s been drinking coffee since she was ten, and making it for my uncle since she was eight. When we came down to the kitchen this morning and saw the new coffee machine that our parents splurged on, Rae didn’t ask me if I wanted a cup of coffee. She asked how I took it. But while I was thinking about how to answer that question, she said (thankfully), “Let’s hope you don’t take milk, because this milk smells a little weird.”

  So I guess I don’t take milk. I take a small sip. It’s wretched. I try not to let it show on my face.

  But Rae’s not looking at me—she’s checking her phone. “Sorry to disappoint you, cuz, but my weather app says clear skies today and tomorrow. Still no hurricanes to dance in. I say we stick with item two and keep up the treasure hunt. At least we’ll be out of the house.”

  For the past few days since our ride downtown, my mom’s barely let us out of the study. But today we’re supposed to be clearing out the garage, and I’m thrilled. Maybe we can sneak off and pursue the list once we’re out from under her watchful eye.

  My mom walks into the kitchen. “Morning,” she says. She walks behind me and gives me a little kiss on the head. Then she notices what I’m drinking. “Oh, Edith, coffee?”

  I sigh—but it’s more relief than frustration—and say, “Okay, Mom! I won’t drink it!”

  The screen door squeaks open, and my dad walks into the kitchen from outside. The twins follow behind him. “Good morning, everyone!” He sounds like Mister Rogers. “Thought we’d grab a bite before we start off on our search for Bachman’s warbler.”

  “You’re getting a late start, aren’t you, Walt?” my mom asks.

  “We got a little waylaid by a, uh, stray cat,” my dad says.

  “A nonexistent one!” Henry says.

  Beatrice juts her chin forward. “A kitten! He’s real!”

  “Then how come you’re the only one who’s seen it, Beatrice?” Henry says. “I’m the one wearing the glasses.”

  “Okay, twins, there’s no need to argue. Let’s have a little grub, huh?” He smiles. “Get it—grub?”

  They just stare at him.

  “Bird humor,” he explains.

  “Oh, now I get it, Dad,” Beatrice says.

  “Well, I get it,” Henry says. “But that doesn’t mean it makes me want to laugh.”

  “You’re a tough audience, Henry,” my dad says, reaching into a cabinet with a missing door to get his Tupperware container of gorp, his acronym for “good ol’ raisins and peanuts.” But he pulls it down with a concerned look on his face. “Well, scab buckets!”

  Uncle A.J. stomps into the kitchen in his heavy boots. “Let me guess. Mice?” he asks, without much of a reaction.

  “Mice?” My dad holds the container out so everyone can see it. The top has been gnawed right through. “Actually, it’s hardly mice we’re looking at.” His voice remains stubbornly upbeat. “It’s rats.”

  The kitchen fills with several sounds. There are oohs (the twins) and eews (Rae) and loud sighs (Mom) and well-hidden panic attacks (me). Cabinet doors creak open and slam shut as Uncle A.J. starts surveying the kitchen for more signs of the rats.

  “Great. Oh, just great. We’ve got to get rid of them ASAP,” my mom says.

  “Get rid of them? I thought we liked animals,” Beatrice argues. “I thought we were supposed to be nice to them.”

  “We do. We are,” my dad says.

  “Then why can’t we keep them?”

  “Oh!” Henry says. “We could do the Dr. Panksepp experiment!” He’s talking about an experiment in which a scientist recorded rats being tickled and laughing.

  “No, I mean, we could get a Habitrail and keep them as pets,” Beatrice argues.

  “Beatrice, honey, we can’t keep them,” my mother says. “These aren’t lab rats.
These are wild ones. They carry all sorts of diseases.”

  “Afraid she’s right, kiddos,” my dad says, and starts listing diseases. “Leptovirus, hantavirus—”

  “Oh, yeah, Hannah virus.” Uncle A.J.’s laugh booms. “I know that one pretty well.”

  My mom rolls her eyes, and everyone laughs except for Henry, who looks a little puzzled.

  “Well, all joking aside, looks like we need to come up with a rat plan,” my dad says.

  “Yeah—it’s called an exterminator,” Uncle A.J. says.

  “I’m not crazy about the poisons they use,” my mom says.

  “Wait! How about a natural predator?” Beatrice gets suddenly excited. “We could use my kitten! We could name him Aristotle, and he’d be part of the family. He can sleep in our room!”

  “Beatrice, this isn’t a petting zoo,” my mom says. That’s her general approach to the idea of getting a pet. It’s a source of tension between her and, oh, everyone else in our family. For, of course, different reasons. Beatrice wants a pet to play with; Henry wants a pet to train; my dad wants a pet to teach with; and I simply want some normal company.

  “All right, everyone. We’ve all got work to do,” A.J. says, and shoos everyone out of the kitchen.

  “Henry, Beatrice, why don’t you help Rae and Edith clean out the garage?” my dad says.

  “What?” I say. “I thought you were taking them out to find the warbler!”

  “I’m afraid I’ll be more useful here today,” he says.

  “Hey, Walt, you don’t have to stay,” Uncle A.J. says. “It’s fine—totally fine, you know—if you want to take the twins out looking for that wobbler.”

  “Well, we’re a team here, aren’t we? I think we should drill some holes into these walls so we can peek in and get a good look at exactly how bad this rat problem really is.”

  Uncle A.J. shoots a somewhat pleading look at my mom. I wonder if this look has anything to do with my dad’s “helping out” yesterday and the broken rafter that resulted from his bad hammer swing.

  My mom gives my uncle A.J. an apologetic look and says, “Walt, maybe instead of, uh, damaging the walls, we could come up with a solution we can all agree on.”

  Uncle A.J. surrenders. “Okay, kids. All of you, get cracking on the garage.”