Caterpillar Summer, page 14
Cat didn’t budge. Mom was acting like Cat tangled her hair on purpose. And she had called it a mess.
Mom put the comb on a towel and then closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against her temples. She seemed to be thinking about something.
She opened her eyes. “You have beautiful hair, Cat.”
Cat shrugged. She wasn’t going to let her off that easy.
“When you were small, Daddy did it every week. You sat on his knee and he combed so gently you never complained.” Mom gave Cat a quick grin. “Maybe because he let you watch Binky Bunnies when he did it.”
Cat still knew the words to the Binky Bunnies theme song, not that she would admit it. She remembered the way his hands worked through a tangle. She could smell the deep conditioner he used. It smelled like flowers. A few years ago, that conditioner had been discontinued. She’d cried for a week.
Mom picked up the comb absentmindedly and set it down again.
“Having your hair right was important to him, and he knew it would be important to you. He made me understand.”
Cat knew all this. After Daddy died, Mom combed and braided. Her fingers had been unpredictable in those early months. Sad fingers were unsteady. Worried fingers pinched. Sometimes Mom started crying halfway through and they had to stop. But one day it all came together. Mom had learned how to make it tight to keep the braid in but with room for her hair to expand as it dried.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said. “For snapping at you. For not being here last weekend to help.”
Cat’s feelings were still tender. “You called it a mess. It’s not a mess—it’s me.”
Mom’s eyes were serious. “You’re right.”
“I need your help, Mom. Will you come fishing tomorrow before you leave?”
Mom looked at Cat carefully. “Is it that important to you?”
Cat nodded.
Mom sighed. “Maybe. If we get up early enough. If traffic doesn’t look awful.”
That was all Cat needed to hear. She scooted toward Mom, who started brushing gently. When she was done, Cat’s braid was exactly the way she liked it.
Cat hoped Mom’s maybe would turn into yes, so she packed the fishing gear and waited on the deck. But when Mom came out, she shook her head.
“But I got up early,” said Cat. “I got everything ready.”
Mom sighed. “I checked the roads. They’re already jammed from holiday traffic. If I want to get to Atlanta, I need to get going.”
“I do need you, you know,” said Cat. “Yesterday you said I didn’t need you because I had Macon to teach me, but it’s not true. I really miss you. And I want to learn from you.”
“I miss you, too,” said Mom. “Do you want to come back to Atlanta with me?”
Cat blinked. The idea of leaving Gingerbread Island made her insides feel hollow. She loved the island and the ocean. She’d found a friend in Harriet and she couldn’t bear to think of saying good-bye to Macon and Lily. Plus, the contest.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I know it would be long days of watching Chicken, but you could manage for a week,” said Mom.
Chicken wouldn’t want to leave either, Cat was sure. She had to make Mom understand.
“I love it here, Mom. Chicken loves it, too,” said Cat. “Plus, I’ve been meaning to tell you—the reason I keep asking about fishing is because I entered a contest. It’s next Saturday and I’ve been practicing all the time.”
“A fishing contest?” Mom frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Cat thought about her plan to get Mom and Macon together through fishing. That seemed silly now.
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said. “At first I entered because I wanted to beat that mean kid John Harvey. But I do like it, Mom.”
The corner of Mom’s mouth turned up in a half smile. “I liked it, too.”
That little smile meant a lot. It meant Mom still had good memories of fishing with Macon, even if they were buried deep.
“Will you come early Saturday, to watch me in the contest?” Cat asked.
“Of course,” said Mom. She paused, looking at the water. “This place is so magical. It’s not that I didn’t remember—but everyone thinks their childhood was magical. I didn’t know that it would feel this way to me as an adult.”
Cat swallowed. “What made you want to leave?”
Mom frowned. “Your grandfather and I had a big fight. It’s complicated.”
Half the time Mom leaned on Cat, but the other half she shut her out. Cat was tired of going back and forth. Macon had messed up, but Mom had messed up, too. Saying something wrong is one kind of bad. But maybe saying nothing was even worse.
“But he said sorry, right?”
Mom’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want you digging around in that old hurt.”
“I’m part of this family, too,” said Cat.
Mom took a deep breath. There was something familiar about it, and Cat realized it was what Mom did when she was trying to stay calm with Chicken.
“We can talk about this later,” Mom said. “I really need to get on the road.” She pushed open the sliding glass door and went inside to gather her things. After a few minutes, Cat went inside, too.
Cat followed the others to the driveway to wave good-bye. Mom gave her a quick hug before getting in the car.
“Bye!” shouted Chicken.
Cat was still thinking long after Mom’s car was gone. From what Mom said on the deck, she was beginning to remember what she loved about Gingerbread Island. Maybe at the contest, with a full day of fishing, she’d remember she loved Macon, too.
The night of the fireworks, the streets were closed to traffic. Picnic tables stood in the middle of the square, under strings of white lights. Cat recognized faces from the pier, park, and library.
“I hope you’re hungry,” said Harriet. “The food is going to be great.”
“Course it is,” said Neddie. “Dad’s cooking.” He pointed at Mr. Kincaid, who was carrying a giant pot.
The girls kept an eye on the little brothers while the adults stood in line. Macon returned with a basket and avalanched pink shrimp, corn on the cob, and red potatoes across the paper-covered table. The food was steaming hot.
“Yum,” said Harriet and Neddie. They grabbed corn and started eating.
Macon squirted mustard on the table. “No forks, no plates.” He dipped a piece of potato and handed it to Chicken, whose eyes were wide.
“Look!” Chicken crowed, flipping a shrimp upside down. “Legs!”
“Gotta peel them,” said Neddie, in a businesslike tone of voice. In one quick move Neddie removed the shrimp from its casing and then chomped it down in two bites.
Cat handled shrimp all the time—she didn’t blink twice when baiting her hook. But she had never had shrimp served with the shell on. She nibbled at a potato. Chicken tried peeling one, but ended up pulling his shrimp in half.
“Let me show you,” said Neddie. He used his thumb to loosen the shell, then removed it in one piece.
Chicken peered at the shrimp. He tugged the legs until they came away from the body. Then he put a shrimp into his mouth. His eyes widened as he looked at Cat.
“Mrrrmph,” he said. He swallowed. “Delicious!”
Cat got to work and after a few tries mastered Neddie’s peeling trick. They were delicious—salty and fresh. Soon they had big piles of the shells in front of them.
Cat put her elbows on the table. “I’m stuffed.”
“Save room for blueberry cobbler,” said Harriet. “We’ll get bowls right before the fireworks.”
The adults were deep in conversation about erosion on the north part of the island. Chicken and Neddie were still eating. They reached for a shrimp at the same time, and their hands bumped. They frowned at each other and then bumped hands again, and this time, they bumped shoulders, too. Chicken elbowed Neddie, and Neddie elbowed him back, hard.
Cat sat up and leaned toward the table. She felt a hand on her arm. She turned to see, and it was Harriet. “What are you doing?” Cat asked.
“Just wait,” she said. “Just see.”
The boys locked eyes with each other.
Finally, Neddie dropped his eyes. “Go ahead.”
“It’s okay,” said Chicken. “I’ll have a potato.” He dunked it in butter. Cat couldn’t believe it. She looked at Harriet.
“I figured they’d work it out,” said Harriet.
“I thought they’d fight,” said Cat. “I didn’t want Chicken to give Neddie a nosebleed.”
Harriet shrugged. “Fights happen.”
Cat shook her head. “It’s different for Chicken. He gets upset.”
“I know you look after him,” said Harriet. “But sometimes letting him handle things is a way of looking out for him, too.”
Once Cat heard Harriet’s words, she couldn’t stop thinking about them—all the way through the rest of dinner, while they were having their blueberry cobbler, and while they watched hundreds of fireworks bursting through the night sky.
The next day, Cat was supposed to ride bikes with Harriet, but Chicken was upset.
“Not again,” he said. “You always leave. I thought we were going to play sharks or read together.”
A cereal flake stuck to his cheek. Cat peeled it off.
Chicken pushed her hand away. “You never play with me anymore.”
“Not true,” she answered.
“It’s not a true fact,” he said seriously. “But it’s a true feeling.”
Oh, Chicken. She hated to see him sad. There was a time that his words would have been enough to make her cancel her plans. Being a good sister was important. But sometimes, being a good friend was important, too.
She gave him a little hug. “When I come back, we’ll read our book.”
When they first came to the island, Chicken chose a dog-eared copy of Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls. Cat had been unsure, but once they started reading they fell into the story of Billy and his dogs. Chicken loved to whoop during the hunting scenes, just like Billy.
He looked at her like he didn’t believe her. “Promise?”
She squeezed him up in a hug. “I triple-promise. As soon as I get back.”
He made her promise until she had both quadruple-promised and crossed her heart.
Downstairs, Harriet was waiting.
“Ready?” Harriet asked. Cat nodded.
Harriet tore down the road, and Cat pedaled hard to keep up. The sun shone on the water’s curled waves. Cat thought back to the beginning of summer, when she’d been afraid to leave Chicken. It seemed like a long time ago.
They passed the pier and Cat checked for John Harvey. He wasn’t there, which was good. The less she saw him, the better.
Past the pier, the path widened and there was enough room to ride next to each other. Harriet slowed until Cat caught up.
Cat hadn’t realized the island was so long. The fanciest houses, like Macon and Lily’s, were right on the ocean, close to town. Smaller houses like Harriet’s were inland a bit. But this part of the island was different. They rode past a swampy area Harriet said was too wet to build on. When houses started again, they were spaced far apart. Some were neat and tidy and others looked abandoned, with boarded windows and tall weeds growing.
They turned sharply on a narrow street and in the distance a mountain jutted two stories in the air. As they rode, Cat got a closer look. It wasn’t a real mountain but had been painted to look like one.
She pointed. “What is that?”
Harried grinned. “That’s where we’re heading. Mini golf!”
Cat’s pedaling slowed. “Mini golf?” The course John Harvey’s family owned.
“Don’t worry, it’s my treat,” said Harriet. “My mom gave me money.”
Cat shook her head. It wasn’t the money. She was still sorting out how she felt about what happened at the parade. “Does John Harvey work there?”
“Yeah,” said Harriet. “But the course is fun. He won’t bother paying customers.”
Cat was unsure. They pulled up to a chain-link fence. She looked for a sign of John Harvey.
Harriet hopped off her bike. “Are you coming or not?”
“Definitely,” said Cat.
She leaned her bike against the fence. She had a better view of the fake mountain, which actually appeared to be a volcano. Red paint streaked the sides and a lazy curl of smoke ribboned from the top. The course was a colorful jumble of pirate ships, giant butterflies, neon toadstools, and even half a school bus.
Cat looped her fingers through the chain-link fence. “I expected something more basic. Plastic grass, wooden ramps. Not like this.”
Harriet nodded. “My mom says that Mr. Dawson is a frustrated genius. He’s out here all hours of the night building and painting. My dad hired him for a job once that needed some tile work. It turned out beautiful but went over budget because Mr. Dawson spent a million hours making it perfect.”
They walked to the register. A teenager leaned on the counter, tapping at his phone. She recognized him as the one who drove the orange pickup truck at the playground. She could just make out the writing on his fading name tag—Sutton.
Cat stood there, not knowing if she should say something or wait for Sutton to notice them. He was oblivious, even from a foot away. Harriet was low on patience. She reached out and pressed on the bell hard.
Sutton didn’t look up from his phone. “What?”
Harriet plunked money on the counter. “We want to play.”
Finally, Sutton looked up, shoving the phone in his pocket reluctantly. He reached under the counter to get two putters. Sutton’s nose was crooked, like it had been broken and healed funny, but other than that he looked a lot like John Harvey.
Harriet rummaged in her pockets until she found a tattered paper. “Coupon from the Weekly Wave,” she said, holding it up. “Half off.”
Sutton studied the coupon before stuffing it in a drawer. “Old man shouldn’t bother running these. We might as well open our doors for free.”
He slapped the golf balls on the counter. “Follow the yellow line,” he said, pointing at the path. He was back to his phone immediately.
“Rude,” whispered Cat, after they were out of earshot. But as they rounded the corner, she gasped. There was much more to the course than what she’d seen from the fence. Bright and chaotic, each stop was themed differently. It should have clashed but instead it was fascinating. The first hole was surrounded by a half wall tiled with a mosaic ocean scene. From there she could see the second hole, which was designed like a circus big top, and the edge of the third, which was ringed by enormous lollipops.
After the first few holes, it became clear that Harriet was very good. Cat wasn’t—like there was a connection loose between her brain and her hand. She wasn’t worried about winning, because they were having fun. She skipped around the corner, but the path was blocked with plastic netting. And even from behind, she knew that floppy blond hair anywhere.
He glanced up at Cat, his eyes narrowing when he recognized her.
“John Harvey,” said Cat. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” he asked. “Fixing the path.”
Harriet leaned forward for a closer look. “Are you old enough to do that?”
“Guess so,” said John Harvey. The corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile, but it was full of pride. “Sutton and Briggs don’t have the patience, and Tanner can’t stand still long enough to do anything with his hands. My dad’s got his other jobs today, so he told me to do this.”
The three of them looked at the path. His work looked tidy and even.
“Anyway,” he said roughly. “You have to go around or you’ll mess it up.”
Cat made a face. He didn’t need to act big because he could make a sidewalk. Even if it was a good sidewalk.
“Obviously,” said Harriet. “No need to get bossy. We won’t walk on your path.” They turned their backs and continued to the pale pink igloo.
When they came to the last hole a great white shark grinned at them menacingly.
“Chicken would love this,” Cat said.
“On your last ball there’s a prize,” said Harriet. “If you get it in the shark’s mouth you get a token for a free game. See the holes lined up before the mouth? You have to hit it past.”
Harriet set up her ball and frowned in concentration. Finally, she swung. The ball arced over the three holes and landed perfectly.
“Yes!” shouted Harriet, pumping her fist. “Free game!”
“Good job!” said Cat.
Cat put down her ball. She tried to copy Harriet, she even frowned at the ball. One hard swing later, the ball bounced straight into the first hole, not anywhere near the shark’s mouth. No prize for Cat.
They returned their clubs at the counter, and Sutton gave Harriet her free token with a scowl. They walked to their bikes.
“Close your eyes and put out your hand,” said Harriet.
Cat did, and Harriet pressed something in her palm—the token. When she opened her eyes she shook her head. “No Harriet, you should keep it. We leave Sunday and I don’t know if we’ll have time to play again.”
Harriet grinned. “Exactly. You’ll have to come visit another time, so you can use your token!” She ran with her bike, took a flying leap, and began to pedal.
Cat put the token deep in her pocket so it wouldn’t get lost. She smiled, not because of the free game waiting for her, but because Harriet would be waiting for her, too. She hurried to catch up with her friend.
After lunch, Cat kept her promise to read. She and Chicken escaped to her cool bedroom and made a pillow nest in the window seat. The chapters blurred into one another as they followed Billy and the dogs deep into the Ozarks on cold winter nights. Chicken pressed so close, she could feel his breath on her arm.
“Cat?” he asked. “Will this book have a sad ending?”
Cat stopped reading and looked at him. “Maybe. Some books have sad endings.”
“Caterpillar and Chicken books have happy endings,” he said. “I like those better.”
