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Authors: Sharon Creech

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BOOK: Chasing Redbird
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And by the time Jake Boone came to town, we were just beginning to emerge from our dazed states, like sleepy bears after a long, hard winter.

A few days after Aunt Jessie's funeral, I was up on the trail. To avoid thinking about Aunt Jessie, I kept trying to imagine the people who had ridden this trail all those many years ago. That's when an idea burst into my brain like fireworks exploding: I was going to uncover the whole trail and travel it on horseback.

There were a few problems with this, which I didn't consider at the time: to uncover twenty miles of trail was a hard job, and, secondly, I didn't have a horse to ride this trail even if I did clear it. At least I knew how to ride a horse. That I had learned at Sal Hiddle's farm, where she and I had spent whole days weaving through their woods on her horse, Willow. Unfortunately, Willow had been sold when the Hiddles moved to Ohio.

The more I thought about my plan, though, the bigger it got. This plan zipped through my brain like a dog tearing up the pea patch. Not only would I clear the trail, but I would plant zinnias all along the way, and it would become the Zinnia Bybanks–Chocton trail, and everyone who saw the zinnias would think of me, Zinny, and be flabbergasted at what I had done. It would still be my trail, though, and people would have to ask permission to use it.

At the time, I thought this idea dropped down out of the blue, and I didn't know it would become so important. It didn't occur to me that I might be escaping something or even chasing something. It didn't occur to me that it would seem selfish. As for the zinnias and naming the trail after myself—well, I suppose I wanted to be known as something other than the
strangest and stingiest dirt-daubing doodlebug,
as something more than a little
mashed-up fritter at the bottom of the pot.
I suppose I wanted people to know exactly which Taylor I was, and for me to be something other than
Zinnia Taylor: killer.

But I didn't know all this then. I only knew I had to undertake this mission. I
had
to. And I had to hurry, to complete it before the end of the summer, for in my morbid mind, I believed that if I didn't complete it by then, something horrible would happen. Whatever this horrible thing was would be a punishment for killing Aunt Jessie. I had decided that God had given me a chance—one chance—to redeem myself.

When an idea like that takes root in my brain, it grows like weeds on the riverbank.

And I needn't have worried about my brothers or sisters taking over my trail. They lost interest after a few days of clearing the debris, and it was mine once again.

CHAPTER 11

P
RESENTS

O
n Sunday, the day after Jake had given me the bottle caps, I was outside at the squirt gardens when Jake returned. He said he'd just stopped by for a minute. In his hand was a small box, punctured with holes. “Here,” he said, whisking it under my nose.

The contents of my stomach were tumbling around like socks in the clothes dryer. A present, from
Jake
. But then, in a flash, I thought,
Here we go again: another Tommy Salami bribing me with gifts so he can win May. I will not be swayed.

“Open it,” he urged. “It's for you. It's a thermometer.”

I lifted the lid and quickly replaced it. “Very funny,” I said, handing it back. “Looks more like a cricket to me.” Why did he have to look so eager? Why was he going to so much trouble when May was already falling all over herself trying to attract his attention?

“Which one of those windows is your room?” he asked.

Reluctantly, I played along, pretending I didn't know what he was really after. “That one, up there. I share it with Bonnie and Gretchen and—May.”

“Where's your bed?”

“There—by that window. May's is by the other window.”

He didn't even flinch when I mentioned her name.
Stop it!
I wanted to yell at him.
Quit pretending!

“Perfect,” he said, leading me to the oak tree which grows beside the house, its branches tapping against our bedroom window. “See this tree?” He opened the box, tilting it against the trunk. The cricket hopped out and clung to the bark. Jake seemed mighty pleased with himself. He said, “Do you have a clock near your bed? With a second hand?”

“Yes.”

“Now tonight, if you listen for this cricket and count the number of chirps in a minute, divide by four, and add thirty-seven, that'll be the temperature. Don't that beat all?!”

May surfaced as Jake's truck disappeared down the drive. “Was that Jake? Where'd he go?”

“Don't know.”

“What'd he want? What'd he say?”

“Just fuss and feathers. Nothing special.”

“Did he ask for me?” May said.

Gretchen came outside. “Was that Jake? What did he want?” May took her by the arm and led her toward the house, whispering. I didn't hear what May said, but Gretchen said, “He's probably just shy. He probably wanted to ask for you, but he probably got embarrassed, that's all. He'll probably be back.”

A few minutes later, Bonnie emerged. “May's mad at you,” she said. “Guess why.” When I didn't answer, she said, “May says you should have told her Jake was here. She says you don't have the sense of a flea.”

Uncle Nate ran by waving his stick. “Hold on!” he yelled. “Wait on up!”

“What are you chasing?” Bonnie called.

“My Redbird—look at her go!”

“Does he really see her?” Bonnie asked.

“Maybe—”

“Do
you
ever see her?”

“In my mind—” I admitted.

“But around here, do you see Aunt Jessie like Uncle Nate sees her?”

I wanted to be able to say yes. If he could see her, why couldn't I? “Nope, I don't. Do you?”

“Of course not, but Ben does,” she said. “Ben said he's seen Aunt Jessie twice since she was buried. Does he really? Or is he imagining it?”

Later, I found Ben sitting at the foot of his squirt garden, tilting his head to left and right. “Are they straight?” he asked. “Doesn't that third plant look a little crooked?”

“They're fine, Ben. Don't have to be exactly straight.”

“Yes they do.” Ben had decided to grow only beans in his garden, and he was very particular about his row. He liked it to be straight, and he would not allow any weeds whatsoever to grow in it. He checked it two or three times a day, and if he found a little weed trying to sprout up, he'd yell at it, “Where'd you come from? Get on out of there!”

Once, when Ben was much younger, he told Aunt Jessie that he wanted “the other kind of beans” too.

“What kind is that?” Aunt Jessie said.

“Human beans.”

Aunt Jessie explained that it was human
beings
, not human
beans
. Ben listened carefully and said, “But maybe it really is human
beans
. Maybe if you took a little human egg and put it in the ground and watered it, it might grow.”

“Into what?” Aunt Jessie asked.

“A human bean, of course.”

Ben asked if I was going up to my trail.

“Yes,” I said, “but don't tell anyone.”

“It must be getting long, Zinny,” he said. “What about when it gets five or ten miles long and you have to walk five or ten miles out there just to start clearing and then you'll have to walk five or ten miles back? And what about when it gets to be fifteen miles? Or sixteen? Or—”

“I'll manage,” I said. I hadn't really thought about that potential problem, and I wished he hadn't mentioned it, because I would worry about it all day.

Ben said, “Maybe you'll run into Uncle Nate up there. He's visiting his sweetheart.”

“Is not.”

“Is too, Zinny. That's what he said—‘Guess I'll go see my sweetheart.'”

“He's joking.”

“Is not.”

“Ben, have you seen Aunt Jessie—recently?”

“Yep.”

“Where? What was she doing?”

He poked at the dirt. “Up by the barn, just walking.”

“She see you? She say anything?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe you imagined it,” I said.

“I did not imagine it.” He didn't seem at all bothered. In his nine-year-old mind, he thought it perfectly reasonable to see his dead aunt wandering through the farmyard.

I went on up to the trail, and as I cleared away weeds, I wondered if it were really possible to see a dead person, and felt terribly jealous that both Uncle Nate and Ben had seen her, but I hadn't. Maybe I hadn't looked hard enough. To be able to see her—oh! It gave me the shivers just thinking of it. To see her face, to see her walk in that funny way of hers—slow then fast, slow then fast—oh!

As I neared the barn on my way home, Ben joined me, and we saw Jake's truck leaving. “Again?” Ben said. “Wasn't he already here today?”

May, Gretchen, Bonnie, Will, and Sam were crowded around another cardboard carton—a big one this time, about a foot high.

“What is it, what is it, what is it?” Ben called.

May glared at me.

“Guess,” Bonnie said. “It's from Jake.”

Inside the carton, squatting on loose hay, was a box turtle, about seven inches long. Its shell was high and round and black with eight orange splots. There was no sign of its head.

“Is it alive?” Ben asked.

“Jake said it was,” Gretchen said. “He also said its name is Poke, and it's a weather predictor. If Poke keeps his head inside, it'll be good weather. If Poke sticks his head out or scrabbles around, it's going to rain.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Ben said. “Wouldn't you think he'd rather stick his head out if the weather was good? And go inside when it rained?”

“I'm just telling you what Jake said, is all,” Gretchen said.

Just then, the turtle poked his head out, and as he did so, a raindrop splatted on his shell.

“Can I have it?” Ben asked, lifting it from the carton.

Bonnie said, “Put it down. It's for Zinny.”

“Why for Zinny?”

“Because Jake said so.”

“But why for Zinny?”

May rolled her eyes. “Probably because she collects all those stupid and immature things. He probably will bring over any old piece of rubbish he finds and give it to Zinny just to get rid of it. It's so embarrassing.”

That night the tree cricket chirped one hundred and twelve times in one minute. I divided that by four, and added thirty-seven, and it came out to sixty-five. I got out of bed and went down to the kitchen and checked the thermometer fastened to the outside of the window. The temperature was sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

I stared out the window at the oak tree. Beyond stretched dark shadows. Was Aunt Jessie out there? If I looked hard enough, long enough, would I see her?

CHAPTER 12

BOOK: Chasing Redbird
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