Moon Spun (3 page)

I stretched the elastic waist band out as far as possible, and fired the panties like a slingshot into a field of corn.

Faye howled with laughter, and held out a hand for me to slap. After we exchanged high fives, Faye glanced over at me and winked. “We could have made a fortune on eBay.”

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I shook my head in mock regret. “Darn! I never thought of that.”

Faye said, “At least we have one thing to be grateful for.”

“Oh?”

“The giver of the panties wasn’t around to enjoy the show.”

“Good old Roy,” I said. “Not that he could have identified them, seeing as how they were pretty much outta sight by then.”

Faye snickered. “Yep, you really cracked up the crowd.”

I groaned at her lame humor.

She sobered quickly, and shook her head. “You were right about Roy. What an idiot.”

Since she’d discovered Roy had a couple of wives he hadn’t bothered to divorce, her opinion of his IQ had plummeted. I knew he was dumb as dirt all along. But, as always, Faye had to learn the hard way. My current goal in life was to figure out why Faye kept choosing the wrong guy, as well as making other decisions that made us both miserable.

Issue resolved, we rode together in companionable silence, rare for Faye and me, until we approached Uncle Sid and Aunt Sandra’s ranch. Our trailer was parked at the back of their property, behind their big house and next to the infamous electric fence where I’d had my first encounter with my destiny as a Star Seeker. The pasture behind the electric fence belonged to Blaster, Uncle Sid’s bull, whose sperm was worth a fortune. Blaster was crazy about Uncle Sid. Why wouldn’t he be?

When the time was right, Uncle Sid would back an air-conditioned trailer into the pasture and whistle until Blaster came running.

“Hey, buddy! Wanna go visit some ladies?”

The bull didn’t like me at all. Whenever I stepped outside the trailer, he’d paw the ground and bellow a warning. If I pretended not to see him, he’d give up and trot to the other end of the pasture. Guess he remembered the time I used TKP to make him trot backwards. When we got to the long gravel driveway leading to our trailer, it was blocked with cars. Not only was the driveway full, but a bunch of cars were parked on the narrow shoulder of Peacock Flats Road.

“Well, damn,” Faye said. “Looks like Sid and Sandra are having a party. Guess we’ll have to walk in.”

“Oh, great,” I said. “Just what I want to do in high heels, a big poufy dress and no underpants.”

Faye parked the truck behind a black Suburban with a What Would Jesus Do sticker on the back window and sighed. “Jesus would probably make the cars disappear so he could get down the driveway.”

She gave me a thoughtful look. I knew what was coming and shook my head violently. “No way!

I’m not using TKP to move those cars.”

Faye pretty much thought I should use my powers in ordinary circumstances, especially if it made her life easier. She shot me a disgusted look and stepped out of the truck. “Then you’d better get a tight grip on that poufy dress. The wind’s still blowing.”

Faye charged down the driveway like she was on a mission. Actually, she probably was. Happy hour had come and gone, and a six pack in the fridge was calling her name. I held onto my skirt with both hands, and hobbled along in three-inch heels not designed for walking in gravel. I had just stepped onto the grass, and slipped off my shoes when two boys tore around the corner of the house. The boy in the lead held a bag of potato chips over his head, just out of reach of the smaller boy, who bared his teeth and snarled before launching himself at the big kid’s ankles. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs and flailing fists, potato chips flying everywhere. Geez, would this day never end?

“Hey, you guys, knock it off!” I yelled.

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I was about to wade in and grab the little one, when he jumped up and glared at the big kid, “You ain’t so tough, you butt wipe, you ass . . . ”

“Hey!” I yelled again. “Watch your language.”

He took off running. Butt Wipe stood and glared at me—like I had something to do with it—

before slinking off to lick his wounds. As I rounded the corner of the house, a crow fluttered down from the roof and started pecking at the potato chips.

Uncle Sid’s back yard was jammed with people. I spotted Mayor Mort, Principal Hostettler and other members of the festival committee along with their families, most of them gathered around the long table loaded down with fresh roasted corn, salads, casseroles and desserts. Aunt Sandra stood on the brick patio with her best buds, church ladies who met once a week to gossip. When she saw me, she lifted a hand to shield her mouth, and said something to Cynthia Badgley, a case worker for Child Protective Services, the very woman who had once threatened to put me in foster care. My cousin Tiffany, still wearing her cherry red gown and tiara, was next to the food table, stuffing her face with chips and dip.

As I trudged toward the trailer, I breathed in the tantalizing fragrance of grilled meat floating on the soft evening air. My stomach growled angrily, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I waved at Uncle Sid, who hovered over the barbeque. His lime green apron said, Don’t Expect Miracles. He looked like a man trapped in a nightmare. His lips were drawn back in a frozen grimace of a smile, and he gazed longingly at the barn behind our trailer.

Uncle Sid is not a people person. He’s happiest when he’s alone, working in the barn, or scratching stinky old Blaster behind the ears. He glanced over to make sure Aunt Sandra wasn’t looking, before he returned my wave.

A couple of people called out to me. “Hey, Queen Allie, come join the party!”

“Yeah, Allie should be here. Right, Mom?”

The last comment came from Matt, Sid and Sandra’s eighteen-year-old son, who stood, framed in the doorway leading to the back of their house. I’d once had a thing for Matt, but that was ancient history. Now, strangely enough, he had a thing for me. I was suddenly aware of my bare-booty commando state, and felt my face heat up.

Before Aunt Sandra could answer, Tiffany yelled, “Hey! Queen Bare Buns! Wanna join the party?

Not!”

Aunt Sandra smirked, before she rearranged her face in a frown of disapproval. Uncle Sid shook his head, sadly. The crowd stood silently, heads swiveling back and forth between Tiffany and me. I heard my heart thumping against my ribs, Blaster’s distant bellow, and the flapping of wings as the crow abandoned his chips and perched on the edge of the roof.

My feet hurt. I was tired, hungry and totally sick of comments about my undergarments or lack thereof. Most of all, I was fed up with Tiffany. I took five steps toward her, and stopped. We locked gazes.

It was time for payback.

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Chapter Four

As a practitioner of magic, I’m what you might call a loose cannon. Since acquiring the gift of manipulating objects with my mind, I’d been working at it like my life depended on it. Actually, it did. I’d mastered the slow roll, the full throttle and the hovering–in–air–before–crashing–to-earth mode. What I hadn’t managed to fine-tune, was control.

My point? I didn’t want to permanently damage Tiffany, I just wanted to embarrass her and teach her a lesson. As the plan came together, I had to consider the following: Whatever happened had to look natural. It would be a giant mistake to blow my cover in front of Mayor Mort and friends. They’d probably condemn me as a witch and burn me at the stake or, at the very least, hitch up our trailer and dump us off at the top of Rattlesnake Ridge.

I gave Tiffany a friendly grin, gratified when I saw her eyes widen in alarm. I said, “Ya know, Tif, stuff happens, and sometimes it’s out of your control, so it’s best to just roll with it.”

As I took a deep breath and blew it out, the thrum of pure energy coursed through my body, gathering speed and heat. Maybe the word butt wipe was still resonating in my subconscious. Or, maybe I had a teensy mean streak just dying to come out. Whatever the reason, I focused hard, and when I felt my power swell, I nudged the crow from his perch on the roof. With a hoarse squawk, the bird flapped his wings, gained a little altitude and circled the back yard. Am I powerful enough to make a bird poop on command? Absolutely not! But I was strong enough to make him swoop low over Tiffany, who was still standing over the food table. Both Tiffany and the crow had a belly full of potato chips. I figured it was only a matter of time before the crow dropped his load. After all, he was a bird.

After another cruise around the perimeter, the crow closed in on the target. He set his wings, banked to the left and made his approach.

All right, Big Bird, you’re in the zone. Come on, do it!

Splat!

Yes!

Tiffany screamed shrilly as bird poop dripped off her forehead, ran down her cheeks and dripped onto her Little Princess Maraschino Cherry dress. I think some of it dropped into the clam dip too. Mr. Crow must have had a power surge, because it looked like somebody had dumped a Super-Sized cup of the stuff on Tiffany’s head.

“Arrrrgh!” she wailed, dancing up and down, her hands flapping helplessly. I heard more than a few chuckles mixed in with shrieks of dismay, as Aunt Sandra grabbed a handful of napkins off the table and began swiping at Tiffany’s face. My work here was almost done. When Tiffany’s face was poop-free, I winked at her. “Like I said, Tiffany, stuff happens.”

I turned to leave and stole a glance at Matt. He was leaning against the door frame, laughing his butt off. Aware that everyone in the crowd was watching me, I put my shoes back on, and walked to the trailer with as much dignity as I could manage.

Faye was inside, drinking a beer and eating cheese and crackers. She handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“It was on the steps.”

I ripped it open and found a signed photo, a professional head shot of Junior Martinez and a set 269

of car keys fastened onto a giant letter “A” keychain. I flipped the picture over. On the back, he’d scrawled, “Go look in the barn.”

“No way,” I breathed.

I handed the photo to my mother. She grinned. “You’d better hurry and get out of that dress.”

I changed quickly and ran to the barn, Faye on my heels. The barn’s big double doors usually stood wide open. But, tonight, they were closed tight. We each took a door and yanked. I fumbled for the light.

Both of us shrieked when we saw Junior’s low rider parked next to a wall of hay bales. The last time I’d seen the car, it was covered in gray primer. But now, the 1976

Chevy Caprice had a shiny new coat of blue paint. Instead of a racing stripe, an intricately designed rainbow swirled down the side panels of the long, low car. The ginormous pink bow on its roof left no doubt as to Junior’s intent.

“Oh my God, Allie!” Faye said, walking around the car and peering into the windows. “I can’t believe he gave you his car.”

Unable to speak, I just stood and stared. I’ve never been good at accepting gifts. In the past, my mother and I had been the recipients of so-called “charity.” You know, stuff like Christmas baskets put together for poor unfortunates like Faye and me. In a town the size of Peacock Flats, there are no secrets. Personally, I’d rather eat Cup-O-Noodles for Christmas dinner, than wonder how many people chipped in to buy us a turkey.

Okay, turkey . . . car . . . not quite the same. So, why wasn’t I jumping up and down with joy? It takes money to buy gas and insurance. Money we didn’t have.

But, on second thought, it was a truly hot ride, so maybe I should take a moment to savor the experience of car ownership. I walked around the Chevy, trailing my fingers down its satiny surface, and wondered if it would be hypocritical to take it out for a spin. Just one. Faye opened the driver side door and peered inside. “There’s something on the driver’s seat,” she said. “Another envelope with your name on it.”

I ripped the envelope open and pulled out a single piece of paper.

Hey, Emerson,

I know what you’re thinking. No way are you going to accept a gift from Junior (almost said “your ex boyfriend”

but who knows what will happen in the future.). It’s not my car anymore so don’t argue. The title says, Alfrieda Carlotta Emerson. The insurance is paid up – check the glove box for proof. The gas tank is full. Look under the driver’s seat and you’ll find a wallet with a gas card. Use it. The bill will be sent to me. If you don’t follow these instructions, I’ll fly up there and kick your cute little butt!

Oh yeah, about the rainbow. It reminds me of the moonstone. You’re a special girl, Emerson. You need a special ride.

Love ya, kid.

Junior.

I blinked back tears, and handed the letter to Faye. While she read it, my mind sifted through the facts. Maybe, just maybe, it might work out. I’d let Junior pay for the insurance, even though it bugged me, but no way was I using the credit card. I had a job working at Uncle Sid’s fruit stand. I could buy my own gas, at least for a while.

And when I ran out of money, I’d park it. Faye looked up at me and smiled. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a car.”

Mind made up, it was time to party! I launched into a happy dance of joy. I raised both hands in the air. I spun, I whirled, I stomped and screeched “Yes!” at the top of my lungs. Alfrieda Carlotta Emerson. Car owner. Faye grabbed my hand and joined in the celebration. After whirling and twirling ourselves into exhaustion, we hopped in my new car and took her for a spin. Since the driveway was still blocked, our joy ride consisted of backing out of the barn and 270

driving twenty-five yards to the trailer where I parked next to our battered old pick-up truck. Faye went inside. Grinning like a lunatic, I pumped the gas pedal, and listened to the motor purr. I ran my hands over the new leather seats, turned on the sound system, and rocked out to the music. Totally absorbed in my new toy, I yelped in surprise when Mr. Hostetler rapped on the window. Embarrassed, I fumbled with the power buttons, opening and closing all the windows, until I found the right one.

He crouched low, and peered inside. “Some car! Completely restored, huh?”