The Naked Mole-Rat Letters (20 page)

Skip and Nutter hopped into their beds. Grandma and Dad and I stood in their doorway and sang “Twinkle, Twinkle” in harmony, except that I had to stop singing halfway through because of the lump in my throat. I had this feeling that Mom was there, singing with us. And although I felt sad, I felt really happy, too.

“I've got a bedtime story to finish reading,” Grandma told Dad. “So why don't you and Frankie go down and have dessert? I made pumpkin cupcakes.”

“Give you a lift,” Dad said, turning his back to me and crouching down.

“I'm too big.” I laughed and hopped on his back.

He groaned and then galloped down the stairs.

We sat at the kitchen table and talked over cupcakes and milk. I started at the beginning. I told him how I'd found that first e-mail and how one lie led to another. I told him how much I hated Ratlady, and how I went to Johnny's trailer to learn how to hack into his business e-mail.

“You can't blame Johnny,” I said. “He didn't do anything wrong. Don't listen to Doris Trolly, Dad. She really is a troll.”

He laughed so hard he almost spit out his milk.

“Johnny didn't write me any nasty letter. He isn't a bad influence at all. He is really sweet and smart. Remember what you said, Dad, that he's got a lot more going for him than people in this town realize? That he could use a friend?”

He nodded. “I've always liked Johnny. But I got worried. When I heard that you were hanging around with him and getting into trouble, I thought maybe he was the cause of it.”

“He wasn't. Promise you won't hold anything against him or worry about it anymore? He really admires you.”

“I promise. I won't worry anymore.” He smiled and shook his finger at me. “But if you start dating, you have to tell me. I don't want to hear it from Mrs. Holmes.”

I laughed.

“And you don't have to worry about Ayanna, Frankie. I don't think that's going to
work out.” He wiped some crumbs off the table and took them to the sink. Behind him, the new white paint on the wall glistened blankly.

Ayanna
.

After all these days it was strange to talk about her out loud. When did I stop calling her Ratlady? I thought about the letter that Dad had written, the one that he had asked me to mail, the one that I had ripped up in math class.
You're like the sun coming up in the morning, Ayanna. Everything about you shines with warmth and light. Even your e-mails
.

I wiped the crumbs off my side of the table. “It's not her fault, you know,” I said. “She didn't do anything wrong.”

He turned around and surrendered a sad smile. “Well, it doesn't matter. I don't think any of us are ready for any big changes.”

I pictured us—Dad, Skip, Nutter, and me—scurrying around in our own little dark tunnel system. I pictured Ayanna, scurrying around in her own little dark tunnel system. I pictured all the miles and miles of hard, dark earth in between.

I got up and dumped my handful of crumbs into the sink. “You know what Ayanna says, Dad? She says that change can be good. Change can help you grow.”

He smiled. “That sounds like Ayanna.”

We didn't talk much longer. Dad ordered me to bed because he said there was no way I was going to miss the Fall Festival tomorrow. He walked me upstairs, and there was my bedroom door off its hinges in the hallway.

He gave me a funny smile. “I forgot about that.” He whispered so he wouldn't wake up Nutter and Skip.

I walked into my room and noticed how different it felt without the door. So open.

“I'll put that back on tomorrow if you promise not to lock it again,” he whispered.

“Okay,” I said, and climbed into bed.

“What about pajamas?”

I shrugged. “We have to get up so early, I might as well sleep in my clothes.”

He laughed and turned out the light. Then he came back over and pulled my blanket up to my chin like I was a kid again. “I'm tucking you in, little Frankie,” he said, patting down
my blanket. He sat on the side of my bed in the dark and sang “Twinkle, Twinkle.” Then he kissed me good night and went downstairs.

It was goofy, but it felt good to be tucked in.

I should have gone to sleep, but I had to get up and write. I'm sitting at my desk by the window.

There are no clouds. The stars are bright.

 

Dear Ayanna:


My dad said that it's okay for me to write to you. I have to tell you what happened at the Fall Festival, which was today.


First my dad woke us up while it was still dark and piled us into the car: Nutter, Skip, Grandma Jenny, and me. It was too early to talk. We just sat and looked out the windows at the sleeping world.


At first I was excited to be going. But when we got to the top of Maple County State Park, where everybody was gathering, I felt nervous. All sorts of neighbors, teachers, and kids that I felt uncomfortable around were there: Beth, Mr. Haxer, Melinda Bixby, Mrs. Holmes, and that woman I told you about called The Troll, to name a few.


I sandwiched myself between my grandma Jenny and Nutter, and imagined that I was inside a balloon, watching everything happen.


The sky grew lighter and lighter, and then a sliver of pale yellow appeared on the horizon, and somebody started the Hum.


Everybody stood in a huddle, humming softly, watching the sliver grow into a ball of fire. It was probably beautiful, but I wasn't really paying attention. My dad was standing just a little in front of me. The light was hitting his face, making his beard look more reddish. Even though he was standing in a big huddle, surrounded by people, he looked alone. He was staring at the sun, and I know what he was thinking about. He was thinking about you, Ayanna.


I looked around and noticed all the people who weren't there. I know that probably sounds strange.
But I used to think that everybody came to the park to do the Hum, and I noticed for the first time that it's not true. The people who come to the Hum are the same people who run the town. It's the same people who sponsor the Christmas Tree Lighting, and organize the Fourth of July, and everything else. They're the people who have money—not a lot, nobody here's a millionaire—but enough.


Maybe there are different colonies in Pepper Blossom, just like there are with naked mole-rats. We're in one colony. The Hum Colony. And in another colony are people like Johnny and his grandma, people who live in trailers or in ramshackle houses with no washer and dryer. The colonies don't cross paths very often.


Does it have to be that way? Do Johnny and his grandma stay away from the Hum because they want to, or because they've never been invited? If they stay away because they haven't been invited, then why doesn't somebody just invite them? I think that in order for a tradition to be really beautiful, it should be something that everybody shares.


The Hum was getting louder and louder, turning into an “ah” sound. When the sun cleared the
horizon and everybody cheered, mine came out more like a croak.


During breakfast Mrs. Jamison put me in charge of pouring hot chocolate, and it was nice to have something to do. The Troll planted herself next to my dad at one of the pancake grills and wouldn't budge. Dad looked highly uncomfortable.


“Should we rescue him?” I asked Grandma.


“He's got to learn these things himself,” she said.


Nobody said anything to me about all the trouble I had gotten into, but Ozzie and Chief Daniels started teasing me about the fire. I was actually glad that they did because it made the whole thing seem less serious.


“I hear it started in the oven, Frankie,” Ozzie said. “You're going to need some cooking lessons if you ever want to get married.”


“Well, I don't know about that,” Chief Daniels said. “She cooks as good as my Betsy.”


Everybody laughed, and Betsy Daniels said, “Well, I think Frankie is going to marry a man who cooks for
her
.” And all the women around cheered. I like Ozzie and the Daniels family. They seem
happy all the time, so they must be doing something right.


“Speaking of marriage,” Mr. Haxer said, “I have something I'd like to announce.” He stood on a bench and addressed the whole crowd. “I'd like you all to be the first to know that Ellen Young and I are getting married.”


There was another big cheer, and Mr. Haxer jumped down and kissed Ms. Young. She was so happy, she looked like a princess in a fairy tale, except she was wearing jeans and a flannel hunting jacket.


I should have felt glad for them, but I was still hung up on being mad at Mr. Haxer. How could the talented, beautiful Ms. Young marry someone who did not cast Frankie Wallop as Annie Sullivan? I know. I know. I have to get over it.


Everybody was clinking their Styrofoam cups together and saying, “Here's to Justin and Ellen.” Mr. Haxer promised to cook gourmet meals every night and serve them to Ms. Young on a silver platter, and everybody laughed.


I heard Mrs. Holmes whisper to Ms. Trolly, “Marriage is in the air, dear!”


After breakfast all the little kids put on their
Halloween costumes. I brought along my stage paint kit and painted Nutter's face, and then about twenty other kids wanted me to paint their faces. That's when I realized that I was going to get through the day all right.


Skip told me I should charge $2.50 per face, but I did it for free. Then we climbed into the hay wagons and pickup trucks and drove down Chestnut Hill all the way into town.


Nutter won the most unusual costume contest. Melinda Bixby's brother won the pumpkin-carving contest. The Troll won the pie-baking contest. Guess who was the judge? Mrs. Holmes. She must have told my dad and grandma three times that they absolutely had to have a piece of the award-winning pie.


I kept looking for Johnny Nye. He had said that he might sign up for the open mike talent show. The town was crowded, so it was possible that he was there and I just hadn't seen him. I checked out the sign-up sheet. Melinda Bixby had signed up first to sing a solo! Make me barf. Then it was the usual old-timers. Johnny's name wasn't on the list.


I took off.


“The show's starting in twenty minutes, Frankie,” Dad called.


“I'll be right back.”


I ran past the school and onto Old School Road. I didn't stop until I got to Johnny's trailer. His grandma was sitting on the steps, in front of the trailer door.


“Hello, Mrs. Nye. It's me, Frankie Wallop.”


She shielded her eyes from the sun and smiled.


I asked if I could talk to Johnny for a minute.


“Why certainly!” She got up and opened the door. “Johnny, someone's here. . . . I wonder where he went?”


I peeked inside. His guitar was still sitting on his bed.


“Can I leave him a note, in case he comes back?”


“Go right ahead. I'm just soaking up the sun.”


She held the door open for me, and I walked in. I moved a basket of vegetables from the crowded table and found a pen and paper.


Dear Johnny:


I'm sorry I didn't write back sooner. I wanted to, but I was afraid. I don't hate you. I don't want to pretend that I do.


I think you should come to the festival and play. If you do, I'll be there.


Hopefully yours,


Frankie


I put the letter on his bed next to his guitar and anchored it with a big ripe tomato. He couldn't miss it.


By the time I returned to the festival, the open mike had already begun. Families were sitting together on blankets in front of the stage my dad had put up.


“Did I miss Melinda's number?” I asked my grandma.


“Afraid so.” She smiled.


I only half listened to the other acts. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if Johnny had gotten my message. Finally Dad announced the last act, which was going to be the Red Beet Ramblers, and I had to go up onstage.


Ozzie took the microphone and started joking around while we all got our various chairs and instruments and mikes set up. I was sitting up front on the right with my dulcimer on my lap when I saw Johnny.


He had his guitar in one hand and was standing by the hay bales way in the back. He looked at me. I don't quite understand how it works, but sometimes people can tell each other a lot just with their eyes.


I pulled my dad over and explained the situation in a whisper.


Dad looked out at Johnny and nodded. “Folks, I made a mistake. There's one more musician before we play. Let's welcome Johnny Nye.”


Usually everybody claps when somebody goes up. But when Dad said Johnny's name, only a handful of tourists clapped politely; everybody else was too shocked.


I think if I were Johnny, I'd have dug a tunnel right then and crawled all the way to China. He just kept walking toward the stage with this faraway expression on his face that teachers can't stand, the one that says,
You can't get to me
. He strapped on his guitar and sat down on a stool that my dad had put front and center.