What Happened on Fox Street (11 page)

B
Y NOW THE BREEZE
had worked itself into a wind, the mischief-making sort that conjures up mini-tornadoes, grabbing bits of trash and grit and whirling them high in the air. Head down, Mo trudged toward her back door. She trailed her fingers along the side of Starchbutt's house, then tossed the wadded-up letter over the fence. But just as she was about to go inside, her ears pricked up. What was that sound, mingling with the wind? A little bark, a musical howl, coming from her own, her very own backyard.

I knew it.

Holding her breath, pressing flat against the house,
Mo crept around the corner. There beneath the plum tree, down on all fours, rusty headed and wild, crouched Dottie, emitting sounds that were a cross between a human's
oh no no no
and an animal's pitiful, wordless wail.

Mo smooshed her forehead against the side of the house. She'd expressly told Dottie she was grounded. The little monster was deliberately disobeying. If there was ever a time Mo was justified in completely and totally letting her sister have it,
kaboom
, now was that time.

But to her own confusion, Mo discovered she had no anger left. She'd used it up, on her father, on Mercedes, on Pi, on the whole world. As enormous as her supply of anger had been, a supply big enough to last a lifetime, it was all gone. Where it had raged and burned was only a hollow tender place, empty as could be.

“What's the matter?” The trickster wind snatched Mo's words away. She crossed the grass to stand over her sister and asked again. Dottie lurched over sideways. Bits of grass stuck to her hands and knees. Around her neck hung a string of plastic pearls Mo had once found tossed down the hill. Dottie claimed they were magic—wearing them gave her X-ray vision.

Oh, if only Mo still believed in magic! If only
she could be as little and ignorant as Dottie, whose world was so simple that just wanting something bad enough might make it happen.

Dottie's hair streamed across her face. When Mo pushed it back, Dottie's cheeks were streaked with tears. All Mo's envy of her little sister vanished. Dottie, who never cried, was crying her head off.

“I'm sorry I yelled at you.” Mo tried to pull her sister to her feet. “Let's go inside. You need a bath. I'll let you have bubbles.”

But Dottie grabbed her sister's ankle in a death grip. “I didn't mean it,” she blubbered.

A strange calm took hold of Mo. She became a smooth rock in a rushing river.

“What? What didn't you mean?”

Dottie looked frightened, like a child who's woken up a guard dog. Mo waited. Calmly. Like a rock.

“How come you never tolded me?” Fat tears rolled down Dottie's cheeks.

“Told you what?”

“Mrs. Petrone gave it to you, right?”

“Gave me what?'

“It was just the same like mine,” Dottie bawled. “Everybody says that. You keep saying I don't remember, but I do. I do!”

“Remember
what
?” The river rushing, rising.

Dottie dove forward and buried her head in Mo's lap. “I didn't mean it! I just wanted to look at it for one single tiny minute, and I came out here so you wouldn't know, and I didn't know it was so windy, I didn't know. I didn't mean it!”

Mo dug her fingers into Dottie's hair and yanked her head up. “Where is it? Where is it?”

Dottie's eyes tilted upward in Mo's iron grip. She pointed toward the plum tree, then the house, then the sky, her arm wheeling around like a compass gone loco.

Mo raced around the yard, directionless as the leaves and scraps flying at the mercy of this wind. At the base of the plum tree lay a bit of blue tissue paper, flimsy as a torn moth wing. That was all. By now the weightless fur would have blown everywhere, and nowhere.

“I'll get you some more,” Dottie promised. “I'll go ask Mrs. P right now.”

“Forget it! You can't!”

“Oh, yeah? Well, she was my mama too!”

Mo spun around. Dottie had her fists up, ready to duke it out.

“Not just yours! Mine too!”

“What are you talking about? That wasn't her hair.”

Dottie landed a punch in Mo's belly. “You big fat liar! She wasn't just yours. I remember too!”

Mo caught her arm, but Dottie bared her fangs and bit down on Mo's hand. Hard.

“Yeow!”

Above their heads the branches of the plum tree creaked. Mo, with Dottie still attached, stepped back just as a sudden, sharp crack split the air. A branch swung down and hung there, like a broken arm. A tiny nest spilled onto the grass, then tumbleweeded away.

Dottie's jaw fell open. Mo pressed the back of her hand against her own mouth.

“You bit me.”

Instead of apologizing, Dottie put her dukes back up, ready for round two.

“She had a sweater with buttons like Life Savers. She made me dandelion necklaces. I put an ant in my mouth and she took it out and it didn't even die.”

“That was fox fur,” Mo said. “I found it down in the ravine.”

Dottie lowered her fists. How easy it was to read her face—her feelings scrolled across it like closed-captioned TV. Distrust, disappointment, sorrow, guilt.

“Cross your heart?”

Mo longed to say, “I never lie.” But that would be a lie.

“I've been looking for signs for a long time,” Mo told her. “Every time I go down there, I'm looking.”

Lonesomeness flashed across the little face. After all Mo's work to keep her safe, Dottie carried lonesomeness and sorrow around, too. All this time, like a scar in a place no one else ever saw.

“You shoulda showed me, Mo.”

“Maybe.”

“I'll get you more!”

Laughing and crying—who knew how closely the two were twined inside you?

Mo turned away from her sister and fitted her spine to the trunk of the plum tree—there it was, the groove that had shaped itself, year by year, to cushion and hold her just right. The back of her hand throbbed, and her eyes felt rubbed with sand. The broken branch swung in the wind.

“Don't sit there,” Dottie begged. “It's danger out here.”

“Just go inside. I'll come in a minute.”

“I'm sorry I bited you!”

“Yeah, right.”

Dottie looked heartbroken. But what could Mo
do? It was no use. The fur was gone, and with it any power she'd had. Any hope. The fur was scattered on the evil wind, and her father had sold the house, the yard, everything, out from under Mo's feet. All this time she'd believed that if she tried her hardest, and did her best, she could fix things—if one thing didn't work, then something else would, and if not that, then something else. But Mo had run out of things. There was nothing left for her to do.

“Never mind,” she said. She longed to make her voice comforting and kind, but Dottie only looked more wretched. What could Mo do? It was no use. The time had come for Dottie to stop believing in magic, stop believing in Mo.

W
HEN
M
O WOKE,
the sky had grown dark, and the very air had changed. She no longer inhabited summer, maybe not even Earth. For one thing, a mangy doll blanket covered her goose-bumpy knees, and for another, her body was experiencing an alien sensation.

The plum leaves shivered, and now Mo did too, as if she'd been paddling along in a warm pond and suddenly found herself in a cold spot. Pond. Swim. Water. That was what Mo was feeling, the long-lost sensation she couldn't put a name to. She was
wet.
It was raining.

Raining! The wind's rough fingers had planted the
air with rain seeds and they were blooming, silver blossoms falling on Fox Street. She watched the rain darken the roofs and the hard, parched ground. As if she herself were a thing with roots, she sensed the plum tree sigh and drink. Up on Paradise, the passing cars made swishing sounds. Mo tilted her head and stuck out her tongue.

Then she remembered. As the rain washed away the world's weary dust, it all came back to her, all the things that had happened and couldn't unhappen. When it arrived at Dottie's secret sadness, Mo's mind snagged and caught.

Yes. There was one thing she might still undo. Wadding up the little doll blanket, she went into the house.

“Dottie! Put on your swimsuit!” Mo shook her head, and drops flew. Glancing at the kitchen clock, she was startled to see how late it was. How long had she slept, after all?

“Dottie! Come on—let's run in the rain together!” She climbed the stairs. “Don't hide. I won't bite you back.”

It wasn't as if the Wild Child had never disappeared before. But Mo was surprised she would today, after their big fight, and in this rain. This rain, which was
coming down harder and harder, slanting in the windows, wetting the floor and her bed, her bed on which lay a soggy sheet of paper with a strange four-legged creature drawn in orange crayon. The animal wore a big smile, happy as could be in a sea of grass blooming with crooked hearts.

Mo hurried from room to room, shutting windows. In her father's, his Tortilla Feliz softball shirt lay on the bed, and that was when she realized that he hadn't come home in time for his game. It would have started hours ago, before the rain, and when had he ever, ever missed a game? Only one thing she could think of possessed the power to keep him away.

He'd closed the deal. He was buying Corky's, signing away their life once and for all.

The little door inside her opened and banged shut, as if she were a haunted house.

Mo flew back down the stairs. Unable to think straight—would she ever be able to think straight again?—she raced outside. By now the rain was pouring down so hard, she could barely see Mercedes's house. Even Dottie wouldn't stay out in this! She must have ducked inside someone's house. Grabbing an umbrella, Mo dashed down the steps.

None of the Baggotts had seen her since morning.
As Mo thanked them and headed back into the rain, Pi raced after her. He threw a yellow poncho over her head. It stunk, but the rain rolled off it like a duck's back.

“Thanks.”

Pi had already forgotten how mean she'd been to him. Or else he was as good at forgiveness as he was at kick flips. He headed toward Paradise, shouting over his shoulder, “I'll check out Abdul's and E-Z Dollar!”

Mr. Duong, glasses misting over, interrogated Mo. Did Dottie know not to cross Paradise on her own? Not to talk to strangers? She wouldn't go down the ravine when it was storming like this, would she? That stream could flash flood. How long had she been missing?

“She's not missing. She's just…not here.”

Mr. Duong patted her rubbery shoulder. “Right. Don't worry now,” he said, looking exceedingly worried. “I'll notify the authorities.”

Mrs. Petrone leaned over the railing of her porch, calling Mo up.

“You think you're a duck?” She produced a slightly hairy towel and rubbed Mo's head.

“I'm looking for Dottie.” Mo swallowed down her
rising fear. “I don't guess she's here?”

“I saw her run by a while ago, but I didn't pay attention. That letter has me so distracted!” Mrs. Petrone shook out the towel. “Somebody already struck a deal—it must be those shady people in the old Kowalski house, don't you think?” Mrs. Petrone broke off, noticing Mo's face. “
Bella
, what am I doing? Here you are worried to death about your baby sister while I go on and on about money! What does that matter, compared to that girl?”

“I'm not worried, I'm just…Yes, I am, Mrs. P. I'm really, really worried!”

“Calm down, catch your breath, that's it. Now tell me, where's that handsome father of yours?”

“I don't know!”

Mrs. Petrone frowned, then crushed Mo to her coconut-scented chest.

“Poor dear man! He has so much to worry about, it's not right!”

“I need him!” Mo's words got swallowed up in the squashy soft folds of Mrs. P's front. “He should be here!”

“With that red hair, she can't hide for long! We'll find her! Next thing you know, the two of you will be sitting on my porch having milk and pizzelles.”

Mo's throat closed, and for a moment she was afraid she'd throw up. She dashed back out into the storm.

Mrs. Steinbott's grass was littered with the petals of roses shattered by the force of the rain. No one home at the Tortilla Feliz house, or the old Kowalski house, and that left Da's.

“Hello?” she called through the screen door. “Hello?” The rain pounding on the porch roof drowned out her voice. Mo turned away, then forced herself to pull open the door and step inside. “Hello?”

Mercedes's head appeared around the living-room doorway. She wore another outfit Mo had never seen before—a flowered skirt cut like a frothy little bubble, with matching leggings and tank top. In her hands she held one of Da's big black shoes. Her eyes rounded at the sight of the yellow tent planted in the hallway.

Though she already knew the answer, Mo squeaked, “Is Dottie here?”

“Mo Wren?”

Da sat on the couch in a beautiful lilac pantsuit, wearing one shoe. Mo's eyes darted away. Mercedes must have been helping Da with her special stockings and shoes—they were getting ready for Cornelius and Monette's visit. Neither said a word about Mo's
muddy feet on the clean carpet.

And then Mo noticed something else. Starchbutt's pocketbook was propped up on a cushion beside Da, almost like another person sitting there. A guest of honor. Mo had been certain Mercedes would toss that thing straight in the trash.

“Never mind,” Mo said. “She's not here, and you're busy.” She spun away, but Da commanded her to halt, then demanded to hear everything, from Dottie getting in big trouble, to their terrible fight, to Mo falling asleep, to all the places Mo had searched.

“But she wouldn't go far, not in this rain, would she?” Mercedes asked, then smacked her forehead. “What am I talking about? She's Dottie.”

“How did she get in trouble?” Da asked.

“She…she took something of mine. I shouldn't have made such a big deal out of it.” If only she hadn't! “But…it meant a lot to me.”

Da's face turned gentle. “That's why she wanted it, Mo Wren.” She fingered the clasp on Starchbutt's purse. “You're the sun and the moon to that child, and rightly so.”

“I'm so scared! She went into the ravine, I just know it. She'll get lost. She never thinks ahead. She never thinks! It flash floods and she can't swim. She thinks
she can, but…and if she makes it to the Metropark, anything could happen.”

“Give me strength,” said Da. “What are you waiting for, Mercedes Jasmine?”

“Right, we're wasting time.” Mercedes ducked out of the room and returned wearing a cool jacket with a million pockets. She Velcroed her cell phone into one. “Let's go.”

Mo stared. “You're coming?”

“No. I'm going to a fashion show. Come on!”

“But…Cornelius!”

“Stuff Cornelius!” exclaimed Mercedes, and astonishingly, Da did not correct her. Instead she thumped her cane on the carpet.

“You find that child and bring her back here lickety-split, so we can hug her hard, then scold her within an inch of her precious life.” She thumped the cane again. “Oh, I'd give anything to come with you.”

Da struggled to her feet, and Mo knew she meant it. Toeless and weak as she was, she had the courage of ten Mos! Disgust with herself made Mo shudder. What kind of weenie was she, anyway? If Da could live with those stumpy mutilated feet, Mo could at least summon the bravery to look at them.

Da's lap, Da's knees, Da's ankles. And then…Da's
foot, with the gaping empty places like sockets without eyes, just as painful and ugly looking as Mo had feared.

And Da was standing upright on them, all by herself.

“We'll find her.” Mercedes kissed her grandmother's cheek. She paused to let her eyes rest on the purse, as if it truly were another person she had to tell good-bye, don't you worry.

Then they ran out into the storm.