Project Mulberry (9 page)

I jiggled the lid a little to make sure it was secure. Then we both bent down so we could see through the glass.

The aquarium looked pretty empty. Just the bowl at the bottom of it, with the leaves and the piece of paper in it. You could barely see the eggs.

It didn't look like much.

It certainly didn't look like an impressive project.

Patrick must have been thinking the same thing, but he was excited anyway. "This is great," he said. "This will be great on tape. It doesn't look like anything now, so there'll be a
big
difference later on."

He jumped to his feet. "I'm going to set up the camcorder," he said. "No, wait. There's something we have to do first. Jules, get Kenny."

"What?" I exclaimed. "Patrick, are you crazy? We have to keep him as far away from here as we can!"

Mars would be good, I thought. If only we could send Kenny to Mars until our project was finished. Then I realized that if Agent Song were still on the job, she'd love the idea of letting Kenny wreck the project.

But Agent Song wasn't in the picture anymore. And even if I still wasn't crazy about the worm project, I needed it to work so I could do the embroidery.

I was starting to think that it would actually be pretty cool to make our own thread and sew something with it. Mr. Maxwell had told us about one project where a girl made a sweater from the wool of a sheep she'd raised. But somebody else had spun the wool into yarn. Maybe making the thread ourselves would impress the judges.

So we had to keep the worms safe. Especially, safe from Kenny.

Patrick grinned. "Trust me," he said.

 

Kenny came out onto the porch.

"Kenny, we need your help," Patrick said.

I was about to say something when he glared at me. Patrick didn't glare at me very often, so I decided to keep quiet and hear what he had to say. At least for now.

"You know those eggs," he said to Kenny. "They're going to hatch."

Kenny bobbed his head up and down. "I know, I know."

"Well, cold weather is very dangerous for them. It's spring now, but sometimes it still gets cold. If it ever gets
too
cold, they'll die."

Patrick pointed to the thermometer that my dad had hung outside the door. "You almost always get home from school earlier than me and Julia, right? Would you do us a favor? Would you check the thermometer every day when you get home? If the red line ever gets here"—he put his finger on the mark that pointed to 50°—"you gotta tell your mom. Right away. So she can move the aquarium into the house."

He looked at Kenny solemnly. "Kenny, it could be a matter of life and death. Even, like, fifteen minutes in the cold could kill them."

Kenny nodded. His face was very serious. "I won't forget. I'll check every day, I promise."

I said, "Don't you ever try to move the aquarium yourself, Snotbrain. It's way too heavy for you."

Patrick flapped his hand impatiently. "Jules, don't worry about that. Kenny wouldn't do anything to hurt them."

Had Patrick lost his mind? Had he forgotten the millions of times we'd had to redo something Kenny had ruined?

"Yeah, Julia. I'm not
stupid,
you know," Kenny said. He shook his head and looked at Patrick like they were buddies—the two of them against me.

"Thanks, pal," Patrick said. "We're counting on you."

Kenny grinned. Then he said, "I could write it down every day. What the temperature is when I get home. That way you could tell by looking at the numbers if it's getting colder."

What a dumb idea. Like there was no such thing as the Weather Channel.

"That's a great idea!" Patrick said. "Why don't you go and get a pad and a pencil, and we'll keep them right here on the porch for you to use."

Kenny disappeared into the house on his mission.
I could hardly wait until the door closed behind him.

But Patrick rushed right in before I could say anything. "Jules, trust me, this will work. If he feels like he's part of the project, he won't wreck it. Besides, I've been keeping my stuff here for ages, and he never bothers it. He only messes with
your
stuff—that's why I wanted him to feel like it was him and me together on this."

I didn't say anything at first. I was thinking.

Reverse psychology, that's what it was. Patrick was using reverse psychology on Kenny. To keep him away from the project, we'd let him get close to it.

Scary. Because if it didn't work...

"Okay," I said at last. "I trust you fine. It's
him
I don't trust. If you're sure this will work—I just hope we don't regret it." Then I thought of something else. "Patrick, how come you don't do this kind of thing with
your
little brothers? I mean, it's like you've given up at your house—you just bring everything over here."

Patrick sighed. "It's different when there are three of them," he said. "I'm just way too outnumbered. Besides, it's weird with little brothers—I guess it's easier to be nice to someone else's."

 

Patrick tied the pencil and pad together and hung them from a nail on the wall. The string was long so Kenny could reach them easily. "I'm gonna get started right away," Kenny said. He stared at the thermometer hard, then said, "Sixty-one. It's sixty-one degrees today." He wrote it down and held out the pad so Patrick could see it.

"Good job," Patrick said. "Okay, we're done for today."

We went inside. Patrick got out the brochure again. "Six to twenty days," he said. "That's what it says—our eggs will hatch sometime from six to twenty days after we get them."

Twenty days! That was nearly three weeks! "I hope it's six," I said.

It wasn't, of course.

I checked the eggs at least four times a day. When I got up in the morning. When I got home from school. After dinner. Before bed. And sometimes in between those times as well.

Nothing was happening. The eggs looked exactly the same as when we'd first gotten them—gray with a tiny black dot inside. The dots looked like periods.

Patrick had been videotaping every day, but on day six he stopped. "All the tape so far will look exactly the same," he said. "I'm gonna wait until something happens before I film again."

Kenny's numbers already filled up the first few pages of the little pad because he wrote so big. By day eleven, there was still no change in the eggs. "Maybe they're duds," I said to Patrick. "Maybe we should write to the company and tell them."

Patrick looked worried, too, but he shook his head. "Not yet, Jules. We have to wait until at least day twenty-one."

On day fifteen, Kenny was waiting for us on the front walk again.

"You guys—come see!" he screeched.

We dropped our backpacks at the door and pounded through the house to the back porch.

When I first looked, everything seemed the same. Glass dish. Three leaves. No worms.

But then I looked closer.

The little black periods had changed into commas. "See? See?" Kenny said. "They look different, don't they?"

"They sure do," Patrick said. He grinned at me and then chucked Kenny on top of his head. "Good job, kid." Kenny grinned back at him. "Time to film them."

We got the camcorder and the tripod from the hall closet. On the porch floor there were three
X
's made of duct tape—one
X
for each leg of the tripod. The first time Patrick had set up the camera, he'd had me make those
X
's so we would always put the tripod in exactly the same place.

He put the camera on the tripod, focused it carefully, then looked up at me. "Quiet on the set," he said, only half joking.

I looked at my watch.
Three, two, one
—I held up the right number of fingers while I mouthed the countdown and then pointed at him, meaning "Go." Patrick pushed the Record button. After exactly thirty seconds, I held up my hand for "Stop," and Patrick stopped the tape. Then he went and got his dad's camera, which we also kept in the closet, and took three photos of the eggs.

Everything was going according to plan. But still, all we had were eggs. When were we going to have worms?

 

Me:
Pssst. PSSST!

Ms. Park:
What? Oh, it's you. Not now. I can't talk right now.

Me:
Why not?

Ms. Park:
I'm about to give a talk to an auditorium full of students. I have to focus.

Me:
But this is important!

Ms. Park:
Julia, please! I want to give a really good talk to these kids, and I can't afford to have you distracting me. GO AWAY.

Me:
Okay. I'll go away if you do just one thing. Write this down: Cycle.

Ms. Park:
Why?

Me:
Because it will remind me later—what I want to talk to you about. Something that should go Into the story. It's brilliant. You're going to love it.

Ms. Park:
I don't have anything to write on —wait, here's a napkin." Cycle." Got it. Now will you leave me alone?

Me:
Put it in your purse, right now. If you don't, you'll forget it.

Ms. Park:
Oh, for heaven's sake! Okay, I'm putting it in my purse. Now get out of here!

Me:
Just one more thing.

Ms. Park:
Gak. What Is it?

Me:
Sheesh. Good luck on your talk.

Every day we put three new leaves in the aquarium and threw away the old ones. Every fifth day we went to Mr. Dixon's house and got fifteen more leaves. So far we'd been there three times and taken a total of forty-five leaves, and not a single one of them had even been nibbled on by a silkworm.

The fourth time we went, which was right after we filmed the commas, Mr. Dixon was in his yard. He hadn't been there any of the other times. He was kneeling by the back fence with a trowel in one hand.

"Good afternoon," he said as we came through the back gate. He waved the trowel at us.

"Hi, Mr. Dixon," Patrick said.

"Hi, Mr. Dixon," I said. "How are you today?"

"I'm just fine, thank you. How about yourselves?"

"We're good," I said.

"How's the project going?" he asked.

Patrick and I exchanged glances. "It's going fine," Patrick said. "We're making progress."

It wasn't a lie. Commas were progress compared to periods.

"My leaves helping any?"

"They sure are," Patrick said at the same time that I said, "Yes, sir."

That wasn't a lie, either. Without the leaves the aquarium would have looked
really
empty.

"Good. Glad to hear it." Mr. Dixon put the trowel down next to a garden fork on the ground. "Come over here, young man, if you wouldn't mind."

Patrick trotted over. Mr. Dixon held out one hand to him and put the other on the fence. Patrick braced himself, and Mr. Dixon heaved to his feet.

"Don't mind the weeding," he said. "It's the getting up and down that's a trial for me. I'm almost ready to put in my tomato plants."

Mr. Dixon had been working on a strip of ground that ran along the fence. About half of it was nice black dirt. The other half still needed to be dug up and weeded.

"We could weed for you," Patrick suggested.

I looked at Patrick and nodded. It would be a nice way to thank Mr. Dixon for the leaves.

"That would be right neighborly of you," Mr. Dixon said. "Tell you what. You weed for a little while and I'll go inside and fix us a snack. How's that sound?"

Patrick was already on his knees with the trowel. "Sounds great, Mr. Dixon!" he said.

I took up the fork. "You dig the weeds," I said. "I'll follow you and break all the clods."

Patrick tossed the weeds onto the pile Mr. Dixon had already started. I bashed at the clods of dirt with the fork. With the two of us working together, it didn't take long to finish the strip. I liked raking the dirt with the fork to make everything nice and smooth.

It was strange, because I hated working in our yard at home. Maybe doing yard work was like being nice to a little brother—easier if it was someone else's.

Mr. Dixon came out with a tray. He set it down on the patio table by the door, then walked over to where we were working.

"Nice job," he said. "I thank you most sincerely."

I loved the way he talked. It would have sounded funny if anyone else said it, but with the way he drawled, the words seemed just right.

"You're welcome," I said. "It's our pleasure." Now, that was weird—I never would have said that to anyone else.

"Why don't you go on into the kitchen and wash up," Mr. Dixon said. "Then we'll have our snack."

The snack turned out to be tall glasses of lemonade and brownies. Homemade brownies. While we were eating, we had a nice chat. We told him about the Wiggle Club and our project. He told us some things about himself: He'd worked in a Great Values store for most of his life. His wife had died of cancer, but he had two daughters and a son and seven grandchildren who all lived in other states, and now that he was retired he did a lot of volunteer work.

Patrick reached for a second brownie.

"You like those?" Mr. Dixon asked.

"Yes, sir!" Patrick said. "They're the best brownies I ever had."

He wasn't just being polite. The brownies were awesome—very fudgy, with chocolate chips
and
chocolate frosting.

"I'm handy in the kitchen," Mr. Dixon said. "Always was, ever since I was about your age. Gardening and cooking. That's what I like to do."

I looked down into my lemonade. Something he'd just said—what was it?—reminded me of something.

Just then Patrick exclaimed, "Mr. Titus!"

I laughed. "I was thinking the exact same thing," I said.

Mr. Titus was a character in a book. Patrick had read the book and really liked it, and he pestered me until I read it, too. The book was about the adventures of four kids who lived in a big old house out in the country, and one of their neighbors was a man named Mr. Titus who liked cooking and gardening.