True (. . . Sort Of) (8 page)

A
fter school, Delly had to run to catch up with her friend. “Ferris Boyd!” she hollered, too happy.

The girl flinched.

“Oops.” Delly tried again. “Hey, Ferris Boyd,” she breathed, and fell in beside her.

The question paper was pinching her, but Delly wouldn't ask, Mind if I come along? Instead, she said, “Since I don't got too much going on, I guess I'll go with you.”

Side by side, they walked across the playground, over the bridge, and out the River Road. When they got to the old Hennepin place, Delly headed down the drive.

Till she noticed no Ferris Boyd beside her. “Hey, where'd you . . . ?” She turned.

The girl was back by the road.

“Ferris Boyd?” Delly called to her.

The girl wouldn't glance at her.

Delly knew what somebody not wanting her around anymore looked like. Her friend was sick of her already. “All right then,” she mumbled, and clumped up the drive. As she passed Ferris Boyd, she felt the pinching.

“I won't ask,” she muttered.

But the paper pinched so hard her leg went limp. “Fine, bawlgrammit,” she grumbled.

Her throat tightened up so she could hardly speak. “Ferris Boyd,” she whispered, “do you want me to go home?”

She couldn't watch for an answer; a nod would hurt too much. She hung her head, and the two of them stood there.

And it was like Delly was one of those birds, and Ferris Boyd was telling her something without a sound. “Oh,” she exclaimed.

She gazed at the girl. Then she said softly, “Ferris Boyd, I don't need to come in your house. And I don't want to play ball with you, because I hate that game. I'll just sit on the stoop. How's that?”

The girl stayed still.

Delly let her. It was as if she asked, Will you give me a minute? and Delly told her, Sure, without a word.

Finally, Ferris Boyd tipped her head toward the house. She trudged up the drive.

It was the best “yes” Delly'd never heard. “All right then.” She grinned. She followed her to the steps and sat down.

When Ferris Boyd came out with her ball and the bowl, the black cat leaped onto the stoop. It smelled the air around Delly. “Trrrrrrrp,” it trilled, and Delly didn't know if that meant, She's okay or Let me tear her up.

Ferris Boyd put her hand on the cat's back. It flicked its tail twice, then went to the bowl. When it was done, it lay down beside Delly.

“Bawlgram cat,” she breathed, but she didn't pull away.

It was all right watching Ferris Boyd play basketball. For about a minute.

Maybe Delly did it to pass the time. Or maybe she knew you're not really friends till you know all of somebody, including their trouble.

“Ferris Boyd, want to hear a story?” she asked.

The girl kept playing.

“All right then. Troubletale Number One: the first time Officer Tibbetts tells me I'm BAD.”

The cat turned its head to her. The birds quit chattering.

“We went to the fair.” Delly began. She told about the Poultry Pavilion and how sad those cooped-up chickens looked. “They were squawking at me, ‘Please, please, set us free.' So I did. After, they were prancing around, like they were at a party.” She grinned, remembering that.

Suddenly her face darkened. “Next thing I know, Verena's holding me up, hollering, ‘Bad, bad, bad.' And I was so dumb, I thought she was joking.” She glanced over at her friend.

Ferris Boyd wasn't playing; she was watching Delly. Her eyes were blue sadness. But now the sad was for somebody else.

Delly didn't want it. “It's just a story.” She smirked.

Ferris Boyd understood. She started dribbling again.

Delly was quiet for a bit. She'd always hated hearing that story. Somebody'd tell it, and it was all about her trouble, not her trying to help. Telling Ferris Boyd was different, though. Delly didn't feel bad; she felt better.

“Want to hear another one?” she asked.

Ferris Boyd took a shot and swished it.

“Troubletale Number Two,” she declared, “I'm a brownie burglar.”

The whole time Delly talked, the girl played ball. She didn't shake her head or tsk-tsk like everybody else. It was as if, for Ferris Boyd, Delly weren't horribadible at all.

“You ready? 'Cause here comes Troubletale Number Three.” Delly started another one.

And the girl kept playing.

A
s long as Ferris Boyd didn't quit, neither did Delly. She got all the way through Troubletale Number Five and was about to begin Number Six.

Suddenly the ball stopped bouncing. Ferris Boyd was standing on the steps with her backpack.

“Oh,” Delly said. “Hey.”

The girl stared off at the woods.

Then Delly realized what she'd done. In less than an hour, she'd told her brand-new friend some of the worst things about her. Now Ferris Boyd knew about the tiny ton-of-trouble sitting on her stoop.

But Delly wouldn't ask, You change your mind about me? Instead, she said, “I'm pretty bad, huh,” and snickered.

Ferris Boyd didn't look at her. She walked away, to the woods.

And Delly had her answer.

Just like that, the feeling bad was back, beating her up. “You're too much trouble for anybody,” it told her. “You can't even keep a friend for a day.”

Delly's eyes started stinging. She got up to go.

“Rowwwwwr,” the cat yowled at her.

Delly spun around. Teeth bared, she snarled, “You laughing at me?”

Ferris Boyd and the cat were at the edge of the woods. They weren't laughing, though. They were waiting.

“You . . .”—the rasp cracked—“you waiting for
me
?”

The cat's tail flicked twice, and the feeling bad vanished.

“All right then.” Delly grinned and trotted to them. Together they walked into the woods.

In the dark Delly remembered: soon Ferris Boyd and the cat would disappear. Maybe they'll sublimate me, too, she thought, so she stayed close.

They came to the big tree and stopped. Delly got ready for some smoke, maybe a small explosion.

The cat went to the other side of the tree and was gone.

Ferris Boyd went next and didn't come back.

“Hey,” Delly called, and followed. She walked all the way around the tree.

But there was nothing left of those two, not even a tiny puff of smoke.

“What the glub?” she muttered.

“Mowr.” The cat laughed.

“Where are you?” she shouted.

“MAOH,” it yowled.

Delly looked up. They were staring down at her through the leaves. They weren't ghosts or gas.

“How'd you get up there?”

A pale, skinny hand pointed to the trunk.

Finally, Delly saw it. Chunks of wood were nailed to the side of the tree. They looked like big hunks of bark. “It's a bawlgram ladder,” she exclaimed.

She started up it. Step by step, she entered the green till it surrounded her. Birds called from close by; squirrels ran along limbs as if they were roads.

Way up, boards were nailed to the branches so they made a floor. Delly pulled herself onto it.

And she was in a room, with leaf walls and a leaf ceiling. A railing ran around the outside of it. Ferris Boyd crouched in a corner, with a book against her chest. The cat sat beside her.

The other world was gone. The tree held them, like a giant green cocoon.

“Oh, Ferris Boyd,” Delly whispered, “you got a hideawaysis.”

The girl's eyes were wondering.

“It's your special secret place,” she explained.

Ferris Boyd nodded. She knew.

The sun shone through the leaves, making them glow like jewels. The breeze shook them, so they danced.

Delly stood and turned slowly. There was plenty of room to spread out. “You could eat here,” she announced.

There was shade and shelter. “You could sleep here,” she said.

She saw all that space far from everything bad and hard. “You could live here,” she breathed.

She kept turning and talking. “You'd never be in trouble, because it's your place. Nobody could make fun of you, because you're in charge.”

She had to stop. Something about the hideawaysis made her heart ache, like she'd been missing it forever. “Chizzle,” she sighed, and sat down.

Then Delly was quiet, because there weren't words for what she was feeling. She'd just got a whole new world, because Ferris Boyd had shared it.

At five o'clock she heard the whistle from the other world. “I got to go,” she said sadly.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch!” she yelped as she climbed down the ladder. The question paper wouldn't let her leave.

She climbed back again. “Ferris Boyd . . .” She started, but she couldn't finish. It was the hardest question yet, because she wanted it more than anything.

The paper pinched it out of her, though. “Can I please come back?”

Ferris Boyd glanced at the cat.

The cat stared at Delly.

It's over, Delly figured, if the bawlgram cat decides. She waited for one thump, No!, from its tail.

Instead, the cat flicked it twice, Okay, and closed its eyes.

“All right then,” Delly rasped, holding the happiness in.

She scampered down the tree. She waited till she was at the bridge to shout, “Happy Hallelujah!” She smiled so big her cheeks hurt.

Back at the hideawaysis, the corners of the cat's mouth curved, just a little.

T
hat night at supper Delly didn't count; she thought about the hideawaysis.

When Galveston sneered, “What are you doing, planning your next misdemeanor?” she didn't even hear her.

Because Delly had ideas. As soon as she got to her room, she got a list going. She talked out loud, like her friend was with her. “I got to fix those railings, because they're rickety. And you could use a roof over where you sit.

“We need a blanket, and something for food, and a box with a lock for special stuff.

“It's going to be a fortrastle, Ferris Boyd.” She grinned.

Saturday morning Delly went to work. She was too busy to count, but she asked about everything.

“Ma, can I take that piece of metal behind the garage?” she inquired.

“Okay,” Clarice said.

“Can I have some nails?”

“All right.”

“Can I borrow the hammer and saw?”

Now, to the rest of the world, those things were tools. But in Delly's hands, they could be Weapons of Gal Destruction. Clarice had a vision of Galveston going down the river in a Delly-built boat. “What's all this for?” she asked.

“For my project,” Delly told her.

“I thought it was about nature.”

“We're building stuff, for creatures,” Delly answered, almost honestly.

“So you're not doing any hammering near Galveston?” Clarice wanted to be clear.

“Ma.” She laughed, like Clarice was kidding, and went out the door.

In the afternoon RB came sniffing around.

Delly was gathering supplies, putting them in a pile in the garage.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hunh,” she said back.

“What are you doing with that stuff?”

“It's for my project,” she told him.

“When are you going to be done?” he asked for the twenty-third time.

She shrugged and put a can of screws on the pile.

“Don't you have to get a grade?” RB might be young, but he knew the rules.

“It's extra credit,” Delly replied.

And that's when RB knew she was sneaking. Because Delly hardly did her regular homework, let alone extra. Her story stank, like skunk's spray on a hot summer day.

He squinted hard at her, trying to scare her into coming clean.

Delly wasn't worried. She had a friend and a hideawaysis. She had a new start. “See ya,” she said.

So RB left. But he would not be left behind.

W
hen Delly wasn't working on the hideawaysis, she practiced asking questions.

She discovered the Start Big to Get Small Strategy. “Ma, can I have ten bucks?” was the too big beginning.

“No,” Clarice answered.

“Can I have five?”

“No.”

Then she got to where she wanted to be. “Ma, can I please have a dollar to go to the store?”

By then a dollar seemed like a deal to Clarice. “All right,” she agreed.

Delly invented the Wear Them Down with Questions Technique.

“Dallas, can I have some of that candy bar?” She pointed at the one he was unwrapping.

“No,” he told her.

Instead of fighting for it, she asked, “Don't you want to give me some?”

He didn't.

“You sure?” She stared at him, big-eyed like a begging dog. “Please?”

That broke him. “Here,” he sighed, and gave her half.

“Thanks,” she said, and they ate side by side.

The questions worked with Galveston, too.

Delly'd been sweating all morning, hauling stuff for the hideawaysis. At lunch, when Clarice got up to make more grilled cheese, Galveston hissed, “You smell like pig perfume.” She waved her hand in front of her face, like she couldn't stand the stench. But instead of whomping her, Delly whapped her with a question. “Gal,” she whispered, “how'd you like a dead squirrel under your pillow?”

That silenced her.

“Ha.” Delly smirked.

By Sunday evening, though, Delly's brain was spent from coming up with all those questions. So when Galveston barked, “Delly, these dishes are still dirty. Do them again,” she didn't have anything left to ask her.

She tried counting. “One, two—”

Gal wouldn't quit. “I said do them again. Now,” she commanded.

And Delly was a Galveston-seeking missile, ready to blast off and blow. Just before she did, though, she spotted Clarice through the window. Give me something, she begged her brain, before I mess up.

As Gal came at her, hollering, “Did you hear me? I said—” Delly's brain spit out the only question it had left. “Galveston,” she shouted, “do you hate me?”

Galveston's eyes flashed. Her lips curled in an awful grin. “Yes!” she yelled.

The “yes” hit Delly hard. It knocked the wind out of her.

Because, while Delly didn't like Gal much, she didn't hate her. Delly loved Galveston like liver and onions on Tuesdays: it was always bad, but it was part of being a Pattison. And she loved that a lot.

She took little breaths, because the hate hurt too much.

But Gal wasn't finished. She planted herself in front of her.

Delly flinched, like a dog that had been kicked but couldn't get away.

Gal squinted her eyes. “I . . .” she growled. “You . . .” she grumbled. Finally, she muttered, “I don't hate you.”

“For real?” Delly rasped.

Gal let out a breath, and Delly could feel the heat of it. “Sometimes I hate what you do,” she mumbled.

That hit Delly, but not so hard. Sometimes she hated what Gal did, too.

Galveston kept going. “You're always getting into trouble. You're always making Ma upset and getting Dad mad. It's always about you and your trouble, and I hate it.” It was the truth behind every mean thing she'd said.

There was a big quiet between them. Then Delly whispered, “Sometimes I hate what I do, too, Gal.”

“Then why don't you stop?” she asked.

“I'm really trying,” Delly told her.

Galveston thought about that. “I know.” She nodded.

“Gal, will you . . .” Delly started, but she couldn't finish. She couldn't ask her sister to quit tormenting her, to act like she loved her just a little. The no would hurt too much.

Gal heard her anyway. “Okay,” she said. She looked at Delly, and her eyes had something like love in them, liver and onions love.

“Okay,” Delly breathed. Because liver and onions was never going to taste good, but she wouldn't give it up for anything.