Turn Left at the Cow (8 page)

“Yeah, I guess it sounds . . . fun,” said Iz. “But I don't think I get it.”

I knew it was already going to take hours of painful surgery to get the “dork” tattoo removed from my rep. There was no point in trying to backpedal. So I said, “Okay, here. It's like if I say, ‘Would you rather take a time machine into the future or into the past,' what would you answer?”

Iz lay her cheek down onto her pulled-up knees with her face turned toward me, and I could see her wrinkle up her nose while she thought about it. “You go first,” she said. “What would you rather?”

“I'd rather go to the future every time, man. It can't get here soon enough for me.”

“I think I'd rather go back to the past—it's like getting a do-over,” said Iz slowly. She turned her face away and looked straight ahead. “Okay, do me another one.”

“This one's easy,” I said. “When I get stuck somewhere, I'd rather be . . .” I stretched out the “be” really long while I thought about my own answer. According to Deputy Dude, I was definitely stuck for the duration. So where would I rather be? Right that minute, sitting on the end of the dock in the deepest part of night, noticing the way that Iz's dark hair divided across her shoulders when she leaned forward to hug her knees, I couldn't think of anyplace.

“I'd rather be swimming,” she said. “You know how when you've done a few laps you get in that zone—your mind just goes blank and the water lifts you up and you're strong but loose, all at the same time?” She was quiet a minute, and then she said, “Your turn.”

“I'd rather be eating,” I said.

She laughed and reached out to poke my side with her finger. “Be serious.”

“Okay, here's the hardest one.” The dorky game was going better than I had expected. “Would you rather be able to turn invisible or be able to grow wings and fly?”

“That
is
hard,” she said, thinking a while and then turning to look at me again. “What did you choose?”

I grinned at her. “I cheated. I couldn't decide. But I won the prize that week anyway 'cause I wrote a killer essay for each answer. I mean, if I were invisible, I could sneak around and learn everything, right? Nobody could keep any more secrets from me. And flying—that's like swimming is for you, maybe? I'd just let go of everything that's dragging me down and spiral free, off into the sky.”

“Free,” Iz echoed. She stretched her neck back and stared up at the stars, so I did too. They seemed to have faded a little since we'd first started talking. Then she whispered something really low. I had to lean closer to her to try to hear.

“What?”

“Sometimes people fly away and never come back,” she said again, still talking quietly.

I wasn't sure if that was an anti-flying vote or not, but something told me not to push her on the point. Besides, leaning in close that way, I could smell the strawberry again, and her ear curled like a seashell, and I wondered if her hair was really as soft as it looked when it brushed against her cheek as she turned her head to look at me again.

I leaned in a little closer.

Then suddenly this crazy laugh rang out, and Iz and I jumped apart as if we'd heard a gunshot. I looked around, convinced Kenny was going to pop out from behind a bush or something, and Iz rose to her feet.

“It's just a loon.” She pointed out across the dark water. “They call out to one another like that. Bet you thought for a minute it was some psycho killer coming after us, right?”

She looked over at the eastern end of the lake. “The sky is starting to lighten. It must be close to morning, and Uncle Ken gets up way early. I better go.” She hurried up the dock but turned to look back at me when she reached the yard. “I liked your game, Trav.” Then she flicked her hand in a tiny wave and headed to Kenny's house.

The wind picked up and goose bumps rose along my arms. Flying versus invisibility—making a choice like that was nothing up against the no-win either-ors I had on my plate.

Would I rather find out my father was dead or alive? Somehow, knowing he could still be walking around somewhere didn't make me go all fluffy-bunnies with happiness like it probably should have. If he was just playing dead, didn't that mean he'd chosen to ignore me my whole life? And if so, was there anything I could do to make him come out of hiding? The only bait I had to offer him was my actual existence, and that hadn't been enough to interest him before now.

And if he really was dead, so it wasn't him spending the bank money, was it Gram? Just how many bank robbers was I going to find swinging from my family tree?

And would I rather be trapped here in Deputy Dude lockdown or heading back to the big house in California? I already knew life there was no walk on the beach. I'd been starting to think that maybe Minnesota wasn't so bad after all, even though there were more grain silos than stop signs in town. But now the friendly people of Podunk had apparently decided to string me up for something I didn't do.

If I could figure out who really was spending the money, the deputy would have to let me leave town if I wanted to, and I should be glad to get gone, right? I wasn't so sure. I still thought being here might help me figure out a bunch of stuff I needed to know. But I wanted staying or leaving to be
my
choice. I didn't know why it seemed different, but it did: getting to choose between two places where I didn't really fit somehow seemed better than just being trapped in one of them.

There was only one thing I knew for sure: I'd really, really rather go backwards in time and get one more chance with Iz before that stupid loon interrupted us than have to move forward and deal with all the crap a brand-new day was bound to bring me.

The loon suddenly cackled his crazy laugh again, and this creepy feeling spidered its way down the back of my neck. Even the local wildlife was messing with me. So I picked up my plate and headed inside to bed.

I just couldn't seem to find the appropriate rule of etiquette that covered how to ask your grandma if she was a bigtime felon.

So by the time I wandered out of my bedroom at noon the next day, I knew what I had to do. I was going to have to sneak around behind Gram's back to figure out if she'd been sneaking around behind everybody else's. It seemed like the only choice I had if I wanted to be able to decipher the truth about my family. Not to mention if I decided I needed to get out of Dodge anytime before I was old enough to vote.

And I was going to need some help playing superspy.

I remembered Gram saying something to her posse about more fundraiser setup that afternoon, so the first step of the plan was to get myself out of helping with that. When I walked into the kitchen, Gram was washing dishes. By hand. Which maybe was some kind of clue all on its own. I mean, if you had bank-robbery bucks stashed away somewhere, wouldn't you head on down to the Big Store and have the King order you up the biggest darn dishwasher he could find?

I picked up the dishtowel and started drying. Gram gave me that look that adults get when they know you're up to no good; I guess taking on a chore without being asked at least three times first is like what they call a “tell” on TV poker.

But apparently Gram had as much on her mind as I did on mine, because after a moment she picked up the next plate and began washing it.

“Thanks for leaving me dinner last night. It was good,” I opened.

“It's a pleasure to cook for someone besides myself again.” She handed me the wet plate. “Especially somebody who enjoys it the way you do. I'd forgotten how a thirteen-year-old boy can eat. That's one way you're exactly like your father. That and charming every Church Lady in sight.”

“Uh, Gram . . . speaking of the Church Ladies—or really, I mean, about the church fundraiser . . .”

She stopped me. “Travis, I know that hearing the deputy's accusations yesterday upset you. And I understand better than anyone what it feels like when people around here suspect the worst of you. I know going to the fundraiser means you'll have to face a roomful of strangers—some of whom think you're up to no good. I'm sure that seems hard. But the best way to prove you didn't do anything wrong is to just march right into that church tonight with your head held high. If the people of this town can't deal with that, then they're the ones who should stay home.”

It hadn't occurred to me that other people might already be suspicious of Gram—might think she knew something about the missing money. Stupid me. Just what kind of crap had she put up with over the years?

And what kind of rotten grandson was I for suspecting her myself?

“I don't mind going to the actual fundraiser,” I said hurriedly, although the truth was, I wasn't sure which would be more painful: that, or the time my stepfather insisted on subjecting me to the birds-and-bees talk. “I was just wondering if I could maybe get out of helping with setup again today,” I said.

“I hate to think of you spending so much time alone.” Clearly she didn't really understand the social realities of my now loser life in California.

“Oh, I'll see if Kenny and Iz will take me out in the boat or something.” It was strange, how guilty I was feeling; lying is one of my mad skills, and I lie to Ma all the time without thinking twice about it. Somehow with Gram it seemed different.

“I imagine they're more fun than a bunch of old ladies.” Gram handed me the last plate and pulled another towel off the rack to dry her hands. “Travis, if Deputy Anderson happens to come by when I'm not here, you call me right away. I'll leave the church number on the counter. I'd rather you didn't talk to him alone. I don't want him fretting you again.”

“I'll call you—trust me.”

My plan was under way.

 

I knew Kenny and Iz were coming over—I mean, I had called them as soon as Gram pulled out of the driveway—but my insides still gave this little jump of surprise when there was a knock on the door. I pulled it open and my toes went numb when Iz walked in.

I guess my mind kind of drifted off too, distracted by the memory of that almost-kiss on the dock the night before, because next thing I knew, Kenny was giving me this big shove on the shoulder.

“Earth to Butter Head,” he said. “What's with you today, bro? I've been talking to you for, like, five minutes.”

Maybe I needed to learn to stay more alert when traveling in a foreign country. I could feel my face heating up, and Iz slid me a quick sideways glance.

“So I've got a plan,” I said, before I could get distracted again. Or before I could change my mind, like I'd been doing over and over ever since Gram gave me her speech. But I didn't see any other options, so I made myself keep going. “And we've got to move fast. But before I tell you, you gotta promise that no matter what, we'll all decide together what to do about whatever we find. Even if it means you don't get to collect that reward money from the bank after all. 'Cause I'm, like, trusting you both here, bigtime.”

“Yeah, yeah, Scouts' honor,” said Kenny, except he made the hang-loose sign instead of whatever it is the Boy Scouts do with their fingers when they pledge. Which didn't make it exactly authentic, but I let it slide.

I looked at Iz, and after a long moment she put her closed fist onto her heart and nodded at me.

I didn't think I had to fill Kenny in on all the Deputy Dude details, since it was his sister who had fingered me as the town big spender. “Here's the deal,” I said. “Since we know
I
don't have it, somebody else must be papering the town with the money. So one thing we're trying to figure out is if my father is alive out there somewhere, making like a big-bucks zombie.”

“Say what?” said Kenny. “Do-over, dude! You mean your dad isn't dead? When did that happen?”

I wasn't sure if Kenny was behind on this part of the breaking news because Iz had kept our little late-night meet-up a secret from him or if he really did have trouble staying within the lines when he colored.

“He's
maybe
not dead. That's
one
thing we're trying to figure out.”

“One thing?” said Iz. “What else is there—we find your father, we find the money, right? Mystery solved.”

“But he maybe
is
really dead,” I said. “So we also have to figure out who else might have the money. I even wondered—just for a while—if maybe Gram had found the money somewhere and now she has it.” I kind of mumbled that last part, pretending I was suddenly really interested in the beat-up kitchen floor. There was this big crack next to my foot. I wished it would open like one of those earthquake fault lines and swallow me right up.

“Your grandma?” asked Iz. She thought a moment. “Well, yeah, I guess she's an obvious possibility, but she's lived here the whole time. Why would she wait until now to start spending it?”

My breath heaved out in relief. Iz was smart. If she didn't think Gram was guilty . . .

“I don't
really
think Gram has it,” I said. “It's just—maybe somehow she knows something without really knowing she knows it? Or maybe my father tried to contact her sometime—you know, sent her a post card or whatever—so she knows he's still alive? And anyway, it's like that game Clue—you know, where you eliminate the suspects and then whoever's the only one still standing at the end must be the killer. If we're going to do this right, we have to rule out Gram as a possibility.” I could tell I was making about as much sense as my past year's geometry teacher.

“So about your dad,” said Kenny. I guess he
was
having a little trouble keeping up. “Did he have, like, plastic surgery or something? If it was him, how come nobody in town recognized him while he was spending the money?”