leaped to the porch, grabbed the Marvel Puffs box, and scooped up his book bag and lunch pail. “I’m…testing the osmosis of various liquids on semipermeable surfaces…like, like milk in a Marvel Puffs box.”
And then he took off running down Elmwood, rounding the corner onto Maple, in the direction of the scrapyard. And my shortcut to Waterhouse and Sixth.
Maybe I can still meet Babs after all.
But first I’d have to catch up with Will. I couldn’tshake the image of him from moments before, still, unresponsive.
Mrs. Baker said, “Well, I’m glad I could help.” She gave me a hard look. “Your grandmother will be glad to hear it.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Baker,” I said. She turned and stomped back across the street toward her perfect family.
I put everything back in my book bag and started after Will, but Miss Bettina put her hand on my arm. “Donna.”
My eyes pricked and I wanted to hug her, to let her hug me, to tell her how desperately I wanted away from Groverton, to ask her if she ever felt that way…but then her eyes wandered from mine, and I saw she was looking behind me.
I glanced back. Daddy. He was standing on the porch, staring out at all of us, looking confused. He wore the same pants from the day before, and a stained undershirt. I felt a surge of resentment. I’d have to get that undershirt clean, somehow.
But I saw the look on Miss Bettina’s face. She never said it, but I could see it. For whatever reason, she was in love with my daddy.
“Porter.” She said his name like a sigh.
She went to him, while the Bakers drove off.
I walked down Elmwood until I got to the corner. Then I turned and started running toward Stedman’s Scrapyard. Away from all of them. Toward Will.
Chapter 3
I ran until I reached Stackville, gasping in great gulps of air vile with the rotten-egg mill smell from wood being boiled down to pulp to make paper. I put my hand to my mouth and nose, fighting back a gag, while running, running, until I finally saw Will.
He was kneeling by the barbed-wire fence surrounding Stedman’s Scrapyard. My relief at finding him gave way to a moment of annoyance—my armpits stuck to my dress and my pin curls drooped, a damp mess. So much for looking fresh and perfect for my trip with Babs and my secret job interview.
But just as quickly, my annoyance switched back to alarm.
Will looked fine now—physically. I watched as he stared past the scrapyard’s usual collection of tires and car parts and banged-up iceboxes—dumped as housewives got refrigerators and freezers—at the empty end of a chain attached to the hitch of an old teardrop camper with its door hanging open on one hinge. As he talked loudly to the empty chain, Will looked as unhinged as that camper door.
From Stedman’s, Groverton Pulp & Paper wasn’t visible, but its presence was palpable in the smell and the sight of the steam that plumed in endless white puffs from its smokestacks.That morning, although the neighborhood of narrow, close houses was quiet, the very air seemed tense, or at least I told myself it did; I’d overheard talk at the diner of a possible mill strike. I felt a tremble of hope at the possibility of this—of anything—bringing excitement to Groverton.
The only resident in sight was an old woman who sat on the front porch of a well-kept wooden house across the street from the scrapyard. She peeled apples, leaning forward, her ankle-length skirt, taut between her knees, catching the long strand of apple skin. Her hands moved automatically and she didn’t keep an eye on her peeling—just on us, bemused by the sight of children who did not belong in her neighborhood.
Will’s voice rose in an adamant cadence, like Pastor Stebbins at Grandma’s church: “So tonight, Sergeant Striker and
his
Trusty are going to be on TV for the first time! Do you think they’ll catch a robber or a kidnapper? I think…kidnapper. It’s been a long time since the old gold miner’s great