each year on Valentine’s Day. “Did Wally give her this?”
He turned and rolled his eyes. “Probably.”
“That’s sweet.”
“I guess. Now, help me look.”
I glanced around the room but other than her dresser drawers, which Jude was opening and closing, I couldn’t see any places to hide something. There were no dust bunnies under the bed, and her closet held neatly hung clothes and shoes sitting side by side.
“Here’s something,” Jude said, pulling out a few pages from the nightstand drawer. “ ‘The Modern Professional,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Chapter One. Clothes. If someone wants to become a secretary someday, he or she needs to make sure to have nice clothes. What are nice clothes? For a woman, they are: skirt (not too short but not too long, either), high-heeled shoes, nylons, and a nice blouse. Jewelry is always an option. Maybe some nice pearl earrings. For a man, they should be—’ ” Jude stopped reading and looked up at me with a smile. “I love my mom, but from what you’ve told me about the story, I don’t think she’s the one who wrote it.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t think so, either. But who knows, maybe there are people out there who want to read about what to wear if they ever start working at a bank.”
Jude tucked the papers back in the drawer. “I guess this means you want to search Ben Folger’s house?”
I grinned. Even though we had only known each other for a little while, Jude already knew me well enough to know that’s exactly what I was thinking.
“Before we go waltzing up to the local lunatic’s house, which, by the way, we probably won’t ever return from, and ask if we can look inside for clues about a story he might have written and locked away in the library, I think we should ask around about him.”
We stood on the corner of Main Street. I pretended I didn’t hear a word Jude said. Every day that I spent not trying to make my mark was another day that I remained just one-of-the-six. Hermit, lunatic, or writer, I needed to find out something about Ben Folger.
“So, do you have any idea who we can to talk to?”
Jude sighed and started down the sidewalk toward the thrift store. “We’ll talk to Muzzy first. She knows almost everything that goes on in Alma.”
We pushed through the door, a small bell dinging above our heads and announcing that we had arrived. The store was filled with everything you could think of. Old dishes, scuffed shoes, used clothes, scratched furniture, unpolished jewelry, and worn books. I’d started on
The Life and Death of Birds
but couldn’t bring myself to turn down a copy of
Princess Academy
for fifty cents. I unzipped my backpack and fished out my loose change. Two quarters, two dimes, and one penny. After grabbing the book off the shelf and tucking it under my arm, I smiled and reached for an old belt with the name JOHN pressed into the leather.
“Muzzy? Papa Gil?” Jude called out.
We heard the big dog before we saw him, his bark echoing from the back of the store. Then there was a clatter of nails on wood and he came bounding toward us, all fur, paws, slobber, and tail.
“Oh, Mr. Castor,” a woman said, fluttering out from the back. “Down, Mr. Castor. Down.” She had short white hair and pointed ears that reminded me of a fairy.
Mr. Castor didn’t listen. Instead he jumped up, put his heavy paws on my shoulders, and licked my cheek. I gently pushed him off, wiped the slobber on my T-shirt, and scratched his ears.
“Hi, Mr. Castor.” His tail swooshed back and forth, swiping pens and pencils and papers off one of the displays.
“I’m sorry,” the woman huffed, tugging at Mr. Castor’s collar. But she might as well have been a flea trying to pull a tractor. She gave up and wiped her forehead. “He just gets so excited, and he’s still just a puppy.”
I raised my eyebrows. If he was a puppy, I could hardlyimagine what he’d be like when he was full grown. He was already the size
He turned and rolled his eyes. “Probably.”
“That’s sweet.”
“I guess. Now, help me look.”
I glanced around the room but other than her dresser drawers, which Jude was opening and closing, I couldn’t see any places to hide something. There were no dust bunnies under the bed, and her closet held neatly hung clothes and shoes sitting side by side.
“Here’s something,” Jude said, pulling out a few pages from the nightstand drawer. “ ‘The Modern Professional,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Chapter One. Clothes. If someone wants to become a secretary someday, he or she needs to make sure to have nice clothes. What are nice clothes? For a woman, they are: skirt (not too short but not too long, either), high-heeled shoes, nylons, and a nice blouse. Jewelry is always an option. Maybe some nice pearl earrings. For a man, they should be—’ ” Jude stopped reading and looked up at me with a smile. “I love my mom, but from what you’ve told me about the story, I don’t think she’s the one who wrote it.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I don’t think so, either. But who knows, maybe there are people out there who want to read about what to wear if they ever start working at a bank.”
Jude tucked the papers back in the drawer. “I guess this means you want to search Ben Folger’s house?”
I grinned. Even though we had only known each other for a little while, Jude already knew me well enough to know that’s exactly what I was thinking.
“Before we go waltzing up to the local lunatic’s house, which, by the way, we probably won’t ever return from, and ask if we can look inside for clues about a story he might have written and locked away in the library, I think we should ask around about him.”
We stood on the corner of Main Street. I pretended I didn’t hear a word Jude said. Every day that I spent not trying to make my mark was another day that I remained just one-of-the-six. Hermit, lunatic, or writer, I needed to find out something about Ben Folger.
“So, do you have any idea who we can to talk to?”
Jude sighed and started down the sidewalk toward the thrift store. “We’ll talk to Muzzy first. She knows almost everything that goes on in Alma.”
We pushed through the door, a small bell dinging above our heads and announcing that we had arrived. The store was filled with everything you could think of. Old dishes, scuffed shoes, used clothes, scratched furniture, unpolished jewelry, and worn books. I’d started on
The Life and Death of Birds
but couldn’t bring myself to turn down a copy of
Princess Academy
for fifty cents. I unzipped my backpack and fished out my loose change. Two quarters, two dimes, and one penny. After grabbing the book off the shelf and tucking it under my arm, I smiled and reached for an old belt with the name JOHN pressed into the leather.
“Muzzy? Papa Gil?” Jude called out.
We heard the big dog before we saw him, his bark echoing from the back of the store. Then there was a clatter of nails on wood and he came bounding toward us, all fur, paws, slobber, and tail.
“Oh, Mr. Castor,” a woman said, fluttering out from the back. “Down, Mr. Castor. Down.” She had short white hair and pointed ears that reminded me of a fairy.
Mr. Castor didn’t listen. Instead he jumped up, put his heavy paws on my shoulders, and licked my cheek. I gently pushed him off, wiped the slobber on my T-shirt, and scratched his ears.
“Hi, Mr. Castor.” His tail swooshed back and forth, swiping pens and pencils and papers off one of the displays.
“I’m sorry,” the woman huffed, tugging at Mr. Castor’s collar. But she might as well have been a flea trying to pull a tractor. She gave up and wiped her forehead. “He just gets so excited, and he’s still just a puppy.”
I raised my eyebrows. If he was a puppy, I could hardlyimagine what he’d be like when he was full grown. He was already the size
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