gloves. “Mr. Schwab says he’s got a big ol’ pile of compost for me at the farm. You want to come help me bring it back?”
“Abso lut ely!” I answer. “Let’s go!” Pushing all thoughts of the kinds of trouble we could both get into out of my head, I pull the smaller wheelbarrow out of Winky’s garden shed. Emmanuel can stretch me out on a rack tonight and torture me, for all I care. As soon as Nana Pete gives the word, we are going to hightail it out of here and nothing is going to change that.
Winky takes one of the back roads down to Mr. Schwab’s farm, just in case anyone is out looking for us. He walks quickly, even with his wheelbarrow in front of him, and I have to struggle to keep up. Winky is better acquainted with the woods and outlying boundaries outside of Mount Blessing than I am, since he’s always on the hunt for new and interesting plants he can bring back to the garden. Actually, that’s how he first met Mr. Schwab, a corn farmer who lives two miles down the road. Winky says Mr. Schwab was a little leery of him at first—not because he was slow, but because he was wearing a heavy blue robe with a silk cord around his waist inthe middle of August. Still, they became fast friends after Winky told Mr. Schwab what it was he was looking for. Mr. Schwab’s wife, Libby, apparently has a flower garden of her own and knows all about wild plants and shrubs.
Mr. Schwab is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He’s middle-aged, like Agnes’s father, but he looks younger. He has black hair and a nice, plain sort of face. It’s always tanned because he is outside so much and his teeth are very white. One time he even took me for a ride on Dorothy, his tractor. I got to stand in the little space right behind his seat with my hands on his shoulders and look out over what seemed like miles and miles of hills. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. His wife, Libby, is great too. She invited me into the farmhouse one afternoon while Mr. Schwab and Winky were digging up a milkweed plant, and sat at the kitchen table with me while I ate a piece of her red-raspberry pie. I forked bite after bite into my mouth, swallowing my twinge of guilt about eating red food, and nodded politely as she told me all about her favorite flowers. When I was finished, I asked for another piece.
By the time we reach the edge of the Schwabs’ farm, I have a stitch in my side and am panting for breath. The stripes along my back and legs feel as if they were on fire. I am just about to stop and sink to the ground when I see Mr. Schwab. He is sitting on Dorothy, waving to us from the other side of the empty cornfield. Behind him, the sky is a pale charcoal color, tinged orange at the bottom like a slice of cantaloupe.
“Winky! Honey! Over here!” The sight of him gives me renewed vigor and I scramble again to my feet. “I was hoping you’d come tonight,” Mr. Schwab says, looking down at mefrom the tractor seat. My head barely skims the middle of Dorothy’s enormous rear wheel. Mr. Schwab is wearing his usual red baseball cap, faded pink from the sun, blue overalls, and a white shirt. The soles of his work boots are caked heavily with dried mud. I wonder if Veronica would make him take them off before he came into Emmanuel’s room—not that he ever would.
“Oh yeah?” I ask “Why?”
Mr. Schwab’s eyes twinkle. “I thought you might like to take Dorothy for a spin.”
I gasp. “You mean drive her?”
Mr. Schwab laughs and then nods. “I only have a few rows left in the back of the field over there before I call it a night. It’s just tilling, nothing too fast or exciting. Think you’re up for it?”
“Yes!” I burst out. “Absolutely!”
Mr. Schwab laughs again. Then he looks at Winky, almost apologetically. “You okay going over to the house by yourself, Winky? Libby’s there waiting for you.”
Winky nods and waves. “You be careful, Honey.”
I’ve been atop Dorothy before, but only in the
“Abso lut ely!” I answer. “Let’s go!” Pushing all thoughts of the kinds of trouble we could both get into out of my head, I pull the smaller wheelbarrow out of Winky’s garden shed. Emmanuel can stretch me out on a rack tonight and torture me, for all I care. As soon as Nana Pete gives the word, we are going to hightail it out of here and nothing is going to change that.
Winky takes one of the back roads down to Mr. Schwab’s farm, just in case anyone is out looking for us. He walks quickly, even with his wheelbarrow in front of him, and I have to struggle to keep up. Winky is better acquainted with the woods and outlying boundaries outside of Mount Blessing than I am, since he’s always on the hunt for new and interesting plants he can bring back to the garden. Actually, that’s how he first met Mr. Schwab, a corn farmer who lives two miles down the road. Winky says Mr. Schwab was a little leery of him at first—not because he was slow, but because he was wearing a heavy blue robe with a silk cord around his waist inthe middle of August. Still, they became fast friends after Winky told Mr. Schwab what it was he was looking for. Mr. Schwab’s wife, Libby, apparently has a flower garden of her own and knows all about wild plants and shrubs.
Mr. Schwab is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He’s middle-aged, like Agnes’s father, but he looks younger. He has black hair and a nice, plain sort of face. It’s always tanned because he is outside so much and his teeth are very white. One time he even took me for a ride on Dorothy, his tractor. I got to stand in the little space right behind his seat with my hands on his shoulders and look out over what seemed like miles and miles of hills. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. His wife, Libby, is great too. She invited me into the farmhouse one afternoon while Mr. Schwab and Winky were digging up a milkweed plant, and sat at the kitchen table with me while I ate a piece of her red-raspberry pie. I forked bite after bite into my mouth, swallowing my twinge of guilt about eating red food, and nodded politely as she told me all about her favorite flowers. When I was finished, I asked for another piece.
By the time we reach the edge of the Schwabs’ farm, I have a stitch in my side and am panting for breath. The stripes along my back and legs feel as if they were on fire. I am just about to stop and sink to the ground when I see Mr. Schwab. He is sitting on Dorothy, waving to us from the other side of the empty cornfield. Behind him, the sky is a pale charcoal color, tinged orange at the bottom like a slice of cantaloupe.
“Winky! Honey! Over here!” The sight of him gives me renewed vigor and I scramble again to my feet. “I was hoping you’d come tonight,” Mr. Schwab says, looking down at mefrom the tractor seat. My head barely skims the middle of Dorothy’s enormous rear wheel. Mr. Schwab is wearing his usual red baseball cap, faded pink from the sun, blue overalls, and a white shirt. The soles of his work boots are caked heavily with dried mud. I wonder if Veronica would make him take them off before he came into Emmanuel’s room—not that he ever would.
“Oh yeah?” I ask “Why?”
Mr. Schwab’s eyes twinkle. “I thought you might like to take Dorothy for a spin.”
I gasp. “You mean drive her?”
Mr. Schwab laughs and then nods. “I only have a few rows left in the back of the field over there before I call it a night. It’s just tilling, nothing too fast or exciting. Think you’re up for it?”
“Yes!” I burst out. “Absolutely!”
Mr. Schwab laughs again. Then he looks at Winky, almost apologetically. “You okay going over to the house by yourself, Winky? Libby’s there waiting for you.”
Winky nods and waves. “You be careful, Honey.”
I’ve been atop Dorothy before, but only in the
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