“Leave Dolly Parton alone, boys,” warns their mother.
Mr. Delaney skates over and grabs the back of a jacket in each hand. “It’s the penalty box for you two,” he says firmly, hustling the twins off the ice and back to the log benches by the bonfire. “Get the dogs first,” he says to the rest of us. “The chickens can take care of themselves.”
With the help of Sugar and Spice, we eventually manage to corral Yo-Yo and Buddy and Jelly Roll. Mrs. Delaney lures the chickens back to the barn with a slice of bread.
“That was exciting,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, after the animals are all finally put away.
“Not something you see every day,” agrees Mr. Hawthorne, winking at me.
My dad skates over. “Have you seen your mother?”
I shake my head.
“She might be in the kitchen,” says Mrs. Delaney. “I think she was planning to make some hot chocolate.”
We all skate around for a while longer. Mr. Delaney rounds up a few more brooms for Jess and Emma and me, and Darcy and Cassidy teach us a few hockey moves. It’s actually pretty fun. Especially when Courtney and the grown-ups join in.
And then it happens.
“Yoo-hoo!” calls my mother.
We look up from our scrimmage. There’s no sign of her.
“Yoo-hoo! Up here!”
I finally spot her. My mother is in the twins’ tree house, on the far side of the pond near the barn. She waves cheerfully.
Dylan and Ryan scramble across the snow to go investigate. My dad follows them.
“Hey, no fair!” shouts Ryan. “She pulled up the rope ladder.”
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair! I mean ladder!” jokes my dad.
But my mother isn’t joking. She shakes her head. “Not for a while, hon.”
My father laughs nervously. “Uh, Lily, it’s February. It’s cold, and it will be dark before long.”
“I know, isn’t it great?” my mother calls down to him—to all of us, because we’ve all trooped over to her by now. “Carson Dawson’s dentures gave me the idea.”
Carson Dawson’s dentures? Emma, Jess, Cassidy and I exchange puzzled glances.
“Mom, what are you talking about?” I say.
She taps her watch and smiles. “You’ll find out soon.”
Five minutes later, trucks start arriving.
News trucks.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter.
“What the heck is going on?” says Emma.
“I don’t think I want to know.”
The twins spot the camera crews and race over, dancing around them as they lug their equipment across the pasture. I pull my hat down and hope nobody puts two and two together and figures out that I’m the daughter of the crazy woman in the tree house.
Fat chance of that, since we’re the only Asian Americans at Half Moon Farm today.
“Is that your mom?” asks one of the reporters. I recognize her from the six o’clock news.
“Uh,” I reply, stalling for time.
“Can you tell me more about what she’s protesting? She sent over a fax that said something about saving historic Half Moon Farm.”
“Oh, man,” I groan. Only my mother could hatch such a harebrained scheme. Climbing a tree to save Half Moon Farm? It’s one thing if you’re one of those nutty Hollywood actresses. They’re always pulling crazy stunts to protest global warming and stuff. You can do that sort of thing in California. In New England, in February, a person could freeze to death.
A person could also humiliate her family.
An SUV pulls into the driveway. It’s the Chadwicks. This is just so not my lucky day.
“We’re here to pick up Yo-Yo,” booms Becca’s mother, rolling down the window. Becca and Stewart roll their windows down too.
Mrs. Chadwick’s eyes narrow as she spots the news trucks. “What’s going on?” she demands, getting out of her car.
My dad walks over to her and I see the two of them talking. Becca and Stewart get out too. Becca looks over at us and smirks.
“If it isn’t Josie Pye,” says Jess. “Just what we need.”
My cell phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket. Becca has sent me a text message: WHAT IS UR MOM DOING?
I text her back: NO CLUE!
Mrs. Chadwick marches over to the base of the tree.
“Come down this instant, Lily!” she bellows to my mother. “You’re embarrassing yourself!”
I hunch into my jacket and pull my hat down even farther. Talk about embarrassing—I don’t know who’s worse, my mother or Calliope Chadwick, the human megaphone.
“Please, you don’t need to do this,” pleads Jess’s mom. “I mean, we appreciate the idea and everything, but honey, it’s COLD out here!”
My mother holds up a sleeping bag and a backpack. “I have everything I need right here,” she says. “Hot cocoa, too! I’ll be fine.”
“Nonsense,” hollers Mrs. Chadwick again. “You won’t be fine. You’ll catch your death of cold, and then where will you be?”
“Dead, duh,” whispers Cassidy.
Emma and Jess both giggle.
“Shut up,” I snap. This is not funny at all.
In response to Mrs. Chadwick’s question, my mother pulls a set of handcuffs from her backpack and holds them up in the air. We all gasp. The camera crews rush closer for a better shot. The reporters are eating this up too, of course.
“Uh, we admire your passion, but are those really necessary?” calls Mrs. Delaney.
“Please, sweetheart, come down,” says my dad. His voice is wobbly, and I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or angry or if maybe he’s going to cry.
My mother shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly. “I’m on a mission here.”
There’s a loud click! and I gape up at her in disbelief.
My phone vibrates again. Another text message from Becca: NO WAY!
But it’s true. My mother has handcuffed herself to a branch of the tree. She pulls a piece of paper from her backpack. “Silence, everyone,” she commands. As if we’re not already quiet enough to hear a pine needle fall in the snow. No one quite knows what to say. It’s not every day you see someone handcuff themself to a tree in Concord, Massachusetts.
My mother begins to read in a loud, dramatic voice, “I am here this afternoon not to protest, but to mourn. To mourn the possible passing of a way of life. To grieve for the potential passing of a piece of our history and our tradition. To lament the prospective passing of Half Moon Farm.”
Why does it always have to be my mother? I wonder in despair. She’s babbling on about Henry David Thoreau now, and something he wrote called Civil Disobedience, and how he spent a night in jail once to protest taxes. “Like our own bard of the woods, I, too, protest an unfair tax!” she cries. “The tax on Half Moon Farm!”
Anger wells up in me. Why can’t my mother just be normal for once? Why does she always have to be the poster child for conservation, and world peace, and animal rights, and global warming, and every other cause under the sun? Why couldn’t it be someone else for a change—Mrs. Hawthorne, say?
I glance over at Mrs. Hawthorne, who is standing beside Emma with her arm around her. Never in a million years could I picture Mrs. H handcuffing herself to a tree.
How did I end up in this family? I look over at Mrs. Chadwick. Right now, I’d think seriously about trading my mother for a snapping turtle.
Becca is lounging against their car, keeping her distance. She’s got her cell phone out, but mine isn’t vibrating, so it’s not me she’s texting this time. She’s probably letting Ashley and Jen know what a loony tune I have for a mother.
I peer up at the tree house again. My mother is happily answering questions from the reporters. Forget snapping turtles—right now, I’d even think seriously about running away and joining the circus.
On second thought, I realize bitterly, I don’t need to go anywhere to do that. My life is already a circus.
Jess
?
?? ‘Those Pye girls are cheats all round,’ said Diana indignantly.”
—Anne of Green Gables
“Easy, Sundance,” I murmur.
It’s early, just before six, and both of us are sleepy. Promising fresh grain, I lead her across the barn to the milking stand. “That’s it,” I tell her as she jumps up into position. I give her an encouraging pat.
Sundance is my very own goat. She’s a Nubian, brown mostly, with a black streak down her nose and long silvery ears that frame her face. I think she’s beautiful. I raised her from a kid for a 4-H project last year. While she’s distracted by breakfast, I move down to what my dad calls her “business end” and get to work. First I dip a rag in warm water and wash down her udder and teats. Then I put the bucket in position, pull up the old kitchen chair we use for a milking stool, and lean my forehead against her warm flank. Her coat is soft as velvet and smells like sweet hay.
Squeeze, squeeze. Squeeze, squeeze. Squeeze, squeeze. There’s a rhythm to hand-milking, and I find myself humming along. I haven’t done much singing lately—I just haven’t felt like it. I didn’t even try out for the school musical this year, even though Mrs. Adams, our drama teacher, asked me to. It’s hard to think about anything these days but Half Moon Farm.
I can’t stand the thought of having to leave our home. What would we do with Sundance and the rest of our goats? And what about Led and Zep? I glance over to their stalls, where only our horses’ broad backs are visible. But I can hear them patiently chewing the hay I forked into their troughs a few minutes ago. I’d miss them terribly. I’d even miss our chickens.
Five minutes of worrying and squeezing later I’m done with Sundance. “One down, six to go,” I tell her as I lead her back to her pen. Next up is Matilda. She’s a Saanen, which is a breed from Switzerland. Matilda is creamy white and my dad’s favorite, because she’s such a dependable milker.
“Come on, girlfriend,” I coax, grabbing her by the collar. Sundance thinks I’m her mother, so she’ll follow me anywhere, but Matilda can be a little stubborn sometimes.
Some people think farming is romantic, but the truth is it’s a lot of hard work. We have to milk the goats in the morning and the evening, and we have to feed them and clean their stalls, just like we do for the horses. Plus there are the chickens to take care of, and the garden—although this time of year it’s mostly just herbs in the greenhouse. And everything’s organic, which for my dad means more work because he likes to use as little machinery as possible, even for plowing, which he does with Led and Zep. My parents hardly ever go on vacation—there aren’t too many people we can ask to help out with all the chores—but they love it, especially my dad. He says this is what he was born to do.
I’m not sure what I was born to do. I know I love animals, and I’m thinking about being a veterinarian. And I could always be a farmer. But I like to sing, too. And then again I like math and science. Good thing I don’t have to decide yet.
An hour later, I’m done. I carry the buckets of milk to the dairy room and put them in one of the big refrigerators. My parents will process everything later. Some people think the idea of milk from a goat is gross, but I think it tastes better than cow’s milk. It’s sweet and creamy and we make all sorts of stuff from it besides cheese—butter, for example, and even ice cream.
I pause for a minute as I’m leaving the barn and lean against the door frame. I gaze out across the pond to the far edge of the back pasture. The trees look beautiful silhouetted against the delicate pink of dawn, and I feel a sharp pang again at the thought of leaving this place. So many of my best memories are here! I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trying to shut out the worry that won’t stop gnawing at me. It seems to me there’s a hint of spring in the air, a tiny note of warmth hovering in the chilly breeze, but it’s probably just my imagination. Winter tends to hold on tight through March and sometimes into April here in New England.
It can hold on as long as it wants to this year, as far as I’m concerned. Spring only means we’re that much closer to June, when the taxes are due. We were supposed to pay them in April, but my parents got an extension. Even with the extra time, though, it’s not looking good.
I cross the yard to our house and glance at the clock as I enter the kitchen. I’m ahead of schedule for once. Sometimes I don’t have enough time to cram down breakfast, shower, get dressed, and make it to the school bus. Which explains why sometimes I skip the shower and just head to school in my barn clothes. I try not to do that anymore, though. I’ve had enough of people calling me “Goat Girl.”
My parents are sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea. Mom’s still in her pajamas, but Dad’s dressed in his jeans and barn jacket. He’s been up all night with one of our does who’s expecting.
“Anything?” I ask him, hanging up my own jacket on its hook by the back door.
He shakes his head. “Not yet. Should be soon, though. Maybe by the time you get home from school today.”
New baby goats are always fun. Dylan and Ryan will be beside themselves with excitement. Especially since Dad said they could name this one.
My mother pats the chair beside her. “Have a seat, sweetheart. I’ll scramble you some eggs.”
I watch her as she moves around the kitchen fixing my breakfast. Looking at her in her fuzzy blue robe, it’s hard to believe she ever played the role of the glamorous Larissa LaRue. I like my mother much better this way, though.
She pours me some orange juice and smiles. “Whatcha thinking about?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
My parents exchange a glance.
“What is it?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat. “More bad news?”
“Not necessarily,” says my mom lightly. “Your dad and I were just talking—”
“—about selling the farm?”
“Now don’t get all worked up. It’s just an idea. The thing is, I’ve been in touch with the producers at HeartBeats, and they said if I want to come back they’d bring Larissa LaRue out of her coma.”
I pluck at my dad’s sleeve. “But I thought you said we were going to keep the family together, no matter what!”
He gives me a wry smile. “We are, Jess. If your mom takes the acting job again, we’ll all move to New York this time.”
I feel like I’ve just been butted in the stomach by one of our goats. For a few seconds I can hardly breathe. New York City?
“But what about our farm?” I reply, stunned. “What about all our animals?”
“This would only be as a last resort, honey,” my mother says gently. “We’d be able to keep Sugar and Spice, though. Acting pays well, and with the money from selling the farm I think we could find a big enough place. Maybe even with a view of the river, or of Central Park.”
I stare at them, stricken.
“Now, Jess,” says my father. “I seem to remember a certain young lady begging us recently to treat her like a grown-up since she’s reached the ripe old age of thirteen.”
I drop my gaze. Right now I feel about two years old. I just want to climb onto his lap and have him wrap his arms around me and tell me everything’s going to be fine.
“I hate the idea of losing this place as much as you do,” my father continues. “Maybe even more—remember, I’ve lived here a lot longer than you have. I grew up on this farm.” He runs his hand through his hair. His eyes are bleary from lack of sleep. “We just don’t have a lot of options at this point.”
“Can’t you get a loan or something to pay the taxes?” I ask.
My mother shakes her head. “We can’t take on any more debt. We have too much already, what with the new roof last winter, and then on top of that adding the greenhouse, and the new commercial refrigerators this fall.”
“But what about our goat cheese? I thought you said the Half Moon Farm brand was starting to take off.”
“It is,” Mom tells me. “More and more restaurants are placing orders, and it’s selling like hotcakes at all the local farmers?
?? markets and organic grocery stores.”
“But—”
My dad reaches over and pats my hand. “It seems to be a case of too little, too late,” he says. “We have to face facts here, Jess, and the fact is that we may not be able to keep this place. Besides, your mother and I want to be able to offer you kids a better life—money for your college educations, vacations, that sort of thing. Aren’t you tired of being Princess Jess of Ramshackle Farm?”
This has been our little private joke ever since the school play last year when Mrs. Chadwick insulted us, but I don’t smile this time. “I will never, ever get tired of being Princess Jess of Ramshackle Farm,” I tell him, my voice quivering with emotion. “I don’t ever want to be anything else!”
I push back from the table and run upstairs to my room.
The day goes downhill from there. Even without showering or changing I barely make the bus, and we have a pop quiz in math class, which I completely tank. How am I supposed to remember the Pythagorean theorem when I’m worried about losing Half Moon Farm?
There’s more bad news at lunchtime. Emma and Cassidy and I are the first ones at our table in the cafeteria and it turns out Emma chose today of all days to add up the money in our secret fund. She pulls a big manila envelope out of her backpack and dumps a pile of bills and coins onto the table.
“Let’s see,” she says, frowning at a piece of paper that was in the envelope too, and comparing it to the money on the table. “With the seventy-five from your hockey lessons, Cassidy, and a hundred and eighty-two from all of our babysitting, and a hundred and ten from dog-walking and doggie daycare, plus all of our combined allowances and Christmas and birthday money, that makes, um—”
“Four hundred ninety-seven dollars and forty-six cents,” I announce, adding rapidly.
“This sum brought to you by Jessica Delaney, the human calculator,” says Cassidy.
Nobody laughs. We stare at the pile of money on the lunch table in glum silence. Four hundred ninety-seven dollars and forty-six cents is not going to save Half Moon Farm.
“I wish you had a rich Aunt Josephine, like Diana Barry,” says Emma.
“Things like that only happen in books,” I tell them sadly. Not that I haven’t spent the last few weeks wishing madly for a miracle too.