Cha Cha’s dimple emerged and she started to giggle.
“WHAT’S SO FUNNY?”
She pointed to my hair, my dust-streaked face, my pigeon-poo-smeared clothes, and my torn tights. By now, Jasmine and Lucas and Calhoun were laughing too.
“Did you get the envelope?” Calhoun made an envelope shape in the air with his fingers.
I pulled it out of my jacket pocket. Everybody crowded around, eager to see what was inside. I opened it. There were the usual Bs at the beginning and end of the letter, along with another single line of text:
I do love nothing in the world so well as you—is not that strange?
We all looked at Calhoun, who nodded. “Much Ado,” he confirmed.
All it said underneath the quote was our meeting spot.
“That’s not fair!” cried Cha Cha. The ringing in my ears had started to subside, but her voice was still like the faint buzz from a far-off mosquito. “How are we supposed to know where they liked to meet?”
“Total dead end,” said Jasmine in dismay.
It certainly seemed like it. I didn’t see how we’d ever be able to solve this clue.
“Maybe not,” said Calhoun. “My father might be able to help.”
Cha Cha swatted at my jacket with the edge of her scarf. “We have to get Truly cleaned up first,” she told him.
She texted her mother and a couple of minutes later it was all settled. We were invited over to the Abramowitzes’ for lunch. Somehow, with my friends forming a human shield around me, I managed to make it out of the church unseen.
“Hey, wait up!” called Scooter, who had been released from Reverend Quinn’s custody, unfortunately. He caught up as we were halfway across the village green. “Whoa—you are one big Drooly Gigantic Mess,” he said when he caught sight of me.
I shoved him into a snowbank.
Cha Cha’s mother was much kinder.
“Good heavens, what happened to you, Truly?” she asked as we came through the front door.
“I fell into a snowbank,” I replied, shooting Scooter a look.
When I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, I was surprised Mrs. Abramowitz hadn’t called an ambulance. I looked like Belinda Winchester on one of her worst days. Soap and water helped, and I managed to get my hair looking more normal, but the tights were a lost cause. I stuffed them into the trash, then opened the door a crack and handed my skirt and turtleneck to Cha Cha. I could only hope that the washing machine wouldn’t ruin them. I’d tried dabbing them with a wet washcloth, but that mostly just smeared the pigeon poo around.
“Put these on for now,” said Cha Cha, handing me back a pair of her sweatpants and a shirt that belonged to her father.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I replied, holding the sweatpants up. They barely reached my knees. I put them on, though—what else was I supposed to do?
Cha Cha started to giggle again as I slouched into her room.
“Shut up,” I said, grateful that the boys were downstairs. I knew how ridiculous I looked. Then I started to laugh too. Jasmine joined us, and pretty soon the three of us were howling so hard that we scared Fred and Ginger, the Abramowitzes’ cats, who ran under Cha Cha’s bed to hide. Our hilarity drew Cha Cha’s mother upstairs to check on us.
“Everything okay in here?” she asked. “Lunch is ready.”
As I looked around the kitchen table a few minutes later, it occurred to me that six weeks ago I could never have imagined being here. Not just in Pumpkin Falls, but here with these new friends, trying to solve a twenty-year-old mystery. It felt really strange.
And even stranger when we arrived at Calhoun’s house to talk to his father.
“Interesting,” said Dr. Calhoun, after he scanned the sheet of paper on which Calhoun had written the Shakespeare quotes. “They’re definitely all from Much Ado About Nothing, just as you said.”
“Do they remind you of anything?” Calhoun asked.
His father shook his head. “Should they?”
Calhoun lifted a shoulder. “I dunno. I thought maybe they would. You know, maybe something from a long time ago?” He looked at his father with a hopeful expression.
Suddenly, the pieces fell into place—snick!—like a sudoku puzzle. Calhoun thought his parents were the B and B in our mystery letters! It made perfect sense, since they’d played Beatrice and Benedick together back in high school. I’d seen it on the theater program in Aunt True’s apartment.
Maybe he’d been hoping the mystery letters would get them back together again somehow. I held my breath as Dr. Calhoun frowned at the piece of paper.
But again, he shook his head. “Sorry, son. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Bad choice of words, I thought, scowling at Scooter. He shot me one of his trademark Who me? What did I do? looks back.
“I was just trying to help,” he whispered. “You know, with the diversion?”
Yeah, right, I thought.
“So is this for a school project or something?” Calhoun’s father asked us.
“Or something,” Cha Cha told him. “We’re just interested, that’s all.”
“Glad to hear it. Nothing better than being interested in the Bard. It’s a lifetime pursuit.” Dr. Calhoun checked his watch. “Well, I’d better go. The pipes have frozen in one of the dorms, and I want to check in with the maintenance staff and see how the repairs are coming along. Juliet is upstairs if you need anything. You kids have fun now.” He left, closing the door behind him.
“Sorry, Calhoun,” I said. “You were hoping it was them—your parents, I mean—weren’t you?”
Calhoun looked down at the floor. “Yeah, I guess. My mother loves Shakespeare almost as much as my father does. She was the one who named my sister and me.”
“Named you what?” asked Scooter. “R. J.?”
“Never mind,” said Cha Cha and Jasmine and Lucas and me, all at the same time.
And we started to laugh.
CHAPTER 34
On the morning that the Pumpkin Falls Centennial Winter Festival began, I awoke to the sound of dripping.
“Listen, Miss Marple!” I cried, throwing back the covers and leaping out of bed. “Do you hear that?”
The hardwood floor was freezing, and I hopped quickly over to the window, dancing from one foot to the other as I peered outside. Sure enough, the icicles on the eaves were starting to melt.
The January thaw had finally arrived!
“Better late than never,” said the weatherman on the kitchen radio a few minutes later. He sounded jubilant. “Looks like the warming trend will linger into early next week, so all you maple farmers out there can take a deep breath and relax—your sap run is safe.”
Lauren had beaten me downstairs to breakfast, and hearing this she ran to the closet under the front stairs to call Annie. Not that the Freemans wouldn’t have figured it out for themselves by now. All they had to do was open their front door.
Which is exactly what I did a few minutes later. I stood on the doorstep a moment, inhaling deeply. For once, my nostrils didn’t freeze together the way they had ever since I’d arrived in Pumpkin Falls. The air was practically balmy.
Miss Marple dashed past me and scampered down the path, as frisky as a puppy. I was feeling pretty frisky myself, even though I knew it wouldn’t last. Dad had explained to us one night at the dinner table recently that New England’s famous January thaw is only a sneak preview of warmer months ahead.
“Old Man Winter is a tease,” he’d said. “Every January he relents just a bit, and takes pity on us by opening the window a crack and giving us a peek at spring, then he slams it shut again and hammers us with more cold.”
“J. T., you have the soul of a poet,” Mom had told him, kissing the top of his head. My father had snorted, but he’d looked pleased.
As I stood there, soaking up the sunshine, I didn’t care if it was just a sneak preview. I’d take weather like this any day.
Energized, I took a shower and dressed in record time,
then walked to school as usual with my brother and sisters. Pumpkin Falls looked anything but usual, however.
Flags were flying everywhere, and there was bunting on the steeple and a big PUMPKIN FALLS CENTENNIAL WINTER FESTIVAL! banner had been hung across the front of the Town Hall. The streets around the village green were lined with cars, as spectators and the news media crowded around to watch the sculptors at work.
The Pumpkin Falls Winter Festival is famous for its snow-sculpture competition, and people come from all over to enter it and to watch the sculptors at work. Gramps and Lola send us pictures of it every year. Last year there was a fairy-tale theme, which meant the village green was covered with dragons and knights and castles and lots of familiar characters—Snow White and all the dwarves, Jack and the beanstalk, Rapunzel, Cinderella, the three little pigs, that sort of thing. Cinderella won—probably because of the huge pumpkin carriage.
Pippa tugged on my hand. “Look! There’th Nathaniel-Daniel-lookth-like-a-thpaniel!”
I glanced over at the sculptures on the green, and sure enough, there was a larger-than-life snow sculpture of our famous ancestor, big nose and all.
Because it’s the centennial, this year’s theme celebrates the history of Pumpkin Falls, so in addition to Nathaniel Daniel Lovejoy there was a giant 100! in the center of the green, a big maple leaf, and a nearly life-size replica of the covered bridge complete with frozen waterfall. Plus, there was a huge Paul Revere bell and the façade of the General Store. A long line of people stretched in front of it, waiting to have their pictures taken on the front porch in the giant rocking chair carved out of snow.
“Can I thit in it too?” Pippa begged. “Pleathe?”
“We’ll come back later, Pipster, when it’s not so crowded,” Hatcher promised.
School was mercifully brief. Nobody could concentrate anyway—everyone was too keyed up over the three days of activities ahead, which kicked off right after lunch with the Winter Festival Spelling Bee, for which Annie Freeman had been practicing for weeks. In addition, there were a bunch of sporting events—ski races, figure skating, and speed skating on the rink at the college, and other games and meets, including basketball, hockey, wrestling, and of course our swim team’s grudge match against Thornton. Coach Maynard had been firing us up for that all week.
Tomorrow morning was the famous Polar Bear Swim at Lake Lovejoy, which is about the dumbest idea in the history of the world if you ask me, which nobody ever does. Who’d be stupid enough to jump into a frozen lake? A bunch of people, apparently, because the Patriot-Bugle was reporting a bumper crop of entrants.
All of the stores in town were offering special sales and promotions for the weekend too. Donuts at Lou’s would be three for a nickel, the same price they were one hundred years ago, haircuts at the Kwik Klips were going for “two bits,” which my father told us used to mean a quarter, and the General Store employees were giving out free bags of penny candy with every purchase. The Patriot-Bugle had published a special commemorative edition, complete with “Then and Now” photographs of Pumpkin Falls, along with interviews with the town’s oldest citizens.
The highlight of the weekend—at least for everybody but me—was the big dance tomorrow night at Town Hall. Of course, since the festival weekend happens to coincide with Valentine’s Day this year, they’re making an even bigger deal of it than usual. Mrs. Abramowitz is chair of the entertainment and decorating committee, and my mother, who’s been helping her out since she’s still working as the Starlite’s receptionist, says Cha Cha’s mom has been in a dither for weeks.
“I’ve never been involved in so many decisions involving hearts in my entire life,” my mother told us at dinner last night. “Paper hearts! Sparkly hearts! Hearts that light up and hearts that spin and hearts that blow bubbles! Did you know that you can even order heart-shaped ice cubes?”
I did not, and I didn’t care. I was so not looking forward to Cotillion. I hated the thought of being on display for the whole world to watch and laugh at. I’d probably trip over my own big feet, right in front of everybody.
I pushed the thought away. No point stewing about tomorrow when I had enough to stew about today—mainly our meet against Thornton.
The bleachers at the swim center were packed by the time I came out of the locker room. I spotted my friends and family—they were all there, even Dad. Only Aunt True was missing. She’d volunteered to stay behind at the bookstore so that my father could come and watch me. She’d sent a text earlier that made me laugh, though. There was just one word in it: VICTORY!
Aunt True is a total Lovejoy when it comes to sports.
I was swimming a trio of races—the 200 Medley Relay, the 50 Freestyle, and last but by far from least, the 100 Individual Medley. Not for a while, though. First up were the younger kids and the newbies, including Lucas.
“That’s my boy,” I heard Mrs. Winthrop announce proudly to no one in particular, as Lucas stepped up onto the block.
Aunt True says it’s positively painful to look at Lucas in a bathing suit, and she’s got a point. I’ve shared the pool with some skinny swimmers before, but Lucas Winthrop takes the cake. From his knobby knees to his protruding ribs and collarbone, he’s practically a walking anatomy lesson.
Mrs. Winthrop stood up, her video camera clutched nervously in her hands. She’s still convinced her son is going to drown somehow. When you think about it, it’s amazing he’s even allowed out of the house.
Whenever I see Mrs. Winthrop, I remind myself to be grateful that I still have a dad, and not just one overprotective parent. Lucas doesn’t seem to miss his father too much—at least, he never talks about it—but then again, he was just a baby when his father died, so he’s never known any different.
Lucas didn’t drown, of course. In fact, not only did he swim his best time ever, he won his first race ever. The Pumpkin Falls half of the bleachers exploded as he churned his way down the home stretch and slapped the wall. Mrs. Winthrop almost dropped her video camera, she was cheering so hard. I was yelling my head off and so was the rest of the team. Lucas looked at the clock in disbelief, then looked over at us with this huge grin on his face. I wanted to jump in the water and hug his little hummingbird self.
As I got ready for my first race, I hoped that Lucas’s win was a good omen. And it seemed like it was, because I won the 50 Freestyle handily and our relay team, which had been performing unevenly, posted a faster time than in any of our practices, even though technically we lost to Thornton. I didn’t care as much about those races, though—it was the 100 Individual Medley I was most worried about. That one’s always been my race.
“Good luck,” said one of the Thornton swimmers as we stepped onto the blocks.
I hate it when my opponents are cheerful. It makes them impossible to dislike.
“You too,” I told her, trying to mean it.
The bell rang and I arced forward, my dive perfectly aimed to hit the water in the best possible position. Half a dozen strong dolphin kicks, break the surface, arms spread like wings, I told myself. I flew down my lane, did a quick double-touch on the gutter, then pushed into backstroke, every breath, every movement exactly as I’d imagined it.
The thing about swimming is, it’s all mental. Yes, of course it matters that you’ve been working hard in practice, but that’s all second nature when it comes down to the actual race. The trick is to picture yourself swimming every lap, picture your time, how many breaths you’ll take, how far each stroke will take you, all of it. And most of all, you’ve got to picture yourself winning.
Which I had been doing for days.
I didn’t hear the crowd; I didn’t hear anything but my own breathing and my own fierce wanting to win. I moved effortlessly from butterfly to backstroke to breaststroke. As I approached the flip turn that would take me into the final freestyle stretch, I was neck-and-neck with the swimmer in the lane next to me. I tucked under, certain that my height would give me the advantage in the home stretch.
/> Or not.
As my legs flew over my head and I corkscrewed into the turn, my left heel slammed against the tiles.
Hard.
Jolted by the pain, I faltered. Only for a split second, but that was long enough to throw me off my rhythm. I scrambled to recover, pouring it on as I powered toward the finish, but it was too late.
I lost by three-tenths of a second.
I looked up at the clock in disbelief. The extra inch I’d grown since moving here had knocked me off balance and cost me the race! I’d been betrayed by my stupid Amazon feet!
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Hatcher up in the bleachers tapping his fingers under his chin in our chin-up shorthand. I shook my head at him and closed my eyes. Why oh why did I have to be so freakishly tall? I dragged myself out of the pool, not even stopping to congratulate the winner. I didn’t care if it was rude; I just wanted the shelter of the locker room.
“Tough luck, sweetheart,” my mother said a while later, when I finally emerged. She gave me a hug.
“Way to hang in there,” added my father, which is Lovejoy-speak for Loser.
Which was exactly how I felt for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER 35
“This is embarrassing,” said Hatcher.
“Tell me about it,” I replied.
The two of us were at the bookstore the next morning, helping Dad and Aunt True. I was still trying to blot out yesterday’s disastrous swim meet. My family was being supernice to me, which only made me feel worse, of course. I’d tried to be happy for Danny and Hatcher, who were total rock stars at their wrestling meets last night (people around town are starting to refer to them as “The Lovejoy Brothers,” like they’re a circus act or something), and I tried to be happy for my mother, too. She could hardly contain herself when Dad wandered down to the mats and started talking to the coaches. It was the first real sign of interest he’s shown in wrestling since Black Monday.
None of it made any difference to me, though. All I could think about was that stupid mistake I’d made in the final turn at the pool. And now here I was, about to be humiliated again. For some unknown reason, Aunt True had gotten it into her head that we should dress up in honor of Valentine’s Day for the bookshop’s Grand Reopening events. She’d even persuaded Dad to agree to spring for a pair of costumes.