The Pumpkin War Page 5

  Dad just raised his eyebrows and winked at me.

  After we finished our pizza, Dad handed out grape Popsicles from the freezer.

  “Outside,” he said.

  We flew out of the kitchen and jogged up the hill to my tree house.

  Well.

  It wasn’t a real tree house yet because we didn’t have a roof or doors or windows, but we did have a floor and walls. We even had baseboards. My dad had promised he’d finish the tree house before Joey was born, but that hadn’t happened. Obviously.

  Gripping our Popsicles, we pounded up the wooden steps threaded around the trunk of the tree and up through the branches, brushing past the bluish-green pine needles dripping with reddish-brown cones. I shot inside the tree house and flung myself onto one of the beanbag chairs Cami’s mom had made for us.

  I settled back and bit off a chunk of Popsicle. A tiny river of grape juice slid down my chin.

  All of a sudden, the skin on my calves started prickling, like someone was poking me with a hot sewing needle.

  That’s when I saw them.

  Field ants. With their ugly reddish-black bodies and three weird eyeballs all clumped together in the middle of their bumpy heads.

  They were crawling all over us. As we scrambled up, we frantically tried to brush them off, scraping our arms with our hands.

  “Get out!” I yelled. “Get out! Get out!”

  Tripping and stumbling over each other, we hurled ourselves down the steps and then raced down the hill, screaming at the top of our lungs. As we ran past the barn, my dad came shooting out of the house.

  “What? What?”

  “Ants!” I cried.

  We huddled on the back porch, and Dad looked us over. Our arms and legs were covered with angry red bites. Dad swabbed us down with calamine lotion. When he was done, we looked like we were covered in pink paint.

  That’s when I saw Sam headed up the road, lugging a big bag of fish bonemeal.

  He veered off the road and came up our driveway.

  “What happened?” he asked, frowning.

  “Why are you here?” I cried out, scratching furiously. “No one wants you here!”

  “Speak for yourself!” Cami snapped.

  “Ants,” Marylee said. “A million of them. In the tree house.”

  And she started crying big, blubbery tears she tried to scrape away with the back of her arm. Before I could move, Sam dropped the bag of fish bonemeal on the ground and put his arm around Marylee. She buried her head in his shoulder, choking back tears.

  “I wonder what they’re after,” he said. “Field ants usually live in dirt.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for Sam’s random facts.

  Later that afternoon, I tried not to scratch my arms and legs as I checked my vines. I’d covered my bites in cool compresses after Dad drowned me in calamine.

  My pumpkin buds were now the size of jawbreakers. In another week, an army of buzzing bees would swoop into my patch. I couldn’t wait to see them traipse from flower to flower, all six of their furry legs dripping with bright yellow pollen crumbs as they worked. My pumpkins couldn’t start growing until those worker bees fertilized my buds. The sooner that happened, the more growing time the pumpkins would have before the harvest.

  By the time I was finished inspecting and watering, the sun was headed down. I went upstairs to change for the fireworks. I grabbed my favorite cutoffs and a tie-dyed shirt I’d made that has a giant sun on the front.

  Mom appeared in my doorway, gently bouncing Joey in her arms.

  “You can’t wear that.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have to dance the polka with Sam.”

  “WHAT?!”

  “Did you forget that you and Sam were crowned king and queen last year?”

  I stared at her, and then I sagged against the wall.

  We’d danced in the competition as a joke. When Sam dances, he looks like a human pogo stick bent on reaching outer space, except gravity keeps snatching him back to Earth. We laughed the entire time, but I guess the judges had the last laugh when they crowned us.

  “I have to sell my honey.”

  “It’s one song.” She cocked her head, looking at me. “You have to pass the torch and crown the new king and queen.”

  Just then Joey started crying. “Are you hungry, sweetie?” she murmured.

  As my mom disappeared into Joey’s room, she called out, “You’re dancing the polka with Sam.”

  I threw open the door to my closet and looked for my polka dress.

  As I rooted around, I remembered how Sam had said that Einstein loved to ride his bike and sail his boat. I suddenly wanted to act like Einstein and get on my bike and ride to the other side of the island, where I could hide out and watch the red-throated loons until the polka was over.

  Anything not to have to dance with Sam Harrington.

  But I knew I didn’t have a choice.

  * * *

  I found my dress squished underneath the old telescope. Shoving the telescope aside, I grabbed the dress and stuffed it into my knapsack. I wasn’t putting that thing on one second before I had to. I threw my knapsack over my shoulder, ran down the stairs, and burst out the back door. The screen door slammed shut behind me.

  I flew down the last steep slope to the lake, cutting through the tall grass. Below, along the water, a trio of red-and-white-striped big-top tents had been thrown up side by side.

  I could hear the polka band warming up in the middle tent with “In Heaven There Is No Beer.”

  When I was little, I hated the polka. I’m not even sure why. Maybe it was the instruments. Instead of guitars and pianos and cellos and flutes, polka bands are addicted to squeezeboxes. That’s slang for concertinas. They’re a relative of the accordion, only they’re harder to play, with many buttons on each end. A squeezebox sounds like a pig with asthma.

  If you live in Wisconsin, it’s not good to hate polka, because Wisconsin is the polka capital of the world. It’s our official state dance, and you have to learn it in kindergarten. It’s more important than learning your ABCs.

  “Billie! Come here!”

  Cami waved at me from On-a-Stick, her uncle Bert’s concession stand, which was plopped under a hawthorn tree just past the last big-top tent. Every summer, Uncle Bert came up with weird things to eat off a stick. Last year, he featured a hot dog sliced up into the shape of an octopus. Not his best idea, judging from the weak sales.

  “I can’t believe he’s making me wear a hairnet,” Cami said, touching her hair with one hand and smoothing down her spotless white apron with the other.

  I wanted to say I couldn’t believe I had to dance the polka with Sam, but I knew Cami was on his side, so I didn’t say a word. All I needed was more balderdash from her.

  “You want to try the latest?” she asked.

  “What is it?”

  “Fried butter.”

  “Will it kill me?”

  “No one’s died yet,” she said.

  She took a hunk of butter, jammed a skinny stick up the middle, dipped it into a vat of thick batter, and dropped it into the deep fryer. When she pulled it out a minute later, she dragged it through a bowl of creamy frosting, plopped it onto a paper plate, and stuck it under my nose.

  “That does not look good.”

  “Try it,” she said.

  I chomped down, expecting a burst of gooey, hot butter to shoot into my mouth, but the butter had melted into the batter, so it was like biting into a big, fat juicy doughnut. They were calling it “fried butter,” but it was really just a doughnut shaped like a hot dog.

  Cami calls that “marketing.” I’d call it stretching the truth, but I didn’t, because I wanted another one.

  “Not bad,” I said with my mouth full.

&
nbsp; “Look,” Cami said. “You’ve got customers.”

  I glanced toward the dock, where a gaggle of people were lined up in front of my honey stand. I popped the last piece of fried butter into my mouth and ate it running along the water, my feet slapping at the pebbly sand.

  My first customer pointed to my blended spring blossom honey and held out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing him the change.

  “I use your honey in my homemade granola.” When he talked, his Adam’s apple bounced up and down.

  I put his honey into a brown lunch bag and said, “That sounds delicious.”

  “I eat it every day,” he said, reaching for the bag.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll have more for you next year.”

  We smiled, and he left. The next customer was bald, and judging from his beet-red head, no one had ever told him about the magic of sunscreen.

  In less than an hour, I sold thirty-six jars of honey, including all my dandelion honey and most of my black locust honey, which left me with just four jars.

  My last customer had bright green eyes and faded red hair overrun with gray peeking out from underneath his jaunty little cap. He smiled at me as he picked up a jar and held it up in the sun.

  “Would you be having any samples for a weary traveler to try?” I could tell he was Irish; his voice sounded like my dad’s, the notes of a song strung together in words.

  “Certainly.” I grabbed the little plastic sample cups from the box under the table and the little ice cream taster spoons I got for free from Jean’s Creamery.

  I handed him the first sample. “This honey is—”

  He held up his hand. “Don’t tell me.”

  He dipped the spoon into the little plastic cup. When he tasted it, he closed his eyes.

  “Spicy aromas and fresh fruit flavors with a clean, minty finish,” he said, slowly opening his eyes. “Your bees were feasting on basswood nectar in April and May.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” I said, surprised I was being so sassy with a complete stranger. But he didn’t feel like a stranger. And he didn’t seem to mind. I handed him another sample.

  “Can’t miss the anise,” he said after another slow, careful taste.

  “Guess three in a row, and you get a free jar.”

  I handed him the third sample. He tasted it. “That’s so easy, it’s not even fair.”

  “You don’t know, do you?” I said, smiling.

  “You think I don’t know?” he said, smiling back.

  “If you knew, I think you’d say.”

  He looked at me as if he was trying to decide what to do.

  “Ah, you got me,” he said. “I’ll take a jar of the basswood honey.” He dug deep into his front pocket and pulled out two kinds of money. It took him a second to figure out which bill to give me. I gave him his change and his honey.

  “Good day to you, kind lady,” he said, and he headed off.

  Then he turned back and caught me watching him. “If you plant some alfalfa near that buckwheat, you’ll get yourself a one-of-a-kind honey.” He reached up and gave a quick tug on the tip of his cap.

  Buckwheat was the third honey.

  As he walked away, I heard the polka music start up in the main big top. I took a deep breath. I just needed to get through the dance, and then I’d never have to dance with Sam again.

  I grabbed my tin money box and ran over to On-a-Stick, and Cami. I threw my money box under her counter and changed into my polka dress in the muggy storage closet in the back of the concession stand. I could barely get into it, since it was a year old.

  Cami giggled when she saw me.

  I had on my black velvet vest with red, blue, yellow, and green ribbons sewn up and down across the front, and a wrinkly white silk skirt with matching ribbons. Only, they weren’t up and down; they were sideways. I looked like a human Whirly Pop.

  The big top was packed, and the polka band was in full swing. I saw Mom and Dad sitting in the stands with Joey. I waved, and they waved back as the band launched into “Polka Dots and Moonbeams.” A gaggle of dancers swirled past with heel-toe steps, half steps, full steps, and shuffle steps, hopping with knees high and elbows flapping like a chicken. All classic polka moves.

  “The Laughing Polka” came next. All the lead singer did was laugh to the beat. Laughter is supposed to be contagious. His wasn’t.

  I felt Sam standing beside me before I saw him. It was like his presence changed the air around me.

  “Hi.”

  He acted like he didn’t even remember leaving the tops off the hives.

  Maybe he didn’t remember. But I did.

  He was wearing a polka costume I’d never seen before. He had on oversized red, white, and blue checkered pants with suspenders, red knee socks, black velvet boots with red tassels on the back, a straw boater hat, and a frilly white shirt with puffy sleeves.

  He looked comfortable, like he dressed this way all the time.

  The music started up again. As we stepped onto the dance floor, the caller placed a flower wreath dripping with ribbons on my head. Sam got one made of green leaves.

  Our crowns.

  “Just follow my lead,” Sam said.

  My eyebrows shot up. “Follow your lead? You can barely dance.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Billie O’Brien and Sam Harrington to the dance floor! Madeline Island’s junior polka king and queen! One last spin before they pass the torch!”

  Sam lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and held out his hand like a real polka dancer. I had to take it.

  “Let’s give them a big round of applause!”

  The crowd cheered as the band launched into “Kiss Me, I’m Polish” and Sam led me to the center of the dance floor. He spun me and turned me and promenaded me. As we stepped and shuffled, round and round the dance floor, I caught a glimpse of Sam’s mom, smiling and clapping to the music, a few rows back from my mom and dad, who were doing the same thing.

  I couldn’t believe it. Where was the human pogo stick?

  He smiled at me. I didn’t smile back.

  “I practiced all spring,” he said, reading my mind the way he used to.

  Finally, the song ended. Except the crowd wouldn’t let us go.

  “Kiss her, kiss her!”

  A flush of red crept up Sam’s neck.

  “Just do it.” I tilted my head up, knowing they wouldn’t stop chanting until he did. He quickly brushed his lips against my left cheek. His warm breath smelled sweet, like fresh mint.

  The crowd stomped and hooted as if we were Polish royalty.

  The new king and queen came onto the dance floor and bowed before us as we took the crowns from our heads and placed them onto theirs.

  Sam gallantly led me off the dance floor. As I turned to wave to the cheering crowd, I dropped his arm. When I turned back, he was gone, swallowed up by the crush of people.

  The next morning, a snappy breeze rolled up the meadow and through my window. As I lay in the warm cocoon of my quilt, still half-asleep, I thought of Sam twirling me around the dance floor, my hand in his, his other hand resting on my back.

  A smile was starting to sprout on my face, from a seed I hadn’t even known was there.

  What was I smiling about?

  He learned how to dance the polka, and now I’m supposed to forget what happened last summer?

  I wiped that smile off my face and looked across the meadow.

  I could see Sam’s entire farm from my window, including the periodic table of elements we’d painted on the back of his barn two summers before. It looked like a giant crossword puzzle, only the letters didn’t make words.

  Even though we weren’t supposed to learn about all the elements until ninth grade, I already knew
a lot about them because of Sam.

  He explained it this way:

  “If our alphabet is a list of letters that make all the words in our language, think of the periodic table as a list of substances that make all the matter in the universe.”

  Sam told me the whole world is made up 118 elements and human beings are mostly made up of just six of them.

  Hydrogen. Carbon. Nitrogen. Oxygen. Phosphorus. Calcium.

  Now I was wondering why all the elements that made up me were dreaming about Sam Harrington.

  I looked out over the bay. After I checked on my pumpkins, this would be a perfect day to go fishing out on the gichigami. Gichigami is Ojibwe for “great sea.” That was what my ancestors had named Lake Superior because it had waves like the ocean.

  I could also practice my rowing for the race, going faster and faster until my muscles were burning.

  But today was the powwow.

  I peered over my bunk. Marylee was still asleep.

  I eased down the ladder and slipped on the shorts and T-shirt I’d dropped in a pile by the bed the night before. Once I was dressed, I squeezed sideways through the bedroom doorway so it wouldn’t creak.

  Dad was already up, making chocolate chip pancakes. I hadn’t seen him with a spatula in his hand since Joey had been born.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Your favorite pancakes coming right up.”

  I grabbed a pancake right off the griddle just as Ricky Two Eagle blasted up our driveway in his truck.

  Ricky liked to brag that he was the best exterminator on Madeline Island. He even had a plastic sign glued to the side of his truck that said so. Of course, he was also the only exterminator on the island.

  As he bounded out of his truck, carrying his dented red metal toolbox, my dad and I stepped onto the back porch. I tossed my pancake from palm to palm to cool it down.

  “Hey, Ricky,” my dad said.

  “I know! I know!” Ricky blurted out. “Field ants! They’ll be gone by tomorrow!”

  I liked his confidence.