True (. . . Sort Of) (6 page)

T
here was a reason now, a good one, for staying out of trouble. It wasn't the Delly Day or to keep her mom from crying. It was being Clarice's pride.

Tuesday morning Delly was still puffed up with it. It woke her with the words, “Ma's proud of me.”

But the numbers were backing up behind her happy thoughts. “Bawlgrammit,” she muttered; then she let them through. Clarice's pride depended on it.

The numbers were blown up, too. They were fat and fluorescent-colored. They sashayed around her brain singing, One, two, three . . .

“Good morning, Ma,” she rasped as she came into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Delly.” Clarice smiled.

“Who do you think you are—strutting like you're six feet tall?” Galveston hissed.

The numbers trumpeted an attack. Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, they blared.

Delly high-stepped it to the toaster, and the rest of breakfast went without a hitch.

It was a long day of counting, though, even with Clarice's pride. By recess Delly and the digits were tiny and gray again.

On Alaska, as birds flapped around Ferris Boyd, Delly thought about after school. It'd be her and Galveston, with only the dinky numbers between them. There'd be hand-to-hair combat; Clarice's pride would be crushed.

“What'll I do?” she mumbled. Everywhere else was fun or fights.

Then the idea slapped her, like a smack to the brain. “Shikes,” she exclaimed.

“It'll be just like sitting on Alaska,” Delly told herself. “No fun, no fights. And no Galveston.

“Ferris Boyd,” she whispered, “I'm following you home.”

At the end of the day, Delly watched Ferris Boyd slump out the back door of the school, then she ran to the front. “Go with Cletis,” she hollered at RB. “I'll be home later.”

RB went pale with worry. “You in trouble?”

“Nah,” she said. “I got a project.”

“What kind of project?”

Delly told the truth, sort of. “It's about birds and squirrels and stuff. I got to go.”

But RB knew her: those copper curls weren't bouncing because she had a project. They were bound for a Dellyventure.

“Hey,” he called, but she was gone.

“What's Delly doing?” Cletis asked.

“Don't know,” RB replied. He was going to find out, though.

D
elly sprinted out the back door of the school and across the playground. “No talking, no touching, no fun,” she told herself. “Just like Alaska.”

She caught sight of Ferris Boyd at the bridge. “There you are,” she whispered, and crept along the concrete.

Ferris Boyd clumped out the River Road, while Delly dashed from tree to tree. At the old Hennepin place, Ferris Boyd trudged down an empty driveway and disappeared in the house.

“Chizzle,” Delly griped, because all that tailgating had come to nothing.

The door swung open again. Ferris Boyd was on the stoop, with a bowl in one hand and a basketball in the other.

“Shikes,” Delly squeaked, and dove in the ditch. She peeked over the edge.

Ferris Boyd turned to the bushes beside the yard. Her mouth didn't make a sound.

Still, a black cat sprang out of the brush, like she'd called it. It ran across the grass to her.

She sat on the stoop while the cat ate. After, it circled her as she scratched it.

And the birds were everywhere. Just like at school, they swooped around her, but they didn't come too close. “Because of that bawlgram cat,” Delly muttered.

The cat stretched out on the stoop. Ferris Boyd walked to the drive with the ball. She bounced it,
thump, thump, thump
.

“I hate that game,” Delly murmured.

Ferris Boyd turned to the basket. She sent the ball to the hoop, like it was easy.

“Whoa,” Delly rasped. Because even though she was too tiny for basketball, it was something to see a kid play like that.

The ditch was better than Alaska, because it wasn't school. But it was hard squatting, squished against dirt. Pretty soon every bit of Delly was screaming for a stretch.

So she did. A couple hunks of dirt dropped, noises nobody'd notice.

Unless nobody was a bawlgram cat. It raised its head and stared straight at her.

“What are you looking at?” Delly mumbled.

“Rowwwwr,” the cat replied, telling her and Ferris Boyd, too.

The girl quit playing. She followed the cat's gaze to the ditch.

Delly ducked.

Then there was silence. The silence of somebody sneaking up on me in a ditch, Delly thought.

“Shikes, shikes, shikes,” she hissed as she crawled in the dirt toward River Bluffs.

Before she got too far, though, she heard that
thump, thump, thump
again. She stopped, and snuck a look.

Ferris Boyd was back playing ball. The cat was sunning itself.

Then Delly didn't stir.

It was a long time till Ferris Boyd set the ball on the stoop.

“Finally,” Delly breathed.

The girl picked up her backpack and headed to the woods. The cat trotted behind her.

Suddenly it was quiet. The birds and other creatures had disappeared, like she'd taken them with her.

Delly still had awhile till Clarice got home. “I can go face Galveston,” she murmured, “or follow Ferris Boyd.” It didn't take two seconds to decide.

She crept out of the ditch and across the grass. She went into the woods.

It was dark in there. She could hear animals up ahead and over her. But there was no Ferris Boyd. No bawlgram cat, either. “What the glub?” she whispered.

There was a path between trees. Delly snuck along it. Alone in the shadows, she got nervous. “Maybe those two are watching me,” she muttered. “Maybe they're witches, living in the woods. Maybe they'll fly at me, and turn me into a —”

“Mowrrrr,” it howled from above.

Delly shot, like a sunlight-seeking missile, out of the woods. She dove in the ditch. Her head popped up, fists in front of her. “Come ‘mowr' at me now,” she dared it.

But there was no furry witch flying at her.

The River Bluffs whistle blew five o'clock. Clarice would be heading home.

“Bawlgrammit, I got to go,” she grumbled, and climbed out of the ditch.

As she ran down the road, the corners of Delly's mouth curled. “Ferris Boyd.” She laughed and shook her head.

Because following her wasn't supposed to be fun, but it had turned into a Dellyventure.

S
he got home just before Clarice pulled in the drive.

“Hey Ma,” she hollered. “From now on I'm not coming home right after school.”

The color left Clarice's face. “Why's that?” she asked.

“I got a project.”

That didn't help Clarice. Delly's projects always got a grade of T for Trouble. “What kind of project?”

“It's about wild creatures and habitats.” She used Lionel Terwilliger words. “It's me and a girl doing it.”

“Is this for school?” Clarice kept at it.

Delly sort of told the truth. “She's in my class. She's new.”

If there hadn't been a week of no trouble, Clarice wouldn't have trusted it. But Delly'd been different. “Hmm,” she said.

Clarice had more questions, like Who's watching you? and When's it going to be done? Tallahassee was tugging on her, though, asking, “Can I eat at Fern Teeter's?” and Dallas was yelling, “Ma, there's smoke coming from the stove!”

As Clarice ran to the house, shouting, “Dallas, don't touch anything!” the Delly questions disappeared.

“All right then.” Delly grinned.

RB came to her room after dinner.

She was lying on her bed, thinking about that invisible Ferris Boyd.

He stood over her with his arms crossed. “So,” he said.

“Hunh,” she replied.

“You got a project, for real?”

“Yep,” she answered.

“What's it about?”

“I already told you. It's about animals and where they live, how they hide in places you can't see them.”

He squinted his eyes. “Who's it with?”

“Ferris Boyd,” she said. “You don't know her.”

But RB surprised her. “The one who's not your surpresent?”

Delly didn't say anything.

“When are you going to be done?” he asked, because he missed her already.

She shrugged. “You better keep walking with Cletis. Now I got to count. One, two, three . . . ” she called out, louder than any questions he could ask.

So RB left. Outside her door, though, he breathed, “You can't get rid of me, Delly.”

W
ednesday the counting was still killing Delly. Then there was recess.

“Jiminy fipes.” She giggled as squirrels played Ring Around the Ferris Boyd. But mostly she thought about after school. “I'm going to find where you disappeared to,” she rasped from across the playground.

At three o'clock she watched Ferris Boyd slump out the door and followed her.

By the time Delly got to the ditch, Ferris Boyd was facing the bushes.

And there was that black cat, sprinting to her.

Bawlgram cat. Delly only thought it.

Still, the cat stopped and turned.

Delly ducked, waiting for it to tattle.

But the only sounds were birds singing, then the
thump, thump
of a basketball bouncing.

Delly's head popped up. Just like yesterday, that girl was making the ball do things she'd never seen before. “More bawlgram basketball.” She sighed.

Ferris Boyd played till Delly's legs were cramping. Finally, she put the ball down and walked into the woods with the cat.

“Happy Hallelujah,” Delly mumbled, and took off. She ran across the grass and into the darkness. “There you are,” she murmured.

Up ahead, Ferris Boyd's pale skin glowed, like a ghost. Delly followed the glowing.

The girl and the cat went behind the biggest tree Delly'd ever seen. She waited for them to come out the other side.

They didn't.

Delly snuck up to the tree. She peeked to see if they were hiding behind it. She tippy-toed around it, twice.

Those two had disappeared again.

“Shikes,” she whispered.

Lionel Terwilliger had taught about sublimation, how a solid could turn into a gas in an instant. “They sublimated themselves,” she breathed.

Delly got nervous. “Maybe they're both ghosts. Or maybe they're super-smelly gas. Maybe they'll suffocate me with their stink and—”

“Rowwwwr,” it howled from above. Right where a gas cat would be, before it swooped down and stink-bombed her.

Delly's legs turned faster than a windmill in a tornado. She was all the way to the bridge before she checked to see if something was chasing her.

But there was no gas cat to be seen.

“What the glub?” she rasped. Then she grinned. “Ferris Boyd, you are a mysturiosity.”

The whistle blew.

“See you tomorrow,” she said to the gas, or ghosts, or whatever Ferris Boyd and that cat had become.

B
ack at school, Delly was getting a reputation. A good one.

Tuesday, Lionel Terwilliger stopped at her desk. “Ms. Pattison,” he said softly, “your progress is appreciated,” and he smiled at her.

On Wednesday, Ms. McDougal came to the classroom. “Delaware Pattison, please stand,” she boomed.

“Bawlgrammit,” Delly muttered, because nothing good ever came from her being the only kid standing.

Somehow, she'd done something bad. Now they were going to get rid of her in front of everybody. She could hear Novello snickering.

The principal handed her a piece of paper. Delly didn't need to look to know what it was: a one-way ticket to the reDellyformatory.

“Read it out loud,” Ms. McDougal commanded.

It was cruel genius, like making a criminal read the guilty verdict at her trial. But Delly did it.

“‘Awarded to Delaware Pattison, for Excellent Conduct,'” she rasped. There was the date and a big gold star. “Huh?”

“Delly,” Ms. McDougal declared, “your conduct has been exemplary.”

“Smelly?” Novello snorted. “That's a stinking mistake.”

Delly was too confused to count. Her hands folded into fists.

Till she heard the principal shout, “Mr. Novello, to my office. Now!”

Delly watched him clump out of the classroom. “That's better than a gold star.” She grinned.

By Thursday, Delly's reputation had gotten to gym class.

“We're going to play basketball,” Ms. Gerwitz announced. “Now, for captains . . . ”

All the kids raised their hands. “Ooh, ooh,” they begged.

All except Delly. And Ferris Boyd.

Because Delly could ooh, ooh till the world ended, and no grown-up was going to put her in charge of other kids. Plus she hated that game. She counted, instead.

“I already know who I want,” Ms. Gerwitz told them. “Put your hands down.

“Gwennie, you have team number one. Tater, team two.” Novello got number three. “Our fourth captain is . . .” Ms. Gerwitz smiled right at her. “Delly Pattison.”

“Bawldoublegrammit,” Delly groaned. She knew Ms. Gerwitz meant something good, but making her captain was bad. Now she'd have to play the game, instead of sitting it out. She'd stink up the place with her tiny basketball terribleness.

“Captains, come here and choose your teams,” Ms. Gerwitz said. “Teams one and two play first, then three and four.”

“Chizzle,” Delly grimaced. Now she was playing Novello, too.

She scanned the crowd for potential players. They were all watching the other three, pleading, “Pick me, pick me.”

There was one kid, though, not looking at anybody. It was Ferris Boyd.

The idea blew up in her brain like a genius bomb. “Holy shikes,” Delly squeaked, it was so smart.

The other captains picked first. All the while kids were yelling, “Ooh, ooh, me, me.”

Till it was Delly's turn. The gym went silent.

It didn't matter. In a few minutes everything would change.

“Ferris Boyd,” Delly called out.

There were gasps, then giggles, as Ferris Boyd shuffled toward her.

It didn't matter.

“We're going to be winners,” Delly whispered.

With Ferris Boyd on her team, Delly didn't need anybody else. She was about to tell Ms. Gerwitz, “I'm done,” when she got another blast of brilliance.

I'll pick the kids nobody else wants, she decided. Sibyl Salisbury, Chicky Plunkett, Eldon Stank, Melbert Fouts—Delly got every one of them. They slunk up and stood behind her. None of them said, “Thanks.”

It didn't matter.

“We'll all be winners,” she breathed.

They sat together for the first game. Melbert was gnawing his nails, asking Delly over and over, “What are we going to do?”

“I got it,” she assured him.

They huddled before the tip-off. “Here's the plan,” she told them. “Ferris Boyd, you stand by our basket. Everybody else, pass it to her.”

Ferris Boyd's head jerked up, her eyes popping with panic.

“That's it?” Melbert shrieked. “That's the plan?”

“Bawlgrammit, Melbert,” Delly barked, “just get the ball to her. It'll be all right.”

“We're dead,” Chicky cried. The others nodded.

It didn't matter. In a minute Ferris Boyd would transform into a swish-shooting machine. Then they'd be shouting, “Hooray for Delly! She made us winners.”

Ferris Boyd slumped to her spot.

“Perfexcellent.” Delly grinned.

Ms. Gerwitz blew the whistle, and the two teams came to center court. “No touching Ferris,” she reminded them.

Melbert jumped for the tip-off. He hopped on one foot while his arms flailed around his head.

Novello grabbed it and took it down the court for an easy layup. “Your team stinks, just like you,” he sneered as he passed Delly.

It didn't matter. Now she had the ball.

Delly Pattison might be too tiny to shoot, but she could dribble. She was so low to the ground other kids couldn't reach her. As she sped down the court, she snickered. “You're going down, Nobraino.”

“Here, Ferris Boyd. Do your business!” Delly yelled as she threw the ball to her. Then she turned to the hoop and waited for the swish.

She heard shouts. She felt the wind of people whizzing by. She swung around just in time to see Novello put the ball in his basket.

“Delly!” Melbert wailed.

She looked at Ferris Boyd, still slouching. “What the glub happened?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Sibyl sighed. “The ball bounced off her.”

Eldon was wheezing. “What are we going to do?”

“Do it again,” she told them.

“What?” they screamed.

“I said, ‘Do it again!'”

Delly got the ball down the court. This time she stopped a foot away from Ferris Boyd. “Here it is. Take it and shoot,” she said, and lobbed it.

The ball hit the girl's hand, then fell to the floor. Delly picked it up. “Ferris Boyd, shoot!” she hollered, and tossed it at her.

But the girl was a human backboard. The ball thumped off her belly.

And into Novello's hands. He took it to his basket for two more points.

“Time out!” Delly shouted.

The whistle blew.

Delly stood two inches from her. “Ferris Boyd,” she whispered, “I'm getting the ball to you. All you got to do is shoot. Just shoot the ball.”

Then Ferris Boyd looked at her, with the same sad eyes she'd seen that day in the green Impala. And Delly knew it wasn't going to happen.

The others gathered around, like frightened fawns. “Delly,” Chicky gasped, “what do we do?”

Delly didn't know. “Shoot some bawlgram baskets,” she told them.

Melbert started sobbing.

“Just try,” she said softly.

So they did.

Ms. Gerwitz cut the game short from mercy. Still, it was a massacre.

“The stink bombs lose,” Novello cheered.

“All right,” Ms. Gerwitz ordered. “Clean up and get to your class.”