 
My Name is Kentucky

Copyright 2013 by Erick Flaig

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter One: Welcome to School!

Masking tape is sticky only until it gets wet. Once it gets wet, it turns gooey; and if it gets soaked, it won't stick at all. It just slides right off. Nine-year-old Ally Simmons tried desperately to keep that from happening.

Ally's teacher towered over her, reaching almost to the ceiling of the classroom. At least that's how Ms Dofenbaugh seemed to her. Ally felt her eyes dart up at the corners, checking to see if Ms Dofendaugh, long and lanky as her name, was still watching her. She was. A painted smile of satisfaction covered her wicked mouth, like the wide red make-up of a clown.

Ms Dofenbaugh straightened up folded her arms across her wasp-like chest. She snapped off her words like bits of a broken pretzel. "I do not tolerate liars in my classroom, young lady. When you decide to tell me, and this class, your real name, the tape comes off. Not until then." Ms Dofendaugh nodded with a sharp motion that nearly struck her birdlike chin on her folded arms. "I do not tolerate liars. I do not. I will not. Children, do I tolerate liars in this class?"

The other second-graders gazed straight ahead. "No, Ms Dofendaugh. You do not tolerate liars." Their voices were as flat as the asphalt-covered playground outside the tall thin windows.

"Thank you, class. Now, Miss Simmons, are you are ready to confess your transgression and join this class? If so, lift your hand, tell me the truth, and you may do so. Otherwise, keep that tape on so no further deceit come out of your lying lips." Ms Dofendaugh spun on her heel and stalked from Ally's seat at the rear back to the front of the room, her shoes squeaking on the wooden floor. She wore no wedding band, because she had never been married. She had never been married because no one had ever asked her. No one ever would.

Ally covered her mouth with her right hand. The tears kept coming, and the tape refused to stick to her lips, to her skin, or to her chin. She pressed tightly, holding the tape to her face while her pleading brown eyes searched for help, a friend, someone who would take her side. The other pupils stared straight ahead at the worn blackboard.

"Let us proceed, class," intoned the teacher. "I want you to open your arithmetic books to page thirty, and complete the first fifteen odd-numbered problems."

Ally tried to stop her tears. No one else in the classroom even glanced in her direction. Twenty-nine students buried their faces in their arithmetic books, scratching answers onto gray paper with razor-sharp pencils. Two dozen right-handed students rested their arms easily on wooden rests; since there were only two left-handed desks in the room, three of the five who used that hand twisted their bodies around like crabs, trying to achieve a better angle.

Ally was the thirtieth student crowded into a classroom designed for twenty. Her arithmetic book was on her desk, unopened. Beside it lay her tablet, an almost square gray pad of lined paper. She had gotten no further than writing her name at the top of the page. The tape slid again, and she pressed it back, her elbow wrinkling the top sheet of her paper.

Ally knew that to the rest of the students, she was an invisible sideshow. All new students, in every classroom, in every school, in every state, have the same experience; and Ally had been a new student four times in four different grades, in four different schools, in four different states. She wore second-hand clothes from a thrift shop, although her shoes were new. Her mother didn't believe in buying used shoes. But she knew no one would speak to her until her own newness wore off; instead, everyone would talk about her, and no one would look at her, except to stare.

Ally didn't like being new, but she understood and accepted how things worked, until this morning. Her former teachers had been kind. Again, she blinked away tears that refused to stop. She wrinkled her nose, trying to keep it from running; and the morning activities replayed in her mind again, as she tried to figure out what she had done wrong.

Twenty minutes before, Ally had bounced into the classroom. The day was a Tuesday in late September, and classes had been underway for about three weeks. Her family was still getting settled, and her mother registered the four oldest children for school at the first opportunity. Ally was happy to return to the classroom, excited to again be with kids her own age, and anxious to start learning again. That brief happiness was a million years ago.

So now she sat, squirming on a hard wooden seat, trying to keep soggy masking tape on her face, terrified she would be in deeper trouble if it fell off.

The class continued without Ally's participation. She did not lift her hand, because she could not without the tape dripping off. She was not lying about her name, whatever Ms Dofenbaugh thought.

Her name really was Alabama.

Her full name really was Alabama Redtide Simmons, whatever Ms Dofenbaugh thought.

She was not a liar, and would not lie and say it was something else, even if Ms Dofenbaugh stuck a whole roll of tape on her mouth.

The minute-hand of the big clock above the blackboard crawled around the dial, time after time, as the weary day wore away. The tape fell off, and Ally quickly pushed it back on. When the final bell finally rang, Ally sprang up from her seat, gathered her books in her hands, and ran from the room. Ms Dofenbaugh rose from her teacher's throne at the front of the room, but Ally did not dare stop. The bell sounded; she was free, and she was not going to face Ms Dofenbaugh again. The masking tape fluttered from her face, drifting onto the polished wooden floor. Tears streamed from Ally's eyes, and she pushed her way through the other children without exchanging a word. A few turned to stare at her, but not one offered even a look of sympathy. Ally pushed the heavy metal door open, and stepped outside. She felt like a released prisoner.

Ally began her walk home, alone. Outside, she was surprised that the afternoon was warm and sunny; she had been freezing in the classroom, and now her chilled arms warmed like she was holding them over a toaster. The sky was a bright, almost cloudless blue, and she found the day's events draining away, like dirty water down a drain. She sighed and walked between two metal poles, following the path leading into the baseball field. A chain link fence stretched on either side of the poles, circling around the field, enclosing it and a small group of bleachers. She hurried along the cinder track, making for the small gate she knew was at the opposite end of the field.

"Ally! Ally! Wait!"

Ally glanced over her shoulder for an instant, seeing a thin boy in faded jeans running toward her. It was only her brother, and she did not answer him.

"Ally! Wait a minute!" The voice rose, but Ally did not slow down.

Behind her, boy picked up his pace, his sneakers flapping and slapping on the cinder track until he caught up with her; then he slowed his stride to match hers.

"What, Ken?" Ally said, without looking.

The boy was a half-head taller, and a little broader, than his sister, but no could mistake their relationship. They shared the same wispy brown hair, the same dark eyes, and the same fair skin. Now, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, squinting at his younger sister. He breathed in and out loudly a few times; just to be sure she knew she had made him run.

Ken danced in front of her, and walked backwards, pointing at her and trying to appear authoritative. "You're supposed to wait for me. Dad doesn't want you walking home alone. Not till you're in seventh grade. You're too little. That's what Dad said."

"Didn't want to wait."

"Doesn't matter. You have to listen to me." Ken glanced over his shoulder.

"It's just across the baseball field."

"Doesn't matter. You know you have to listen. Dad's busy looking for another job, and until Mom's feeling better, you better listen to me."

Ally pushed past him, and Ken noticed her red puffy eyes, and hesitated.

"Ally, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." She increased her pace again.

"Nothing? Your eyes are all red."

"Nothing!"

"You look like you've been crying. Did somebody pick on you?" Ken frowned.

"Leave me alone." Ally walked faster, and wiped her nose.

"What's wrong, Ally? If someone's picking on you, tell me so I can take care of it. Do you need me to beat up somebody?" Ken balled his empty hand into a fist and shook it so she would know he meant it, every word of it. "I'd be glad to do it, Ally."

Ally stopped and faced her brother. "What are you going to do, beat up a teacher?"

Ken froze. He felt the world shift, move, and then freeze around him. He no longer heard the sparrows singing as they darted about under the bleachers, picking up bits of fallen hot dog buns. He no longer felt the warm, late afternoon breeze on his cheek, no longer breathed or thought. The gears of his mind ground to a gritty halt. A teacher! He finally sputtered. "A teacher?"

"Yes. Ms Dofendaugh, my teacher." Ally's eyes filled with tears. With a trembling finger, she pointed to her mouth. "She put tape on my mouth!"

"No way!" Ken swung around, and started walking back toward the school.

He felt Ally grab him by the arm and he stopped short, but he did not turn his eyes from the red brick school on the hill behind them.

"No, Kenny! Please! I don't want you to make things worse!"

Ken's voice was thick. "Why? Why did she do that to you?"

"She said I was a liar." She flicked her hand across her cheek.

"Why did she call you a liar?"

"Because I told her my name. She called the roll, and when she got to me, she asked me if Ally was short for Allison. I told her it was short for Alabama."

Ken growled and turned back toward their house, thrusting his hands in deep in his pockets. His backpack swung about on him, bouncing as he stalked toward their house.

"What then?"

"She told me to stop lying. I told her I wasn't." Ally sniffed and wiped her nose. Her lips still tingled from the tape. "She just stared at me, and all the kids were staring at me, too. I said my name was Alabama Redtide Simmons, and she said I was a liar. She keeps masking tape in her top desk drawer, and she put a piece on my mouth. I had to wear it the rest of the day."

"What a creep," said Ken. "What a total creep."

Ken slowed when re realized Ally was trying to match his longer steps. He tried to smile at Ally, and she wiped her eyes. Her pack slid from her slim shoulders and she caught the strap. Ken reached across her and took the backpack from her without commenting. Ally smiled at him, just a passing ghost of a smile. Ken bit his lip; he had always been there for Ally, always ready to protect her. But what could he do about a teacher like Ms Dofenbaugh?

The Simmons family was renting a small, house, just outside the town limits. The children were able to walk to and from school by cutting across the baseball field, a short five or ten minute walk, and home with the family was the happiest spot for Ken and Ally. Now, Ken's feet felt like they were made of lead. He dreaded arriving home. There was no way to avoid telling their parents about their day at school, and yet he had not the foggiest idea of how to go about it. Glancing at her, he knew she would not be the one to speak up first. She had dried her eyes, and her lip no longer trembled.

They walked through the narrow, lower gate, Ken letting his sister pass in front of him. "You've got to tell Mom and Dad," he finally said. He kicked a lingering, spindly dandelion. Its yellow head flew off, landed in front of them, and Ken kicked it again.

"I can't."

"Well, you have to. They have to know."

"I can't, Ken. I could barely tell you."

Ken nodded, agreeing against his better judgment, and knowing telling their parents was inevitable. "Okay," he said, simply. "We'll just let things go, and see how they turn out. For now."

The smell of hot dogs greeted them at the door. And Ken could not help smiling as he saw their mother pulling a pan of franks from the oven. The kitchen door banged shut behind them.

"Don't slam," Sarah Simmons admonished, without looking at them.

"Sorry, Mom," Ken answered mechanically. He checked the cookie jar and found it empty. "Where are the cookies?"

"It's too close to supper, Ken. Your Dad's home and we're going to go ahead and eat."

"Yeah, but where's the cookies? There was like a whole box in here this morning."

"If they're gone, I guess Missy finished them." She called, "Joe! Time to eat!"

Ken tossed his backpack in a corner. "Great."

Even though the meal was one of his favorites, Ken ate his beans and hot dogs without tasting them, stirring the beans across the plate with his fork, picking them up one by one. He watched his youngest sisters, Missy and Ally, full of chocolate chip cookies, play with their hot dog without eating them; Ally's lay half-eaten on her plate. Their father sat at one end of the rectangular table. He finished his hot dog, forked up a mouthful of beans, and motioned toward their mother, at the other end of the table. "Sarah, could you pass me another steak?" He grinned, and Ally giggled. Sarah passed the plate of hot dogs to the right, and sent a bottle of ketchup the opposite direction to the left.

"Just be sure to save one for Georgia. She stayed after school today for a meeting of some sort."

"Will do. Now, what's wrong with you, Ken? Did school go okay? You're as quiet as a broken post."

Ken sighed; his father had bit into a hot dog and was chewing with gusto. In a second or two, he would ask Ken the same question again. Ken spun his fork around in the beans, and made his decision. "Nothing is wrong with me. Maybe you should ask Ally."

He peeked sideways at Ally, and saw her eyes widen as his father nodded. "All right, son. I guess I will. Ally, what happened at school today? It was just the first day; nothing could be wrong yet, could it?"
Chapter Two: At Home with the Family

Sarah Simmons sank down onto the sofa, keenly aware of the springs just below the thin cushions. The couch had seen more of the nation than many truck drivers, and it was showing both its age and its miles. Sarah stroked her stomach and sighed. Across the room, her husband, Joe, leaned back on his battered recliner, catching the armrest as it came off again. He pushed it down firmly, seized the lever on the right hand side, and pushed backwards, lifting his feet in the air. Sarah sighed again, louder, so he would notice.

"I know, I know." Joe rubbed his hand across his chin, looked toward the ceiling, and closed his eyes. "I know."

"I expect more from a teacher." Sarah shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. "I want the children to be good, respectful students, but how can we ignore what Ally said happened? It's not right."

Joe crossed his feet and rummaged on the side table, pushing glasses and odd cups out of the way. "I know, but a lot of things aren't. What do you want me to do about it? Go down there and raise a big stink, maybe make things worse?"

Sarah froze. "Joe, you may be the meekest man since Moses, but the teacher put tape across her mouth. Masking tape. And then she called her a liar in front of all the other kids. Do you know what Ally feels like right now?"

"I think I know."

"How could you know? She's been humiliated in front of her entire class."

Joe sighed. "Sarah. I do know how she feels, because I've been there. Now, don't get riled up. It's not good for your condition. And I suppose I need to do something about it. I just don't know how. We've got to live here for a while Sarah. And this was just the first day!"

Sarah was silent. There was nothing else to say, because deep down, she didn't know how to handle Ms Dofenbaugh either, and the powerlessness she felt was like a living thing, sitting on her chest and crushing the spirit from her.

Ken slouched into the still atmosphere of the living room, draped himself across a chair and flicked his plastic light-saber open. Coming down the narrow hall, he had heard his parents talking about Ally. Now, he tapped the top of his head with his light-saber, pointed it into the air, and decided to help. "I know what I'd like to do."

His father answered. "Now, son. I know what your solution would be, but fighting never solves anything. You should know that. You've tried it often enough."

"But Dad..."

"But me no buts, son. This is a matter for your mother and yours truly to figure out. I just don't know what to do, yet."

"The first thing, Joe, is I think you need to go talk directly to her teacher. And probably the principal, too. It wasn't right, and they should make it right."

Ken sat up, surprise straightening his spine like a poker. He had never heard his mother speak to his father with such authority.

"Well, I know I've got to do that. I meant in a more general way."

Ken decided the time was right to open his mouth again. He stopped waving the saber and jumped in head-first, without checking the water. "Maybe if you hadn't given us such stupid names, people wouldn't make fun of us so much."

His father leveled his recliner, reached over and took the light-saber from Ken. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Ken. There's nothing wrong with your name."

"Are you serious, Dad? Are you serious? My name is Kentucky, Dad! Kentucky!"

Now his mother leaned forward from the couch, reaching to with her hand to catch hold of the edge of the coffee-table. She pointed at Ken. "You watch your tone with your father, Kentucky."

"Don't call me Kentucky!" Ken voice rose; he felt it quiver, and he battled to fight the shakiness back down. "I hate that name! Why do we have to be so weird? Did you think it was funny or something?"

Ken shuddered, and he had to strain to hear his father's voice, which had turned soft and sad. "Son, you know why we named you like we did."

Ken heard himself talking, saying words he had thought about many times, but never expected to hear cross his lips. It was like watching a movie, and he couldn't stop himself. "I know, I know. But knowing doesn't make it better. You and Mom were working all of the country, so wherever we were born, that's the name we got. Great. We're a list of jobs. And why can't you get a real job, anyway?" Instantly, Ken clapped his hand across his mouth, but it was too late. The end credits of the movie he was watching play now rolled, and the hurtful words were out on the screen. They could not be unsaid.

Ken watched his father freeze. The recliner did not move, and he did not breathe. Ken glanced at his mother; her hand clutched the worn fabric of the couch so tightly he could see the tendons in the back of her hand. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

"Ken," she said, and her voice so soft he could barely hear her.

His father lowered his recliner, stood, and without speaking to or looking at him, walked from the room, his head bowed.

"Dad," Ken croaked. "Dad, I didn't mean anything."

For an instant, he paused in the doorway, and Ken thought he would turn around, turn around and maybe say it was alright, but he did not. After a moment, he walked out of the room without looking back. Ken sat, horrified at what he had said.

Ken heard the back door click as it closed. He scrambled up from the chair and looked out of the window. His father stood on the back porch, hands shoved deeply into his pockets. The back yard stretched thirty feet to an alley, but his father's eyes were staring into space.

Ken breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. How could he have said such a terrible thing, such hurtful words? He knew how hard his father struggled to take care of them. This house was the biggest one they had ever been in, and even though four of the girls had to share a bedroom. And for the first time in his life, Ken had his own private space, even it was tiny.

Ken sighed, and pushed his face away from the window; ignoring the creaking of the wooden floorboards beneath his guilty shoes as he backed away. He almost walked into his mother; she had come up from behind him as he stared out of the window; now she pulled the window curtain to the right, to close it, and turned to face him. Ken sat down on the chair, and bowed his head, his face almost touching his knees, waiting for her to say something, to punish him. After a few moments of silence, she left the room and Ken heard her soft footfalls. He knew was walking up the stairs to check on the girls.

Ken's mind spun like a tractor tire caught in a mud-hole. He did not know why he said some of the things he did; it just seemed like sometimes his mouth got ahead of his brain. He never meant to hurt anyone, especially his father, but knew he often did. He rubbed his face on his knees, ashamed as a dark awareness grew down inside him, that there was a tiny glow of gladness down in a deep, dark corner of his soul. He had been thinking the thoughts for a while. Why not say them? Why not get them out, where people could hear them, and maybe do something about them? He was sure his older sister harbored the same thoughts, had wondered the same things, and wondered if his mother did, too. His father had never kept a job, a real job, a paying job, for more than three months. Never. And they had never lived in the same house for more than six months. Never. There were few memories for Ken that did not involve a car. He had no family homestead, no roots, anywhere. There were no marks on a wall, charting their height, no attic with old and forgotten toys, and the background changed in every snapshot they had ever taken.

Ken rubbed his face, harder. He decided he was not going to cry. He was not going to cry. A tear rolled down his cheek and he struck at it, flicking it away with his finger, hating the weakness inside himself that made him cry in spite of himself.

"No way," he muttered to himself, and lunged up from the chair. He shoved his feet into his sneakers, wiggling his finger in the side to pop them on. He had not bothered to untie them earlier. His father had gone out the back door, so he'd use the front. He twisted the doorknob with a savageness that kept the tears from springing to his eyes. He banged the door open and ran outside, darting from the wooden porch with all the hounds of regret on his heels. But he would not cry, anyway.

Outside it was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, deep, rich blue, almost the color of an empty television channel. Ken kept his head down, though, and did not notice the azure heaven above him, nor feel the warm of the evening sun on his thin shoulders, nor hear the twittering of the grackles in the oak tree on the corner.

"Hey, Simmons."

Ken jerked his attention up to a chubby boy who suddenly blocked his way. "What, Rupert? And move, why don't you?"

"Move? Me? I thought you tramps would've moved on by now."

"Shut up."

"Don't feel like it. Do you want to try to make me?"

"Like that'd be hard, you marshmallow." Ken's hands clenched, forming into read-to-hit-somebody fists. Rupert backed up a step, flexing down a bit and holding his hands in a karate-like stance. "What are you supposed to be, a ninja?" Ken snorted, and tried to keep from laughing as he watched the other boy.

Rupert was pudgy, and his striped shirt made him look chubby. He shifted, and wobbled on one leg, the other waving about an inch from the ground, and he pulled his hands through several poses.

Ken watched him, thinking that he looked like a striped marshmallow on a roasting stick, waving over a campfire. He returned the heavy boy's glare, and leaned forward. "Try it," Ken suggested.

"Hi, ya!" Rupert barked, and jumped from one leg to the other.

Ken dropped his fists. "You're nuts," he said.

Suddenly, Rupert darted forward and kicked Ken under his rib cage. Surprised, Ken gasped, and clutched his chest. "Hi, ya!" shouted Rupert again, and danced a few steps backward. Ken caught his breath and shook his head before charging at Rupert; both his hands were coiled tightly and he drew his right back to put more momentum into the punch.

Just before his fist could impact Rupert's face, Ken heard the voice of his father voice intrude, and he pulled his punch at the last instant.

"Ken, what in the world do you think you're doing?"

Ken felt his father grab the back of his shirt, holding him fast by the material. "You know we don't fight."

Rupert resumed his stance and cocked his double chin toward Ken. "You know we don't fight," he sniveled. "I'll bet you don't, you hillbilly. All show and no go, that must be a Simmons."

Ken twisted, slipping from his father's grasp. "You take that back!" he cried, and charged toward Rupert again.

"Kentucky Simmons!"

Ken froze. Although there was sternness in his father's voice, a note of authority to call him back to his senses, it was not that which stopped him. The instant his name was uttered, Rupert dropped his karate stance and began to laugh.

"Kentucky? Your name is Kentucky? Doesn't that just figure?"

Glowering and ignoring his father's command to stop, Ken moved in on Rupert, who pivoted, and Ken followed him around, trying to keep the other boy in front of him. Rupert waved his thick hands around several times. Ken ignored the hands, and stepped closer, trying to get in one good punch before his father took hold of him again.

Ken ground his teeth together; they sounded like sandpaper blocks inside his skull. "I'm going to take you apart, Rupert. Just for fun." His father lurched toward him, but Ken managed to slip out of his grip again.

Rupert laughed. "Does 'ou widdle Kentucky need his da-da to save him?"

Ken lunged at Rupert, but the chubby boy twisted with unexpected ease, and Ken slid by him. As he passed, Rupert smacked him on the nape of his neck with his palm, hard. Ken, moving at the speed of a starving jaguar, found himself pin-wheeling as he desperately tried to regain his balance. He failed and sprawled face-first into the damp grass. He opened his eyes, which he had squinted shut, and found himself staring at a large pile of dog poo. Rupert laughed again.

Kenny staggered upright and glared.

Joe barked at Ken, "Son! We're going home!"

Rupert laughed again. His braces twinkled, and his stomach bounced up and down, up and down. "Hey up, son, we's headin' fer the hills!" He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes, wheezing.

Ken glared at his father, and without answering him, stalked down the sidewalk, away from both home, and the giggling Rupert.

Amosville was a small town. Ken barely paused when crossing the streets; there were no traffic lights, and listening for approaching vehicles was enough for safety. He didn't care if a car hit him or not, anyway. He wandered without caring where he was walking, not wanting to return home just then, but before long he noticed he had gone past several places more than once. He was walking, not in circles, but in squares.

There was the worn-out grocery store. School had started, and its changeable sign in the parking lot still advertised specials for the fourth of July. Labor Day had come and gone without the store noticing. A banged-up shopping cart leaned at a drunken angle on a rubberized bench; the two looked like they were exchanging secrets and stories of better days. Next door, there was a tiny pizza parlor. Smoking was permitted inside, and the seats showed it; a thin, impossible-to-remove coating covered them like oilskin. Across the street was the old bank, the bricks dropping out like snowflakes.

Ken kept walking, heading for home now. There was no where else to go, and he knew he couldn't put off going home forever. Running away didn't cross his mind, and since he didn't have any friends; no place to go to hang out, to catch his breath, or to clear his head, he couldn't think of anywhere else to go. He kicked the ground as he walked. He never made friends. His family moved too much, never paused to grow roots in a community, never stayed, and never lasted anywhere. The Simmons were nothing more than a vague memory in a half-dozen tiny towns scattered across that number of states. Amosville, Ken knew, would be no different.

Three: Ken and Rupert

Friday afternoon, Ken found himself again, squirming on a hard wooden seat, looking for a comfortable place that wasn't there. Math was not his best subject, and now he pushed his pencil nearly through his paper. The sheet wrinkled under the pencil's point, and he smoothed it with his free hand. He frowned at the figures. They were wrong. He knew it. They were wrong, and he knew it, but he had no idea how to make them right. Learning consistently was difficult for Ken, especially since he had never been able to settle in with a school and really connect with a teacher. He glanced toward the front of the classroom. Mr. Lidtire, Ken knew, would not be that teacher, even if his family stopped moving.

Distracted now, Ken watched Rupert, a few seats away, sniff, wipe his nose on his hand, and finally transfer the result to the leg of his pants. Ken shook his head; the first period was almost over, and Rupert had wiped his nose more times than Ken wanted to remember. Ken stared at the large, round white clock in front of the classroom, staring back at him from the center of the pale-green wall. Ken sighed. School was not a chore, it was an endurance run down a road of broken stones, and both his feet were bare.

Ken tried to turn his attention back fully to his wrinkled paper. The problems would not correct themselves, and inattention during an assignment brought the wrath of Mr. Lidtire. At the front of the room, the math teacher perched on the edge of his desk, just below and to the right of the clock. Ken kept his head down.

Mr. Lidtire was middle-aged, with prominent ears and deeply-dyed hair; today, as most days, he wore a colored shirt with a mismatched necktie. His heavy, hairy arms were crossed across his chest, resting on his stomach, and Ken watched the man's shiny dark eyes darting among his students, ever alert to the tell-tale signs of a cheater.

"No whispering," he barked. The day before, Ken had heard Mr. Lidtire discussing his class from what he no doubt thought was the safety of the teacher's lounge. "There is no sense in waiting for trouble to rear its ugly head," Mr. Lidtire pontificated, "Once trouble starts, trouble grows. It grows each and every time, like an ugly weed in a beautiful garden. I have zero intention of being one of those teachers..." and here he sneered the words. "One of those teachers who stand by and allow trouble to grow, when a little bud-nipping is all that is required to keep the weed of disrespect at bay, and the garden of the classroom quiet and clean." Mr. Lidtire had left the room, almost running into Ken, still shaking his heavy, square head back and forth, at those teachers.

Now, again he demanded, "No whispering back there!"

Ken looked around, on the chance that some was going on without his hearing it. He was seated near the back of the room, had not heard anything, and knew he hadn't done anything, so he bent his head lower, trying to make the numbers work. He was surprised to see that his pencil had drawn a doodle all by itself in the paper's margin, and he angrily pushed it back to the equation he was struggling against. The pencil's point protested, bent, groaned, and snapped. In the silent classroom the sharp crack of the shattered graphite resounded like a sniper's shot, and the tiny point flew forward, zipping over the head of Maya Clay to strike Roger Balconee in the back of the neck.

"Hey!" Roger cried, grabbing his neck and flinging himself around, as if struck by an actual bullet.

Ken slumped forward in horror, watching Mr. Lidtire struggle to his feet and surge from his desk toward the cowering students. "Mr. Balconee! In case you were unaware, a test is being conducted. I'll have no shenanigans during the conducting of a test, or at any other time, for that matter. If you are incapable of silence, report to the office. At once!"

Ken groaned inside as he examined his broken pencil point.

Roger protested. "Somebody threw something at me. Something sharp. It stung like a bee or something."

"No excuses!" declared Mr. Lidtire. He stalked back the row, his small eyes darting back and forth from desk to desk, from student to student, until he stood beside Roger, glaring at him. "I will have silence in my classroom. Now, can you control yourself, or not?"

Roger nodded, grimacing his face until it formed a miserable mask.

"Big baby." Rupert muttered, just loud enough for Ken to hear.

Mr. Lidtire paused, listening, and moved further down the aisle, closer to Ken's seat. His eyes darted back and forth until he spotted the bit of pencil lead, which had landed on Maya's desk behind Roger. He licked his forefinger, and pressed its heavy, moist tip down on the lead; then pulled it close to his eye.

"Maya, allow me to examine your pencil." Maya lifted her pencil without a word. Ken knew without looking that its point was rounded, and intact.

Mr. Lidtire moved next to Ken's desk, hovering over him. Ken tried to pretend he was unaware of the teacher's presence, and wrote furiously on his paper. His throat felt like a dry dirt road, and he had no idea what he was writing. His broken pencil squeaked.

Mr. Lidtire cleared his throat. "Mr. Simmons, I will examine your pencil."

Ken twisted his head to his left, his hair choosing that moment to fall into his eyes. Wordlessly, he held up his pencil, holding the sharpened end and with the eraser pointed out.

"I see, Mr. Simmons, that you feel this class is in need of a clown. I will not have it. We did not need a clown before your unfortunate family's arrival in this school, and we do not need one now. So I will not have one in my class. I will not. Let me see the other end of your pencil. The business end, if you please."

Ken turned his pencil around. "It just broke," he croaked. Despite himself, his voice trembled.

Rupert snickered.

Mr. Lidtire seized the pencil and rubbed it between his palms as though he meant to start a campfire with the friction. "It just broke," he repeated, "And flew all the way to hit Mr. Balconee's neck, two seats away. Two entire seats, Mr. Simmons. I think not, Mr. Simmons. I really think not. Now, I know you and your family are new in this school, but let me explain a few things to you. I do not believe in accidents, Mr. Simmons. Not at all. Not in the way that some people do not believe in the Tooth Fairy. That is not what I mean. What I mean, when I say that I do not believe in accidents, is that all accidents are avoidable. If your pencil point broke, and hit Mr. Balconee, you are responsible."

"But..."

"Responsible, I said. Thirty minutes detention, this very afternoon."

"But..."

"'Butt' is something a goat does, Mr. Simmons. Thirty minutes."

Ken blurted, "But I have to walk my sister home after school!"

"Perhaps you should have thought of that prior to flinging bits of pencil around my classroom." Mr. Lidtire spun on his heel and marched back to the front of the room. He eased his bulk back onto the edge of his desk, where a wide arc of varnish had worn off. "No whispering back there!" Mr. Lidtire shouted, and each student's head bent closer to their respective desk. Ken looked at his broken pencil, his wrinkled paper, and the lengthy test. He sighed, and lowered his head into the crook of his arm. He heard a soft giggle from Rupert, and opened one eye to glare, wishing looks could kill. It would be so convenient.

Outside, near the door to the school, Ally waited for Ken. She danced and pranced and balanced first on one foot, and then on the other: right, left, right, left, left, right. She paused and peered through the thick glass, watching the elderly janitor, Mr. Sanvandaal, push his large broom down the hallway. The old man moved like he was under water; slowly and methodically; sometimes so slowly he seemed to stop altogether. Ally tapped on the glass, waited, and tapped louder until he paused and turned his bleary eyes her way. Ally smiled and he smiled back; she pointed at the lock and mimed turning a key. Mr. Sanvandaal nodded, leaned his broom against a locker and shuffled over to the door.

Ally stepped back as he struggled, finally pushing the heavy door open far enough to speak. "School's closed, missy. You skip on home now, you hear?"

Ally smiled again. "I'm not Missy," she said. "I'm Ally. Missy's my sister."

Mr. Sanvandaal nodded and returned her smile; larger this time, his white mustache nudging up a bit. "All right, then, Ally it is. But the school is still closed, you hear? Now you get home before you make your folks worry."

"But I'm supposed to walk home with my brother. Ken Simmons. Is he still inside?"

Mr. Sanvandaal's smile vanished. "Oh. He must be the poor boy Lidtire's keeping late today." He glanced up the hall, muttering so low Ally could barely hear him. "That big bully keeps somebody in just about every day." He winked at Ally. "If you want to know the truth, I think he's afraid to stay here alone while he's correcting papers. So he always keeps someone in detention."

Ally switched feet again. "Can I come in?"

Mr. Sanvandaal nodded and pushed the door wider. "You can wait in here," he offered, "But you can't go down to the classroom. You'll get your brother in more trouble yet." He motioned to a worn, wooden bench against one wall. Ally ducked through the door, and slid onto the bench.

"Thank you," she said. Mr. Sanvandaal nodded, retrieved his broom, and began pushing his dust-pile down the hallway, talking softly to himself. "One more day, one more day," he repeated as he pushed the debris ahead of himself. "A man could sit in a hot frying pan that long."

Puzzled, Ally watched Mr. Sanvandaal until he disappeared, then spent the next twenty minutes waiting, looking at the different posters on the wall until, down the hall, she heard a door close somewhere. She rose. The small figure grew slowly larger, and she recognized Ken. She knew he noticed her standing by the bench when he picked up his pace. His steps echoed in the empty hallway, and the smell of cleanser filled the air. Ally waved.

A familiar, smiling face, especially in an unfriendly place, can work miracles, and Ally's did that for her brother. Approaching her, Ken felt a smile start and then grow on his face; his first smile of the long, hard day. "Ally," he called, and hurried up the hall to meet his sister; being careful, though, to not actually run. He did not want to take a chance on Mr. Lidtire calling him back for running in the halls. On reaching Ally, he hugged her and was squeezed in return.

"Are you okay, Ken?"

Ken nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. But let's just get out of here, okay?"

Ally nodded, swiftly gathering up her backpack and other belongings.

Mr. Sanvandaal held the thick door open for them as they left the school building. "You children hurry on home now. I expect your parents are going to be worried."

The two Simmons children nodded, and hurried across the playground, walking in silence for a few minutes. They passed between the two metal poles bracketing the path leading to the baseball field. Ken did not feel like talking; he just wanted to get home as quickly as he could, get something to eat, and forget the day had ever happened. His head down, he looked up just in time to notice Rupert leaning against a small white ticket building.

"Hey, Kentucky!"

Ken ignored the other boy.

"You better pay attention to me, hillbilly." Rupert pushed himself away from the building and approached Ken. "You better not mess up my grade, you hick. Do you think I asked to be your partner?"

At the end of the day, Miss Sticklock had assigned partners for the school science fair to anyone who had not already paired up with someone. Ken had waited, hoping someone would ask to be his partner, but no one had. Miss Sticklock had sorted the remainder into teams of two. Ken had been paired with Rupert. Now, he stopped and glared at the chubby boy. The day's frustrations swarmed around him like a hive of angry wasps. "Like I asked to be your partner. Nobody wants to be around you, you jerk. I think you got assigned to me because Sticklock hates me, and, and..." He shrugged off the straps of his backpack and let it drop onto the ground. "You want to start something again? Because I'm ready to go, right now."

Rupert laughed his mouth so wide that Ken was able to see that his braces went the whole way around his teeth, back to his molars. "No, I finished it the last time. But I'm warning you, if you mess up my grade, I'll kick your butt up between your shoulder blades. You'll have to take your shirt off to go to the bathroom."

"Right. You and what army?"

"Yeah, right, Idaho. I don't need an army for the likes of you. Old Mrs. Sticklock has it in for me anyway, and if you mess me up, I'll mess you up."

Ken picked up his backpack. "You're the one who'll probably ruin my grade. Your brain is the size of a peanut. Maybe."

"Whatever. I'm promising you, Arkansas. I don't even care if you just sit there looking stupid, like you have so far. Just don't mess it up for me, you understand?"

Ken swallowed; he had heard enough, and he pulled Ally by her arm, propelling her forward. His fingers scrunched her sleeve, almost pinching her. "Come on, Ally," he urged. Passing Rupert, he stopped and leaned toward him, speaking lowly. "Someday, my sister and dad aren't going to be around to stop me, Rupert. And you're going to wish they were."

Rupert laughed.

Ken ground his teeth together with enough force to crack a walnut, and took a step forward, and shook his head. He only stopped himself from going after Rupert with a Herculean effort. Being around Rupert made his stomach burn the whole way to the back of his throat, but with Ally to protect, he had no choice but to allow the chunky boy get the better of him. He marched forward, dragging Ally when her steps proved too slow to keep up with him. Ahead of them, emerging from the tall weeds at the far end of the baseball field, he saw his oldest sister, Georgia. Like a right fielder searching for a lost home run ball, she stepped from the tall weeds, shading her eyes with her hand.

"Ken! Ally!" Her young voice was thin and reedy, like a wind blowing across a march of pussy-willows. Ken waved to her, and Georgia hurried down the third-base line to meet them. "Where have you two been? Mom is worried sick about you. She called the school, but there's nobody in the office. I think she's about to call the police or something."

"Mr. Lidtire kept me after school."

"What for?"

"For breaking my pencil. He said I did it on purpose."

Georgia frowned. "Well, did you?"

Ken snorted, not believing Georgia would even ask him such a question. "Why on earth would I break my pencil point off in the middle of a test? How stupid do you think I am? Mr. Lidtire is just the meanest teacher I've ever had."

Georgia sighed; she stretched out her hand out and patted Ken shoulder, but he jerked away. He wasn't looking for sympathy, and he didn't want Rupert to think he was a baby because his big sister had to pat him on the back after a bad day. He walked a little faster, making the girls hurry to keep up, until they climbed down the hill that led to their home. Ken ran down the slope, and the girls followed more slowly; he glanced back and watched them step carefully on the ladder-board their father had placed at the steepest place on the hill. The weeds on either side of the path were starting to turn brown, and Ken recognized the smell of the soil, and knew it promised a rich autumn to come. He cringed as the calendar pages flipped in his mind. September neared its end, with October to follow. And then November, thought Ken. And December. And January, February, March, April, May. Only eight more months of school to go.
Chapter Four: The Pepper Patch

Ken hated Saturdays almost as much as he hated school days. Rather than a day off, it was workday for him. With money always so tight in the family, whenever and wherever there was money to make, his father wanted to be there, making it, and he expected Ken and Georgia, especially, to help. The farmers in the area needed harvesting done, and Joe Simmons was willing to do it, even though Ken grumbled about spending the whole day working while other kids got to do whatever they wanted.

Denver McPrice owned a large farm two miles from the heart of Amosville. Among the browning fields of rustling, scratchy cornstalks, he grew some peppers. The peppers grew in long rows on glossy green plants, each about the size of a small television set. The peppers were in separate rows of green, red, and yellow; sweet and hot. Although some had ripened during the summer, the majority of them were ripe for harvest now. The morning sun was barely above the low mountain top when they left the house. His father paused to gather his belongings and a water jug before shepherding Ken and his sisters Georgia and Mississippi down the springy wooden steps, headed for the pickup truck, and the pepper field of Denver McPrice.

Dust from the long gravel lane settled on the hood of the truck, and Ken stood up as his father coasted to a stop in front of the farm house. Denver McPrice descended his front steps with a certain grand majesty, despite wearing a worn set of overalls. He came down one step, placed his trailing foot carefully by its mate, and paused before placing the next.

"Appreciate your helping out," he gasped, rubbing his chest with an unsteady hand. "Let me point the way, and you can get started."

He waved his wrinkled hand, clad in a wrinkled shirt, indicating the field he wanted harvested. "I appreciate your and your kids coming out, Mr. Simmons. Most young folk don't want to work anymore. They'd rather sit on their behinds and play those games on the TV set than make an honest dollar. Now, I'm in a terrible state here; these peppers have got to be picked before they rot right on the plants. Bugs have already done a number on a lot of them; throw them aside. Understand?"

Ken waved a bug from his arm as his father nodded and answer Mr. McPrice. "We've picked before," he said, "And Georgia and Kentucky here know the good from the bad. We'll keep an eye on little Mississippi; she'll do all right."

"Alright, then. I'll let you get to it, then."

Ken's father leaned out of the truck window, and the two men shook hands while Ken looked out at the pepper patch, studying it. He squinted, but was not able to see the other end of it.

Ken climbed up in the bed of the truck and made his way to the cab, leaning over the roof. His father twisted the ignition key, but the engine refused to start. Ken shaded his eyes, looking toward the road and wishing the day would start so that it could end. His sister, sharing the bench seat with their father, leaned out the window, stretching back toward Ken.

Joe twisted the key again, and pumped the gas pedal. The engine coughed, gasped and coughed again.

"Come on, come on," said Joe, muttering through his teeth as he pumped the pedal again.

Ken turned back around, dropped and sat; his back leaning against the cab. "Great," he said out loud. "This just makes it perfect." He made a fist and pounded on the black plastic bedliner. He glared in the rear window.

Georgia, in the passenger seat closest to the window, covered her face as she leaned toward the windshield. Missy, just barely old enough to ride to the field, squirmed and squeezed her knees together.

His father shuffled the truck through its gears, returned it to park and turned the key again, pumping the gas pedal. The engine coughed, turned over, and started. "There she goes," he exulted, putting the truck into gear, "Sometimes she just wants a little coaxing. Like your mother." He laughed, and Missy giggled. Georgia groaned, and Ken spun away, staring straight up into the sky and wished a meteor would drop from the heavens and crush him.

His father stopped laughing, and eased the truck down the short lane to the road. The truck tried to die again, but he massaged it to keep it alive. They bounced down the dirty road; Ken gritted his teeth and finally shoved his tongue between them to stop their banging together until they arrived at the pepper field.

The four Simmonses worked hard; Joe Simmons had instilled a strong work ethic in his children early in life. There had been no time to hop in a quick shower, so Ken had pushed a baseball cap on, with the bill backwards to cover his neck from the sun. The morning breeze pulled at the hat, and he thrust it down tighter. Ken soon gave up on pushing his hair back up under his hat. The work was hard, and they were all hot, sweaty, and tired. It was late in the morning before they finished the first field and moved to the second, no one speaking. They quickly learned Denver McPrice considered the only fringe benefit on his farm to be as much cold water as they wanted to drink; he kept them well supplied from a large plastic cooler stamped 'McDonald's.

Ken shaded his eyes, looking longingly toward the Simmons truck perched precariously sideways on a grassy hill. No doubt a stiff wind or a misguided youth could tip it down the hill, but the air was still and calm, and the only young people within five miles were picking peppers.

"How many peppers could Peter Piper pick?" Ken said, tossing the question to his sister.

Georgia glared back, her long dark lashes frozen around her luminous eyes. "Whatever," she snapped, and flung a handful of peppers into a nearly-full white plastic bucket. Her fingertips burned, and her nail polish had changed color in blotchy spots. Scrubbing with hot water and the industrial strength soap at the house would not remove the smell from her fingers. She had picked eight of the five gallon buckets, filling them one after the other. She seized the heavy wire handle, heaved the bucket up, and walked it to the truck.

Georgia unfastened the tailgate and it dropped with a bang; she heaved the bucket up and slid it forward until it bumped the others. There were now fifteen buckets on the truck. As she rubbed her hands on the back of her jeans, Denver McPrice bounced up on an ATV. A boy rode behind him.

"You folks are doing fine," the old farmer said. "Appreciate it. It's really helping me out, with all my regular fellows in the service now. This here boy's going to help out for the rest of the day." He pointed his shoulder at the boy without taking his hands from the handlebars. "What's your name, boy? I forget already. That's the bad part about getting old. You can't remember what in the world you thought you knew, even for five minutes."

"Peter."

"Right. Peter. Well, Peter, picking peppers ought to be right up your alley."

Peter nodded.

Ken trudged to the truck and flung his bucket up onto the bed to join his sister's. He straightened his back and stared at Peter.

Peter pulled on a pair of brown work gloves, covering his hands. Ken noticed that the boy was nearly as tall as his father, and moved quickly toward the pepper patch, pausing to smile at Georgia. She smiled back, twisting her hands awkwardly, and patted at her hair before turning back to the patch herself.

Ken picked up an empty bucket and studied the lanky boy. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen. Almost sixteen."

Denver McPrice pointed at the field, and a stack of white plastic buckets. "Don't mean to interrupt, boys. It's pretty simple, Peter. Get a bucket, and start putting peppers in it. When the bucket's full, put in the bed of Mr. Simmons' truck. Get another bucket. Repeat. That's all there is to it."

Peter shuffled some of the peppers on the tops of the buckets already in the truck. "How do I know if they're ripe?"

"Don't worry about that," said Farmer McPrice. "The wholesaler sorts them out. They're all ripe enough to pick."

Peter picked up a pepper. "They don't all look ripe. Some are green."

Denver McPrice leaned over his handlebars, his heavy stomach pushing against them through his overalls. "Son, I've been farming peppers since your mama was in diapers. Now let's see how many peppers Peter Piper can pick." He twisted the accelerator, the engine roared, and the four-wheeler carried him away, bouncing down the rutted lane between the fields. Ken watched until the old farmer disappeared over the hill, then saw Peter toss the pepper back in the white bucket before smiling again at Georgia, who had just loaded a bucket into the bed of the truck.

"Hi," Peter said.

"Hi," she repeated. She pushed a stray bit of hair back under her red ball cap and dipped a little bit. Ken stared.

"So where do I start?" asked Peter. He leaned back on the truck and waved toward the field.

Ken decided to interrupt his sister's flirting, and pointed at his father's back, raising and dipping, raising and dipping, his white shirt the only thing not green. "We're down there, toward the road. Dad wants us to work up this way, so when we're done, we're closer to the truck and don't have to carry the buckets so far. He said his back hurts already."

Georgia shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. She twisted to follow Ken's gaze and looked at their father; Peter twisted and looked at her. She turned back and Peter blushed, grinned, and ducked his head. "Here," he said. He took off his brown gloves and held them out to her. "You should wear gloves. Your hands are going to get all...all..."

"Messed up," said Ken. "Too late. She's been fussing about it all morning."

"Shut up, Ken." Georgia snapped, and then turned and smiled at Peter sliding her hands out of her pockets to accept the gloves. "Thank you." She smiled at Peter. Her long hair tumbled from beneath her cap again, and she pushed it back once more. She pulled on the gloves.

"Do they fit?"

"Yes. And they're nice and warm."

"They look too big."

"Shut up, Ken. Thank you, Peter."

Ken rolled his eyes. He jogged down the field edge, waving his empty bucket as he flew by, and made his way down the row to his father. The morning was hot and humid, and his shirt was sticking to him. He seized the front and flapped it a few times, trying to get a little air moving. There was just enough air moving to dry the sweat and made the cotton material stiff and uncomfortable against his skin. He dropped the bucket on the ground and rummaged among the glossy green leaves, snapping peppers with practiced fingers, tossing them without looking into the large white bucket. The first dozen sounded like acorns dropping on a shingled roof, but then peppers began to bounce on other peppers, and the sound was muffled and satisfying. Ken's head bopped and his back swayed as he picked.

"Looks like Georgia found a boyfriend," said Ken.

His father shot straight up, and snapped back like a frayed rubber band. "Ouch. That hurts my back. What did you say, Ken?"

Ken picked up his bucket and moved it forward. "Georgia's got a boyfriend. Mr. McPrice brought him out for her. Special delivery, Peter the Pepper-Picker."

"A boyfriend!" shouted Missy.

Joe stood again, rising slower this time and rubbing at the small of his back. He eyed his daughter and Peter. Ken noted they had not moved; they were still standing by the truck; but he could still see daylight between them. His father waved and called. "Georgia! Georgia, I need you to get back to work! Come on, now!" He made a come-motion, and shaded his eyes with his hand. "Come on, now!"

Georgia spun on her heel and walked toward the pepper plants, her borrowed gloves flapping on her hands. Peter followed her, pulling his cap down on his head and grinning, smiling the whole way down the field as he followed her to where Ken and the others were picking.

"What are you grinning at, boy?" Joe's voice was sharp, like a piece of broken glass hidden in the weeds.

Ken ducked his head and picked peppers. He didn't want his sister to see how much he was enjoying the situation, and didn't think his father would appreciate it either.

Ken sneaked a glance at the scene. Although not a tall man, his father concealed a wiry strength his shoulders, corded arms, and his strong fingers. The frozen question did not need an answer, and Ken knew his father was about two seconds from removing the grin from Peter's face with the handiest grin remover he could find. Ken swallowed, and he found a fascinating dirt clod to fix his eyes on, and locked on it like the tractor beam of an intergalactic battle-cruiser, all the while straining to hear every word. .

"Nothing. Just glad...uh...happy...uhh...um...to be here, I guess. I think. Yeah." He trailed off, his words dropping into the white bucket.

"I'm Joe Simmons," he announced, crossing his arms. "I think you already met my kids, so let's get to work. There are a lot of peppers to pick."

Georgia positioned her bucket close to Peter. "Thanks again for the gloves, Peter. That was really sweet of you."

"Hey, no problem," said Peter, and smiled.

Ken noticed how deftly his father flicked a pepper from his hard fingers; it snapped into the bucket, hitting with a hollow sound that Ken found ominous.

"Work," his father said.

Missy studied Peter. "Are you Georgia's boyfriend?"

Ken suppressed a giggle. He was old enough to recognize tension when he saw it, but he also found it unbearably funny, and he looked forward watching his sister's discomfort for the rest of the day.

"Enough of that," snapped their father. "Pick peppers, everybody."

Lunch time came, dragging itself through the field on leaden feet. When his father announced a break, Ken stopped picking. His father had already seized his bucket by the handle, and started toward the truck without waiting for him or his sisters. He had already flung his bucket onto the bed of the old Ford when Ken caught up. Ken's bucket was as full as his father's, who rubbed his shoulder. "Hop up in the back," he grinned, and shoved Ken toward the cab. Georgia handed her bucket to her father and climbed into the truck beside Missy. Peter tucked his bucket in with the rest.

Ken looked out the rear window. His father pushed the tailgate up until it latched. He nodded at Peter. "You can ride in the back, if you want."

Peter stood for a moment; the bed of the truck was nearly filled with white buckets, each one full of peppers. "Is there room?"

"More back here than up front."

"Or you can walk," Ken called.

"Up to you."

Ken moved squeezed over a bit on the seat as his father entered the truck and slammed the door.

Peter climbed over the tailgate, using the bumper for a step, and wiggled in among the buckets. Ken thought the pepper smell was overpowering, but at the same time, he liked it. It was a smell of work, and he found it satisfying. Peter glanced toward the cab, and Georgia twisted around. He smiled. She smiled back through the rear window until her head jerked forwards as her father dropped the truck into gear and bounced from the field.

At home, Ken entered the house first, and removed his shoes at the front door. He placed them carefully in the basket behind the couch, and sniffed the air. He could tell that his mother was preparing spaghetti, and he could smell the sauce simmering His father followed a moment or two behind him.

While his father dropped onto the recliner and sat still, Ken took off his shoes, and slipped past the recliner, heading for the kitchen; where he knew his mother would greet him with cookies and milk. Ken sat at the table to eat the cookies, but made sure his chair was turned so that he could see in the living room. His patience was rewarded when Georgia opened the screen door, stepped inside, and pulled her baseball cap off. She let the door ease shut behind her, and sat on the couch to untie her sneakers, keeping her head down. Ken dipped a cookie in his milk, and flipped it quickly in his mouth before it could break. He anticipated quite a show.

Georgia sat on the couch, silent and motionless, her hands in her lap, while their father stared toward the door, and in the general direction of Denver McPrice's pepper patch. Joe scooted forward, wiggled his hand into his pocket, and removed some paper money. He dropped it on the end table beside his chair. "We're done at the pepper patch," he announced. "Mr. McPrice paid me before we left, and I told him we wouldn't be back."

Georgia looked at her father, and Ken twisted on his chair for a better view. His brushed by him as she walked across the kitchen floor. "What did you say, Joe?"

"I said we're done at the pepper patch. I'll find something else."

Ken moved his feet to allow his mother to pass, innocently heading into the maelstrom he knew was forming in the living room.

She wiped her hands on a tea towel. "Why? What happened, Joe?"

His reply was sharp, like a splinter from an abandoned seesaw. "I'll not work where some snot-nosed brat spends his whole work day staring at my daughter."

Georgia jerked her head up. "He was not staring at me, daddy!"

"He most certainly was!"

"I never saw him staring."

"He wasn't staring at your face, darling. And I won't have it. Neither will your mother."

Georgia's chin went to her chest and bopped there.

Ken waited, watching his mother twist her tea-towel in knots before she answered. "Joe, she is fifteen. Boys are going to notice her, and she's going to notice them. If it's just noticing, there's no harm, is there?"

"There was more than noticing going on," he declared. "There were goo-goo eyes and rolling eyes and I don't know what else."

Ken decided to make things worse for his sister. "Peter told me she's cute," he called, dunking another cookie. "'Your sister's cute,' were his exact words."

"Shut up, Kentucky!" Georgia lashed, and leaped from the couch. "It's not enough we have to be freaks! Now we have to be hermits, too! Why don't we just move to the middle of the desert or something? That way no one would ever look at me, and you'd both be happy!"

Ken bit into his cookie. "And Georgia said he was a hunk," he finished, popping the rest of the cookie in his mouth. He spun from his chair and ran for the back door, with Georgia suddenly off the couch and behind him, her fingers just inches from the back of his neck. He felt her nails scrape the top of his spine, and then he was out the door, stumbling down the wooden steps as fast as he legs could carry him. He dashed past Ally, and Missy playing in the back yard, and swung like a demented monkey into the branches of a tall poplar tree. He climbed the sticky branches as fast as his shaking legs would move; not stopping until he knew he was higher than Georgia would climb. He glanced down. Georgia had not followed him out, but his father stood at the back door, watching the leaves fall from the poplar tree.

"Come on, girls," Joe said, "I've got an idea, and I need your help."
Chapter Five: Leaves will Leave

Rupert stopped in his tracks. "What are you doing now, Tennessee?"

Ken ignored him. He dragged the rake over ground again, pulling the leaves toward him and adding them to the pile growing at his side.

"Hey, California, I'm talking to you!"

Ken lifted the rake and spun it; the bamboo tines caught leaves and there were at least a dozen of them imprisoned on the tool. Ken shook them free, dropping them onto his pile. He continued to ignore the chubby boy standing not more than six feet from him, as though raking leaves required every bit of his brain to focus on the task.

Rupert thrust his hands in his pockets. Growling, he kicked at some of the leaves on the edge of the pile.

Ken flung the rake to the ground, losing the world's quickest battle between a boy and his conscience. He jabbed at Rupert; a quick, sharp push to the chest. "Knock that off. I just raked those."

"So what?" Rupert stepped back, then forward.

"So knock it off."

"Or what?" Rupert leaned in a bit closer, snapping his hands against Ken's shoulders. Ken did not step back; he recognized the game of chicken and knew how to play it. Discipline was all about who started, and who responded.

"Touch me again, and I'm going to sock you one, you jerk."

Rupert snickered. "That worked real good last time, didn't it?"

Ken's knuckles whitened and he felt acid in his stomach. Deliberately, he bent over, and picked up the discarded rake, squeezing the handle. He was not going to fight Rupert, but not because he was afraid. He was not going to let the other boy's words provoke his fists.

Rupert laughed, kicked at more leaves, and made a deliberate show of walking away. As he reached the sidewalk, he spun on his heel. "Don't forget out science project, hillbilly. You better not mess it up for me."

"You mean, you better not mess it up." Ken finished in his head, You fat tub of goo.

Rupert laughed again, a moist cackle that faded as he promenaded away, his small head held high, weaving atop his shoulders like an eel. Ken watched him go with relief, and loosened the death-grip he had taken on the rake. He glanced down and realized he had been working the same spot over and over, and the grass was getting thin at his feet.

His father bounced out of the house and onto the wooden floor of the back porch. He lifted his arms and stretched. "Snap, crackle, pop!" he shouted. "Wow, that feels good!" He shrugged his shoulders, and leaped down the stairs, his work boots banging on the wooden steps like a drummer in a parade.

Ken paused, and leaned on his rake, watching their next door neighbor pretending to rake his own leaves while he watched the Simmons' house. Joe marched through the back yard and slapped Ken on the shoulder so hard Ken staggered.

"Good job, son. I think you got about all of them." He nudged the leaves with his left foot, stirring them around a bit, pushing them this and that, like a cook examining a casserole. "They're not real damp. Just a tiny bit, really, and that's probably better, anyway." He rubbed his chin.

Ken picked up a leaf and examined it. "It is?"

"Sure. Too dry, and they fly all over. A little damp, they should behave until we get moving. Then we want them good and loose. Now think about this, son. We want them loose, so they fly out of the bed of the truck when we get up to speed."

Ken twisted his face, trying to figure out what his father was talking about, because it wasn't making sense to him. "Aren't we hauling them to the landfill, dad? That's what we did last year, in Tennessee."

Joe gathered a rake full of leaves and deposited them in the bed of his truck. He chuckled. "No son. We're not. Up here, they charge you to dump leaves, by the truckload. For every truckload you rake up, and maybe make twenty-five dollars, you have to pay ten to unload it. That's why I got this idea. We'll load the truck up, and leave it uncovered. As we drive around, the leaves will fly out. Twenty-five dollars pure profit."

Ken frowned. "I don't think people will like that," he reasoned. "If we're dumping leaves like that."

Joe lifted another load of leaves. "Help me fill up this truck, son. And listen, now. No one is going to even notice. That's the great thing here. We're not dumping them, we're...well, we're dispersing them. They'll fly everywhere along the back roads, where nobody rakes anyway, and it'll just be a few here and there." He threw another stack of leaves into the rusty bed. "Why, these leaves will break down, like fertilizer. Actually, people should be paying us to disperse leaves on their ground."

Ken picked up an armload of leaves. "Okay, dad. It never hurts to try."

An hour later, Ken was not so sure. He and his father were driving down one of the loneliest roads leading from town, and although some leaves had fluttered out, most of them were staying put. He turned back to face the dash.

"It's not working, dad!"

"Of course it is! There's no way for it not to work, son!" Joe Simmons shot a look in his rear-view mirror. "It's a simple matter of wind resistance, Kenny. There's no way for it not work." He glanced in the mirror again. "Is it working?"

Ken twisted in his seat to look through the window into the truck's bed. The seat belt clutched at his face, and he thrust it down. The worn-out seat bounced beneath him, but he pressed his face against the glass of the window, banging his nose. Again. A few dry leaves fluttered off the back of the truck, and a small tornado of leaves spun near the cab. "It's not working dad. There's a couple flying out, but most of them are just piling up against the cab. Why don't we just take them somewhere?"

"I told you, they charge you for that, son. The idea here is to make money, not spend it. If we can get paid for getting rid of people's leaves, without having to pay to dump them, that's all profit in our pockets. We'll go a little faster." Joe pressed the accelerator closer to the floor. He glanced over his shoulder and darted his eyes back to the road ahead of him. Another pickup truck, headed in the opposite direction, shot by them. The driver pointed and shouted something, but was moving too fast for them to hear anything.

"What did he say?" shouted Ken, "He looked mad."

"Never mind about him. People need to keep their nose on their own face, and not in other people's business." The truck shuddered and bounced. More leaves flipped out, leaving a stir of autumn behind the old blue truck.

"How about now? Did hitting that dip knock some out?"

"Some," said Ken, "But most of them are still just piling up."

Joe frowned, drumming the palm of his hand on the steering wheel, and checked his speed. "I can't go any faster." He was silent for a moment. "Ken, can you crawl into the bed though the window? Maybe you can hurry things up a bit."

Ken sat bolt upright. "What?"

"Crawl through the back window and throw the leaves out. We don't have all day. And be careful."

Ken unfastened his seat belt and twisted around on the bench seat. He unlatched the window and slid it open. Leaves began to fly in through the opening and swipe about the cab like bread crumbs in a space shuttle. Ken spit out a piece of a leaf. His dad tapped his shoulder and jerked his thumb backwards.

"Remember, be careful," he advised. He hit another bump on the road. He grunted. "Shocks are just about finished on this old jewel. And don't say anything about this to your mother."

Ken studied his father. He was forty-three years old, and looked fifty-three. A lifetime on the road, working jobs here and there, across the nation, had aged his father quickly. Ken shook his head. He hated life on the road, always moving from place to place, never staying in any place long enough to make friends or get to know kids his age. They lived poor and dressed cheap, as they drifted from city to city and state to state. Ken didn't like Amosville very much, but he didn't want to move again. To stay, to stop moving, to finally put down roots, took money. And his dad said this would bring in money.

Ken had hesitated for a moment; now he wiggled through the narrow window. He had his doubts, but knew his father had sat behind a truck wheel more hours than he'd been alive, and he trusted him. Ken landed in the bed, on his hands and knees, and fell sideways as the truck spun through another turn. He struggled to a sitting position. Leaves circled him in a tornado, sticking to his dark sweater, lodging in his hair, his mouth, his eyes; going everywhere but out of the truck.

Ken spit out a leaf. He saw now that the air currents did toss some leaves out, but most of them were being pushed toward the front of the bed, accumulating in a heap under the window. He seized two double handfuls and held them high. He released the leaves, and they darted to the rear of the truck. Some tumbled over the tailgate, but most of them swirled in the eddy and returned to him like little dry boomerangs. The road was narrow and thin, with crumbling sides and a faded stripe up the middle. The truck hugged the asphalt, its worn tires trying their best to grip the surface. Joe twisted the wheel and the truck spit gravel behind. Trees flashed by, and the telephone poles dashed too quickly for Ken to count, but they seemed to be fly by faster than they had when he had been in the cab.

His father kept darting glances into the rear view mirror, and twisting his head to watch Ken through the back window. Ken buried his hands in leaves and flung them upward. Some made it out of the truck, but others continued to swirl around him. The truck swerved to the right as the front tire slipped off the pavement, dropping with a smack onto the shoulder to the road. Ken tumbled sideways into the leaves. He pulled himself upright and stared into the cab. Leaves whirled past his head and in through the open window.

His father squeezed the steering wheel and pulled it back left, easing the tire back onto the road, but the lip of the asphalt was deeper than he could manage at his speed. He punched his brakes, lightly, and tried again. The tire bounced across the rutted shoulder, and squirted a beer bottle out from under it. Ken tumbled back from the window.

Ken struggled to his knees, clutching at the sides of the truck bed, flailing for some sort of grip somewhere. Now the rear wheel of the truck slid off the pavement, and Ken rolled toward the tailgate and to the far side of the bed. He caught hold of the top of the bed and squeezed his fingers into the hole made for high side boards. "Dad!" he shouted.

Ken couldn't tell if his father had heard him or not, but the truck's speed fell as they continued down the road, the wheels on one side completely off the pavement. They were riding straight ahead, tilted to the passenger side.

Ken tried to get his feet back where they belonged, but the leaves were slippery. He could feel the truck slowing down, and hoped his father knew he was in trouble. He clutched at the side of the truck with his right hand, but could not get a grip. As he fumbled, the front tire dropped into a pothole.

The pothole was a washout, a section of the shoulder carried away by rain, eroded like a miniature Grand Canyon. The front tire hit the bottom of the hole, lurched, and the truck lurched again, sharply, before coming to a stop.

In the bed, Ken experienced Newton's Third Law up close and in person. A body at rest tends to stay at rest, and a body in motion tends to stay in motion. Not being secured to the truck when it stopped, Ken continued to move in the same direction he had been going; that is, forward. He lost his grip on the side of the truck and pitched violently toward the cab of the truck. He struck the cab with his head and shoulders, hard. He saw points of light, which he interpreted as stars, and dropped into the leaves like a rag doll.

Somewhere, from a great distance, Ken thought he heard the truck door open; he struggled to open his eyes, and saw the door wide, and then his father pulling himself up into the bed, and jumping beside him. "Ken, are you alright?"

Ken's eyes flickered. His father lifted up Ken's head, making him wince. "Ouch," he managed. He opened his eyes. "What happened? Who are you?"

"Son, are you alright? Son, it's your dad!"

Ken blinked, trying to force some of the pain out of the top of his head, and felt it drain a bit, like dirty water down an old drain. He looked at the leaves, and at his father, whose mouth was working itself through a dozen motions, trying to get words out.

"Kentucky Simmons. Are you alright?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, dad. I'm okay, I think." Ken sat up and winced. "Can we go home now? It doesn't work, dad. It just doesn't work."
Chapter Six: Kill Your Bees, Sir?

Ken melted into his hard wooden chair, hoping and wishing he could disappear into it, and thereby avoid detection. Mr. Lidtire frowned at his class. All around Ken, the other children continued to stare straight ahead, avoiding their teacher's hard, beady, pig-like eyes. At the front of the classroom, leaning heavily on his polished wooden desk, Mr. Lidtire shuffled the stack of their test papers between his thick fingers, up and down, like a magician preparing a card trick. His brows squeezed downward, nearly touching his cheeks as his eyes nearly vanished.

"These tests," he said, "Are terrible. They will not do. They simply will not do." He waved the papers in the air without getting up. "Do you know what I'm going to do with these test papers, class?"

Ken did not answer, and no one else in the classroom volunteered a guess, either. After a moment or two of silence, Mr. Lidtire provided the answer himself. "I'm going to discard them. All. Because, you see, if someone who did not know what a terrible class you are were to see these tests, they may think that perhaps your teacher is not a very good teacher. And we all know that is not so. I am a good teacher, correct?"

On the outside, the class nodded their collective heads up and down, but on the inside, each and every head spun right to left, right to left.

Down a long, dark hallway, in Ms. Dofenbaugh's class, Ally wiped bits of eraser from her yellow paper and tried to work the sums from the blackboard again. Two plus two kept adding up to five, no matter how many times she worked the equation. She pulled her left hand below her desk to count on her fingers. She did it under the desk so Ms. Dofenbaugh, at the front of the room, would not notice the motion with her harsh eyes. Counting on the fingers was not permitted in Ms. Dofenbaugh's class. Catching someone counting on their fingers in her room made first the left corner of her mouth pulled upward, toward her forehead. The right corner followed, a half-second behind as she would swoop down on the miscreant. Ally did not want to be that student!

The bell for fourth period to end rang at the high school. Georgia gathered her books together and clutched them to her bosom. She paced quickly down the wooden planks of the hall, her eyes down and her steps straight. The halls were crowded, and although others bumped into her, she did not bump anyone else. She had long since learned to move quietly, and did so now, with the grace of a deer. She had exactly four and one-half minutes to get from her economics class at one end of the building to her calculus class at the other end, and she needed to make a stop at her locker. Eyes down, she sliced a path to her locker, not noticing Peter leaning against it until she nearly ran into him. Her feet stopped, and she felt a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

Ken sighed and entered the science classroom with real regret. Science had been as close to a favorite subject as he had, and now he dreaded entering the room. Hard, black tables stretched across the room, and two stools with spinning wooden seats were behind each of those black tables. On each stool sat one of a pair of young scientists. At the front table on the right hand side of the classroom, closest to the American flag, sat one student by himself, spinning. Ken dropped his backpack beside the stool and greeted his lab-partner, Rupert.

"Hello, Rupert."

"Hello, Idaho." Rupert stopped spinning and leaned on the ebony desktop.

Ken's hands squeezed into fists. He dropped down on the wooden stool and rested his feet on the metal feet, spinning a few inches right, then left, and back right, picturing Rupert in a test tube, and wondering what the best noxious substance to pour on him would be. He unzipped his book bag and pulled out his science book. He dropped it on the smooth, black tabletop with a bit more force than mere gravity dictated, and the sudden report was as loud as a pistol shot in the quiet room. Mrs. Sticklock, the teacher, dropped her own book to lift and lock her gaze to the latecomer.

"Mr. Simmons!" She pointed at Ken, who crooked his own finger at his chest and lifted his eyebrows. Mrs. Sticklock nodded and wagged her finger back and forth. "Forward, please, Mr. Simmons. Here beside me, young man." Ken twisted off the stool. Rupert snickered and entwined his legs around the vertical shaft of his stool, twisting a bit to exchange knowing glances with the classmates behind him. Ken glared.

Mrs. Sticklock reached out as Ken made his way to the front of the room. "Mr. Simmons has just demonstrated the existence of gravity, here, before our very eyes. Thank you, Mr. Simmons. Take a bow, please, and be seated." Ken stood for a moment, confused, and dipped his head. The rest of the class laughed, and Ken returned to his stool, his face burning a deep, Ferrari red.

Mrs. Sticklock frowned, and turned to the white-board. Ken could hear her knees crack, crack, crack, like flaming twigs in a burn-barrel. Mrs. Sticklock uncapped a dry erase marker with some difficulty, and printed large letters on the board. "Each of your science projects should be well under way. I trust that I am not mistaken. DUE DATE, she wrote, the letters drifting down as she wrote.

Rupert scribbled on his tablet without looking at Mrs. Sticklock. Ken leafed through his science book, wanting to ignore the approaching date written on the board. So far, he had not even talked with Rupert. He whispered from the side of his mouth, "We need to get something together, you jerk."

Rupert glared, and spit words at Ken. Although Ken could barely hear the words, he could understand the other boy perfectly; Rupert seemed to have perfected the ability to throw his nasal voice directly into a listener's ear. "Way ahead of you, hillbilly." He tapped a picture in his science book; Ken leaned over for a better look. Rupert stroked the page. "Bees. I started without you, since you were busy throwing leaves around the town from your junky truck."

Ken pulled a piece of paper out of the back of his book and wrote at the top. "Bees," he whispered. "What about them?"

"How they build their nests," said Rupert. "Meet me after school." Ken nodded and leaned back toward his own work.

After school, Ken found himself on Denver McPrice's land, standing in the middle of a field, staring and a low apple tree a stone's throw away. "There it is," Rupert announced, pointing. Ken studied the tree, and glanced back to the steel gate where they had entered, a hundred yards away. A few large pigs wandered by, oinking in pleasure as the sun warmed their broad backs, each looking at Ken as it waddled by. Rupert wiped his nose with one hand. There was no need for him to speak any further.

The nest was the size of a basketball, ridiculously large for the tiny twig that held it. It hung suspended weightlessly in space, like a moon of Jupiter. The bands of gray swirls mingled with black swirls, and living leaves peeped out, enmeshed in a mummy's embrace, but still it throbbed and hummed with life. The nursery and home of thousands of paper wasps, it was a city of Sting, and wasps patrolled around it like tiny Sputniks.

Ken looked at the nest, and cocked his head at Rupert. "It looks like you."

"What do you mean by that crack?" Rupert wiped his nose again.

"It's round, like you. It's striped, like your shirt. So it looks like you."

"Yeah, that's funny. Let's see how funny you are if those bees come out here."

Kenny kicked his feet across the pasture, searching for a suitable stone. He found one about the size of a tennis ball and picked it up. "This looks pretty good," he said, "and by the way, wasps and bees aren't the same thing, even." He tossed the rock carefully up and down three times in his palm, learning the heft and feel of it. From twenty feet away he could feel the energy of the wasp nest. He dared move no closer, and there would be no second attempt if the nest was hit and did not drop. He swallowed, his Adam's apple ascending and descending like a hiccuping elevator.

Rupert snickered. "I thought you said you weren't afraid of bees."

"Wasps. And I'm not. But I'm not stupid, either."

"Yeah, right. My mother told me your whole family is stupid."

"Your mother doesn't know beans."

Rupert wiped his nose, and then cleaned his hand down the front of his shirt. "What's that's supposed to mean?"

"Never mind."

"Oh, I get it. It's some sort of migrant bean picker joke." Rupert snickered again.

Ken's right eye slid away from its study of the wasp nest. He considered hurling the rock across the three feet that separated him and Rupert and hitting him instead.

"How much for the bees?" he said instead.

"Mrs. McPrice said five dollars if you knock the nest down, ten more if we can get it out of the orchard."

Ken slid sideways, looking for a clear shot. The nest had a constant confetti spray of wasps entering and exiting. It was only five feet from the ground. He knew that Mr. McPrice had discovered it during an early morning lawnmower jaunt. The wasps were sleepy and groggy, and still he had been stung seven times. Kenny eased a step closer. He could hear the hum of the wasps, and feel the constant vibration of the nest in his eardrums. "It's a two-fer," said Rupert. "Money for getting rid of the bees, and the science project is about done on top of it."

Ken hefted the rock again. "Alright. I'll knock it down, we run, and later tonight, you come back for it."

"Just don't hit the nest. Aim for the stick holding."

Ken stared at him without answering.

"I don't want a big hole in it, you idiot."

Ken's mind darkened. A life time of moving, a lifetime of ridicule, swarmed around him like angry bees. Without thinking, he made a choice with no thinking of the consequences of that decision. Instead, Ken hefted the rock a few more times, trying to ignore the tickle at the back of his brain that tried to stop him.

In one smooth, fluid motion, a liquid mercury streak, Ken dropped the rock. Like a world-class sprinter, he dashed to the wasp nest, seized it, and snapped the twig that held it. Ken held the nest in midair, and moved like a firewalker dashing across burning coals. Holding the nest as far in front of him as he could, he sprinted to Rupert, and tossed it to the chubby, stunned boy. Ken felt regret sting him when he saw how wide Rupert's eyes were, and his mouth wider still, but it was too late. The nest was airborne, and instinctively, Rupert caught it. It was probably the first time he had ever caught something thrown to him, and it was destined to be a catch he would never forget. Ken ran away as fast he could while dodging cowpies in the field.

Initially, the wasps had been too stunned to leave the nest, but now that the motion had stopped, they roared to angry life again, and Ken looked back from halfway across the field, knowing Rupert felt the same throbbing pulse in his trembling fingers he had felt moments before. Rupert cried out and dropped the nest as the first wasps emerged like tiny fighter jets leaving their carrier. Ken was already climbing, and then falling on the far side of the wooden fence, when he looked back through the boards and saw Rupert finally turn to run.

Rupert took two steps: his cry told Ken the first stinger had buried itself somewhere in him. Rupert cried out again as the wasp pulled the needle out, and thrust it again. Honeybees sting once and die; wasps sting again and again and again. Wasps clung to Rupert as he ran, faster than he had ever run before. Ken lay still on the ground, watching in horror now as maddened wasps swarmed the area, looking for targets; stinging the fleeing pigs, chasing Rupert. The nest lay on the ground, crushed in Rupert's panic-stricken flight.

Finally, Ken lifted his head up and wondered what to do. He had not been thinking, and now, watching Rupert run toward him, screaming, he thought, and thought quickly. He pushed himself up, climbed the fence again, and sprinted to Rupert. The McPrice house was fifty yards on the far side of the fence, and Rupert breathed heavily as Ken caught hold of him to pull him forward.

"Come on, Rupert," he urged. "Let's get out of here." A wasp landed on Ken's head, crawled through his hair, and plunged its stinger into the top of his ear. Ken cried out, and brushed at the wasp; it stung him on the soft part of his thumb. Another landed on his shoulder and stung him. Rupert cried, tears drenching his cheeks, but he no longer brushed at the wasps. Ken batted at several on the boy's back, swatting them away, pulling Rupert toward the fence.

As they increased their distance from the nest, most of the wasps lost interest and returned to mourn their ruined home. A few vigilantes continued the chase, and Ken was stung on his bare arms three more times as he helped Rupert climb up and then tumble over the fence. Ken climbed to the top board, swung his leg over, was stung a final time, and dropped beside Rupert. The heavy boy was gasping for breath.

"Jeez, Rupert, why did you catch that thing?"

Rupert tried to breath, and flipped down his sock. A wasp crawled out and flew away, baffled.

"I'm," Rupert tried. He shook his head. "I'm."

"You're what?"

"I'm...I'm allergic."

"Allergic?"

"Yeah. Yeah. And I. And I," Rupert leaned back on his elbow, and dropped onto his back. "I don't have my medicine."

Ken leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Do you need it?"

Rupert shook his head. He wheezed. "Not now. I need. I think I need an ambulance."

"What?"

"Ambulance. Quick, Ken. Please!"

Ken ran to the McPrice farmhouse to make the call.
Chapter Seven: Getting the Word

Ken watched his father place an egg into the final empty hole in the carton, close it, place a sticker on it, and slide it across the wobbly desk to him. Ken carefully stacked it on top of the others. There were seven egg cartons in the large cardboard box, each filled with a dozen brown eggs, fresh and good, eighty-four eggs in all. The recycled cartons were recycled, with Denver McPrice's name pasted over the original producer. Mr. McPrice figured that customers who would pay a bit extra for organic eggs would also be willing to recycle the cartons back to him, and Joe and Ken had spent the morning washing several dozens of them. Ken worked in silence; he had not said a word to his father, nor had his father spoken to him.

So Ken stood by the desk, stacking eggs, and while waiting for the next carton, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, pulling them out, picking at his fingernails, and burying his hands again. Rupert was in the local hospital. Ken sniffed, and rubbed his nose fiercely. His father had not yelled at him, and Ken wanted to be yelled at, to be grounded, to maybe even to be hit; to be punished, somehow. To be punished would mean that things were coming to an end, and when things closed the circle, things got back to normal. After all, Ken figured the family would be moving on in a few months anyway, maybe right after the new year. Mr. McPrice's harvest was nearly finished, and the egg business was not enough to keep a hired man.

Ken watched his father count out twelve eggs from the large basket and placed them gently in another carton. He frowned as he placed the eleventh egg, and pulled it back out to study it. He held it up to the bright lamp at the corner of the desk. The bulb hummed, and he peered, trying to see through the shell. He turned it around, his mouth still down at the corners. Ken watched without seeing, wondering what to say or do. Standing here, waiting to stack egg cartons, was a meaningless job. His father was able to stack the cartons easily without him.

He shook his head and laid the egg aside. He pulled another one from the basket, checked it, nodded, and placed it in the carton. He closed the lid, applied the sticker, and slid the eggs to Ken. "Sometimes there's a bad egg," he said. His voice entered the small egg-sorting room like an out-of-work uncle at a family reunion. Ken winced, as his father's voice bounced among the foam cartons, tittered between the eggs, and found lodging in his ear.

"I didn't know he was allergic," he blurted. "I didn't know. I never would have done it if I had." Ken lowered his eyes, hearing the squeak of styrofoam as his father opened another carton.

"I know that, son. I know that." He began filling empty spaces with eggs. "What does that matter, though?" He slid the carton across the desk.

Ken almost dropped the eggs; his fingers felt nerveless. "What?"

"What does it matter, whether or not you knew he was allergic?"

"Well, he's in the hospital, and it's my fault."

Another carton slid to Ken.

"What if he wasn't allergic, but just got stung really good? Would it be all right, then?"

Ken placed the eggs in the cardboard box. He had been so focused on the allergic reaction and Rupert's hospitalization, he had never considered exactly what he thought would happen. He had tossed a wasp nest into the hands of another human being. He had known, somehow, that Rupert was going to be stung. And he did it anyway. It was an evil, wicked thing to do, and yet he did it. No one put him up to it, no one dared him, he had thought of it all by himself.

"I didn't mean for him to get hurt."

"You didn't?"

"No. Well, not like he is. I mean, I knew he'd get stung, but I didn't...oh, I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Were you thinking at all, Kentucky?"

Ken picked up the next container and placed it in the cardboard box. "This is full. And I don't know. I was just sick of him. He's always making fun of me. Everybody is. I hate it here. I hate it everywhere." He rubbed his fist into his eye, which was wanting to cry, and looked at his father's face. He could not hold his eyes on his father's gaze, and dropped them, working in silence from then on.

After finishing work, Ken idled around the barn, kicking around on the lane, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He fingered a bottle top he found in the corner; he pulled it out, studied it, and dropped it on the ground. He quickly picked it up when he noticed Mr. McPrice approaching.

The old farmer stopped a few feet from Ken and stood still, looking toward his field, beyond the barn, where the wasp nest had been. "What happened out there, boy? Why'd he mess with those wasps if he was allergic?"

Ken swallowed. He felt like there was a ball of bread stuck in his throat. "It was my fault. I tossed the nest to him. I didn't know he was allergic." Ken kicked at a small stone. It bounced down the lane and into the tall grass. Ken watched it go, keeping his head down.

"You tossed it to him. You know that people can die from stunts like the one you pulled?"

"I do now. I didn't then. I just wasn't thinking, I guess." He remembered how far back Rupert had stood from the nest and the fear in the other boy's eyes. He sneaked a peek at Mr. McPrice, but the white-haired man only sighed.

Mr. McPrice rattled his truck keys. "Come on, boy. I'll give you a ride up to your house. Your dad is going to stay late tonight, and you don't want your mother be worried about you. It's past supper time. You learned a real lesson today, if you're smart enough to heed it."

Ken swallowed. "Okay, Mr. McPrice. I hope I am." He spun on his heel and crawled in the passenger side of the old Ford pickup truck. He and Mr. McPrice rode to the Simmons' without speaking. Mr. McPrice slid a CD into his player, and Hank Williams began to warble from the speakers. Ken closed his eyes and wished he could close his ears. Yodeling was not his idea of good singing.

At that same moment in time, Georgia crossed her arms across her chest and she pushed herself back against the lawn chair on the cement floor. There weren't many places in the Simmons' house where private conversations could happen, but the basement was one. "Why not, Mom?" Their 'discussion' had been going on for half an hour, and Georgia knew she was not making any headway.

"Because I'm your mother, that's why. That's should be all the reason you need."

"But I'm fifteen years old. Next year I'll be old enough to drive."

"Is it sixteen in this state?"

"Mother!"

"Besides, driving and dating are two different things. I don't think your father would approve. He didn't seem to care too much for Peter."

"He barely met him." Georgia shook her head and sat still. She could not believe her parents. They were only a few years older when they had gotten married than she was now, and they had done alright. She bit her lip as her mother stooped down to pick up a laundry basket, groaned, and straightened up, rubbing her back.

"Could you help me, Georgia? I'm having more trouble bending over every day."

Georgia chewed her lip. The salty taste kept her from crying, at least for the moment. She snatched the laundry basket up as Ally and Missy darted past the washing machine and dryer. They sat on a cement pad in the basement, and dripping water formed a large puddle that never completely dried. The two younger girls splashed through it, laughing. Georgia lugged the heavy, wet laundry up the creaky wooden stairs, through the cellar door, to the clothesline. Her mother followed her.

Georgia dropped the plastic basket on the ground, and turned around. "Do you want me to help hang the clothes, too?"

"That would really be sweet, honey. Thank you." She rubbed her stomach and side. "This one is a real kicker." She grimaced, and nodded. "You hand things to me and I'll hang them."

Silently, Georgia retrieved a few items at a time and handed them to her mother. Her mind raced; she had assumed her mother would be her ally to convince her father that a date with Peter would be fine, in fact, perfectly normal and acceptable. Finding her already set against the idea confounded her and she wondered what approach to take next.

Her mother worked quickly, sliding her clothespin holder along the line, popping a few pins into her mouth, and stringing wet clothes out. The breeze made them flutter, and she secured them with the snap pins.

Georgia handed clothes mechanically to her mother, not watching what she was doing, just pushing the basket through the grass as they moved down the line. Suddenly she snatched a wet item from the dwindling pile. "Mother, these are my underwear!"

"So?"

"So I don't want my underwear hanging outside in public for people to look at!"

Her mother sighed and reached for the garment. "Georgia, no one is going to go by looking at your underwear. I'm not running the dryer just to dry a couple pair of underwear. Now get them on the line so we can finish up."

Georgia pinned her underwear on the line, trying to camouflage them between a shirt and one of her mother's blouses, just finishing as Denver McPrice's truck pulled into the backyard and Ken crawled from the vehicle. He stopped and pointed.

"Hey, Georgia! Are those your underwear hanging on the line? I see London, I see France, boy those are big underpants!" Ally and Missy, who had stopped running as the truck approached, laughed and ran again.

Ken laughed and looked back at Mr. McPrice, who was frowning at him. The old man took off his hat and leaned from his window. His voice was stern enough that Ken snapped to attention.

"You need to get a grip, boy. Your family needs you, and your help." He paused. "I don't need either. I don't need you out at my place anymore. Not everything is funny, you hear?" The old farmer shifted gears again and pulled away, leaving Ken staring after him, realizing he was in deeper trouble than ever. After a moment, he noticed his mother staring at him.

Georgia snatched her underwear from the line. "Thanks, Ken. You are a jerk, you know that?"

Ken stalked past his mother. "At least your boyfriend wasn't with us."

Georgia snapped him with wet clothing.

"Gross!" Kenny shouted. He wiped his arm. "Those were your big honking undies!"

"My underwear are not big!" She shoved the clothing into the empty laundry basket and stalked into the house; the door slammed shut behind her.

Sudden quiet filled the yard. Ally and Missy stood by their mother, their eyes locked on the retreating form of their older sister, and Ken looked at the sky, the ground, and then the sky again. Anywhere but at his mother. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, with a small, white, fluffy cloud shaped like a horse's head just over the ridge. He decided the safest course at the moment was to study the cloud.

"Kentucky, you're rude to your sister. It's not a good side of you, son."

Ken dropped his eyes and shrugged. His mother was right, and he knew it. It was the third time in the day he had been lectured about his shortcomings, and even though he had to agree, he was getting tired of hearing it. He squatted down, picked up a twig, scratched in the dirt with it, then flung it away. What did everyone want him to do, anyway?

"Kenny."

Ken stood up. When his mom called him Kenny, he responded; he didn't know if she had ever realized it, but he couldn't help himself. It reached a better place in him, and made him feel like it was Mother's Day, and that he wanted to please her. He brushed his hands on his jeans. "I know, mom. Sorry."

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to, you know."

"I know. But she's mean to me, too." Ken wiped his nose. "I'll tell her I'm sorry, but she should tell me that, too. It's not fair if it's just me. And I think I just got fired."

His mother sighed. She adjusted some clothespins, and Ken waited for her to think of something else to say, something wise that would make a difference. Ken watched her work while he waited for a lecture. When none came, he walked back to the house.

Later, as the sun slid down the western sky, Ken sat on the top stair, where the hall was cool and quiet, watching the downstairs. He heard his father come in the back door, heard the door close, and watched him ease himself into the recliner in the living room.

His father always came home from work tired. Always. Wherever the Simmonses had traveled, the one constant in their lives had been that their father had worked hard for every employer, for every penny. Ken knew that like he knew his own name. Whether it was picking vegetables, painting roofs, hauling junk, or anything else, Joe Simmons believed in giving his employer a full day's work. He often told Ken that a real man never had to duck his head when he received his paycheck; that he could look his boss in the eye and both of them know he had earned every cent.

Now he leaned forward, unlacing his work-boots slowly. He slid off one boot and flexed his toes. He removed the second and flexed those toes, and Ken noticed one toe wave back to him through a hole in the sock. He sighed and tugged the sock over the bare toe. He pulled his boots together and placed them beside the chair, out of the way, where they would not be tripped over.

The screen door on the back door snapped shut. Ken leaned forward a little bit, then pushed himself up onto the landing, completely out of sight. His mother struggled across the living room and dropped onto the couch.

"Evening, Sarah."

"I'm glad you're home, Joe."

"So am I. I must have cleaned a thousand eggs. Did Kentucky get home okay?"

"Yes. Mr. McPrice brought him. Did he fire him, Joe?"

He sighed. "He didn't say anything about it to me, but it wouldn't surprise me. Ken messed with some wasps and got another boy stung pretty bad. The kid's allergic, too. That's the sort of thing people get sued over nowadays."

Ken watched his mother's face fall, and she sat down beside her husband and took his hand. "What do you mean?"

It was strange to hear his father laugh. It was hollow and short, and Ken winced at the bitterness in it. "Don't worry about it, love. We got nothing for anybody to take. But the boy stirred up more than bees. It might be time that we think about moving on."

"I don't know, Joe. We have another one coming, pretty soon. We're settled in, pretty good, and the kids seem to be doing okay."

"They are? Well, that's news to me."

"I know Kentucky and Ally had some trouble at school, but it seems to have let up, some. And listen to this: Georgia has a crush on a boy."

"All the more reason to move on, then. I don't need any troubles of that sort to start. Boys are trouble. It's that Peter kid you're talking about, right?"

"I think that's his name."

"Double no, then. Not our type, Sarah." He stood up and brushed his hands down across his legs. "I've got dirt all over me. I should get a shower before I eat."

"Joe."

"Sarah, I think it's time. If we leave within a week or so, we can follow the crops south, and wind up in Texas. That's where you wanted to be when the cold weather comes, right?" Hearing this, Ken leaned his head on the wall. He thought he hated Amosville. Now, though, hearing his father, he didn't know. Did he want to leave again, start all over again?

The sun was sinking, and it blazed through the front window, illuminating the room, so that even the whirring dust motes glowed. "I sort of like it here, Joe. We could put down roots here."

Ken leaned forward. His mother, to his memory, and never disagreed with his father. He was witnessing family history, and he wanted to see his father's reaction.

There was not much to see. His father simply shrugged. "I'm taking my shower now. And I'm hungry. I've said my say, Sarah."
Chapter Eight: Choosing

From his chair facing the corner, Ken sneaked a peek at his mother as she checked the meatloaf. He was supposed to be keeping his eyes in the corner. The oven window was caked with so many past meals it was hard to see through even before his mother's physical condition made bending over difficult. She inched the oven door open to peek, and Ken tried to see in with her. The warm, savory air wafted upward, and the ketchup on top of the hamburger loaf looked thick and pasty. She nodded. "Five more minutes, just to make sure. None of you like raw meatloaf." Ken nodded, and quickly put his face back in the corner when she frowned.

"I wasn't talking to you. Missy and Ally, come set the table for mommy." She removed a stack of plates from the cabinet and placed them on the counter top. "All three of you, now!" Her voice rose, and Ken could hear footsteps pounding through the house.

At last, Ally appeared, chewing on a lock of hair and twirling into the kitchen. She dragged her fingers along the wall and her fingernails made a ratcheting sound as they bounced across the wainscoting, like a stick along a fence.

Their mother puffed a stray hair away from her face. She pushed her hair away when it fell right back. "Stop that, Ally. You'll mark up the walls."

"Sorry, mommy. I didn't mean to."

"No one ever 'meant to,' but things had a way of happening, just the same. "Where are your sisters?"

"Watching TV still. The show's not over yet."

Sarah pulled in her breath. "Mississippi River Simmons! Alabama Redtide! Turn that television off, and get your behinds to the kitchen now!" She waved a tea-towel across her face.

Missy and Ally stomped into the kitchen. "Cartoons aren't over yet, mommy. You said we could watch cartoons."

Ken began to feel badly for his mother. The oven had heated up the kitchen; she looked hot, and he could tell she was losing her temper. She dropped the tea-towel beside the dishes and reached for her oven mitts. "I don't really care about your cartoons, young lady, because I don't live my life by what's on that set. You can watch them, but when supper is ready, supper is ready, and we're going to eat it, while it's hot. Now set the table so I can call the rest." She opened the oven door wide and struggled to pull the meatloaf out.

"Meatloaf again?" Missy made a face.

Unbidden, Ken stepped out of the corner to help his mother wrestle the meatloaf to the table; they dropped it on two folded kitchen towels she had placed there so the hot pan did not scorch the wood. "Yes, meatloaf again. And again. And again. As many times as I make it. Be thankful you have something to eat, Missy. And that you have a roof over your head, and cartoons to watch. My land, girl, there are a lot of people who would be grateful to have meatloaf tonight."

"Well, they can have mine."

As Ally waltzed around the dropping a fork at each place-setting. "Missy is a smart-mouth, Missy is a smart-mouth."

Ken stepped back into the corner as his mother straightened and rubbed her back, then her eyes. "Both of you stop now. I won't have that sort of talk at my table, or anywhere else in the house, for that matter."

Ken wondered if he would be allowed to eat. His father entered and sat down at the head of the table. "Is supper ready?" His wet hair was spiky.

"I'm just putting it on the table. Would you call Georgia, honey?"

Raising his hands to his mouth, Joe bellowed down the long hallway. "Georgia! Supper's on the table, so come and get it!" He pulled a chair from beneath the table and patted the hard wooden seat. "Sit down, Ken. Shower really felt good. The air's so hot and sticky. You wouldn't think it'd be so hot and sticky, this late in September, this far north."

Georgia entered the room and slid her usual chair out. Ken sat down, keeping his eyes on his plate.

"Texas would be hotter yet," his mother noted. She sat. "Say the blessing, Joe."

Ken closed his eyes as his father clasped his thick hands, folded tightly above his plate. He prayed slowly and thoughtfully, pronounced "Amen," and reached for the meatloaf. "Everybody dig in."

Ken and Georgia helped themselves as the heavy serving bowls were passed around the table.

Sarah served the three younger girls and placed their meal in front of them.

Missy made a face at the size of her meatloaf. "That looks like a big slab or something. I can't eat that much, mommy"

"You can and you will."

Ken snorted but quickly swallowed it when his father cleared his throat and moved his potatoes from one edge of his plate to the other. "Kentucky, I understand that Mr. McPrice has released you from his service."

Ken felt the piece of meatloaf he had just placed in his mouth expand to the size of a baseball, and nearly choked on it. His mind whirled around, trying to decide what would be the least worst thing to say. On some level, he had known his father would find out about Mr. McPrice firing him. There was simply no way to conceal it for very long. But he had hoped to tell him later, after supper, after his father relaxed and rested a bit.

Ken forced the bite of meatloaf down and reached for his water glass. He nodded. "Yes, sir. Because of Rupert."

"Rupert. The boy who got stung." He tapped his spoon on his plate. "You know, son, his family could make a lot of trouble for us? You know, you're lucky the police aren't on our porch right now, with a set of handcuffs for you?"

Ken dropped his eyes. He would not have believed he could have such a terrible day, and wondered if it could get worse. "I didn't think he'd get stung that badly," he said. The words sounded lame even to himself.

His mother sighed. "Eat up, girls. Joe, what do you want to do?"

Ken glanced at his father, wondering what punishment his father would devise. He watched him from the corner of his eye; his father picked at his food and spun his fork on the plate. His father was not a cruel man, or a mean man, but Ken could see that he was angry, perhaps angrier than he had ever seen him.

"I'm thinking that maybe it might be time to move on," he said, finally. He snapped his fork down on the table.

Ken breathed out, thinking about leaving Amosville. He didn't like the school, he hated Rupert, and he hated his teachers. "Sounds like a good idea to me," he offered. Being on his father's side couldn't hurt things, either.

Georgia froze, her fork halfway to her mouth, and Ken knew she was thinking about Peter. No one spoke, and so Ken looked at his mother. He realized that he had missed the first part of the conversation, and that his mother and his father had already discussed the matter. She was shaking her head.

"No. Joe, I don't want to move again." She put up her hand; Ken quickly closed his mouth. "Listen. It's been hard enough for you children to move from place to place the way we have. But we always moved because we were looking for something better. We never ran from anything. Is that what we're going to do now? Run from trouble? Is that the lesson we want to pass on to these kids, Joe?"

Silence filled the room, squeezing out all the air, leaving only a solid mass of discomfort. Georgia rose from the table and hurried away toward her bedroom; Ken heard her start to cry just before her door closed. His younger sisters, Missy and Ally, stared at their plates, hardly breathing.

Missy, and Ally finished their meal in silence, and Ally kept wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. Ken pushed away from the table without anyone speaking to him, slipping away to his room, close the door, and shut them all out. He sat on the edge of his bed, kicking the floor with his heels, twisting his hands and staring at the wall, not sure what was right to say, or do, or feel. He felt the weight of his behavior pressing down on him like a heavy piece of steel.

He lifted his head at a faint tap on his door. "Come in," he called and swung his legs up onto the bed, turning around to lay down. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, but the size of his family meant that someone was always ready to talk. And besides, Ally and Missy looked up to him.

The door opened, and Georgia entered.

Ken scurried up to a sitting position, and crabbed backward toward the corner of the bed and the wall. "What, Georgia?" He eyed her warily, watching for a sudden snap of her wrist which would precede her hitting him in the head.

To his surprise, Georgia did not hit him. Instead, she sat down on the wooden chair at his desk without saying a word. Ken studied her for a second or two, wondering what she wanted. Her long hair hung over her face, making her look older than fifteen, and he was suddenly aware that his sister was pretty.

Georgia lifted her head and looked out his window, and said, "Mom and dad are fighting."

"Well, duh."

Georgia whipped her head back, and Ken knew that if looks could kill, he would have dropped dead at that moment "You need to grow up. They're arguing about whether to move or not, and most of it's your fault. If you hadn't thrown that bee nest on your friend, we'd be settled in and none of this would be happening."

Ken sat up. "First of all, Rupert is not my friend. Second, it was not a bee nest; they were wasps. Third..."

"Third, I don't care. You might be getting bigger on the outside, Ken, but inside, you're still two years old. A baby. Because that's what you act like."

Ken's face burned like a furnace. "I do not." He winced as Georgia leaned in closer to him, stopping just inches from his face.

"You're doing it right now. Listen, you're the one who screwed things up, and you're the one who can fix them."

"Me?"

"You. And if you know what's good for you, you're going to do it."

Ken waited, knowing what was coming, as surely as the person who lays down on railroad tracks knows a train is coming. At that moment, he would have gladly swapped places with that person. "What?"

"You're going to apologize to Rupert. Maybe that way things will be smoothed over and we can stay."

Ken opened his mouth to refuse, and was surprised to hear his own voice say, "Okay."
Chapter Nine: The Hospital Stay

Ken found his way through the hospital, using the maps displayed by each stairway and intersection. When he had told his parents he wanted to go the hospital and tell Rupert he was sorry, his mother's face had been as confused as he was now, deep in a maze of bright halls. The light was so stark and bare, it hurt Ken's eyes. He blinked once, twice, and reconsidered his idea of apologizing. He could almost feel two cartoon angels, one dressed in white with a harp and wings, and the other a very fallen angel; each perched on an opposite shoulder. The good angel urged him on, that he was doing the right thing; the bad angel suggested ducking out, running home and telling a lie about the whole thing. He shoved them both off, determined to do what he had to do, for himself alone.

After a few wrong turns, Ken discovered giant doors, wooden with huge iron hinges. He stopped to stare. After a few moments, he realized the doors were ordinary ones, painted to look like a castle's entrance. He stepped closer, and the door on the right glided open. Ken walked through, met immediately with murals of Disney characters and scenes from Peanuts. Rupert was in the pediatric ward, and although Ken had never been in the hospital in his life, he had made his way to the magic castle.

He walked to the nurse's station. His sneakers squeaked on the clean floor, and the nurse at the desk looked up to study the young boy approaching her.

"May I help you?"

Ken nodded and hurried to the desk, trying to keep his sneakers quiet.

"How may I help you?" The nurse's voice was sharper and her challenge was clear in her tone. Ken decided he had just discovered the dragon guarding the castle.

He nodded again, thinking. He stopped, feeling ridiculous, aware that he had no idea if he would be allowed back to see Rupert or not, if Rupert were indeed still in the hospital, or if he had maybe even died. Ken swallowed a large lump and wondered if the police would charge him with murder. "I'm looking for someone." He was not able to keep the squeak from his voice.

"Whom would that be?"

"His name is Rupert."

"Last name?"

"Oh. I'm not sure. I think it's Webb or something like that."

"Something like Webster? Like the dictionary?"

"Probably. He's about my age."

The nurse considered her computer monitor, running her finger down the screen. Ken wet his lips, thinking that her nail looked unusually like a dragon's claw.

"Rupert Webster, room twenty. He is permitted up to two visitors at a time. Please do not excite him. He is not permitted to have any candy."

Ken studied the nurse. Although she was about Rupert's size and shape, her face looked older than his own mother. "Okay. I didn't bring him any."

"Fifteen minutes." She dropped her head to study the binder in front of her, and ticked a box with her pen.

Ken nodded and spun on his heel. His sneaker squawked, and the nurse glared. Ken backed away quickly, almost seeing the smoke and fire steaming from her nostrils, and walked carefully; putting his feet down as though there were eggs on the floor.

Ken felt the nurse's eyes following him down the hall, burning into his back with every squeak. He tried walking on the sides of his feet with a little more success. His sneakers still squeaked, but not as loudly. He decided to focus on finding Rupert's room and ignoring the dragon-lady behind him.

Ken saw the rooms alternated in the hallway, with the even-numbered ones to his left and the odd-numbered ones on his right. Each had a large plastic sign outside each doorway, with slipped in note-cards. Each sign contained one or two of the cards, with first names printed on them. Ken glanced in each room as he passed, although he figured if he saw a 'Rupert,' it would have to be the one for whom he was looking. Most of the patients were young, and looked like they were asleep, even though it was the middle of the day. A few beds were empty and unmade. Some rooms had televisions on, and Ken nodded a greeting when the patients turned to watch him go by. One room had a family almost as large as his own, with little girls playing on the floor and a tired-looking mother draped in the visitor's chair. Ken waved, and the boy in the bed waved back.

The last room on the hall was Rupert's. Ken noticed that he did not have a roommate without surprise, figuring that if Rupert had been assigned one, the other patient would have complained until he was moved out. Ken sighed, took in a deep breath to steady himself, and finally leaned in and tapped on the open door.

Rupert looked up from his comic book.

Ken scuffed his feet and his sneaker squeaked again. He glanced back, down the long hall, at the nurse's station. He couldn't see her eyes, but he was sure she was about to send a ball of fire to consume him, so he stepped inside the room. "Ah, hi, Rupert. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by." He swallowed and squeezed his fists together, then released them, then squeezed again. He couldn't believe how hard it was to say something without it sounding either fake or aggressive. His mother had always told him to watch his words, but he was surprised at how hard it was.

Rupert tossed his comic book onto the blankets, cross his arms and stared at Ken. "Well, New Hampshire, thanks. Did you bring me any flowers? You know, something to draw bees?"

Ken's head dropped and he studied the clean floor. Coming to visit Rupert had been an effort, and he knew it wouldn't be easy, but he had hoped that Rupert would be a little bit grateful for some company. He stopped for a moment to gather his thoughts. "I didn't know you were allergic. And using the nest for science was your idea, anyway. And if it makes you feel any better, I got fired." He breathed in again, replaying his words in his mind. They all sounded like excuses. "But none of that matters, I guess. It was my fault, and I'm sorry."

Rupert picked up his comic book, fiddled with it, and tossed it on the stand beside his bed. He reached for a cord, found his bed control, and pressed the button. The bed hummed to life and it lifted him upright. "I could get used to this," he said.

Ken shoved his hands in his pockets and flopped his elbows around a little bit, wondering to say next, and wishing that now that he had apologized, he could just leave. He felt like an insect caught in a spider's web. He studied the bed as Rupert arranged his covers, trying to see the lifting mechanism. Each passing second made him feel more and more awkward, and he decided to leave before he said something unplanned that would unravel any good that he had accomplished. "Well, I guess I better get going." He moved toward the door, only a step or two from escape.

"Wait a minute." Rupert closed his eyes. "Listen. You didn't need to come here to apologize just because your parents made you."

Ken swallowed a sharp retort. "Nobody made me, Rupert."

"Okay. Maybe not. And you were a jerk to throw that nest at me." Rupert raised his hand, and Ken closed his mouth, biting directly down on a sharp retort. "But the truth is, I set you up in the first place. I thought you'd get stung when you took the nest down. Paybacks, huh? So thanks for calling the ambulance. There. I said it."

"No problem." Ken shuffled his feet some more, and starting to feel a little better. Rupert had meant for him to be stung. That made Ken feel a little bit better, and a little more forgiving. He nodded toward Rupert. "Well, I guess I better get going. I've got homework and stuff to do."

Rupert struggled and leaned forward. He shoved the table-tray away from the bed. "Ken."

Ken froze, stopping with his foot half-lifted. Rupert had just called him Ken. Not hillbilly, not Oregon, or even Kentucky. Just Ken. He narrowed his eyes a bit, wondering what Rupert was up to, and at the same time, enjoying the sensation of being called by simply a name without being made fun of in some way. "What?"

Rupert sighed and rubbed his head. His voice was slow, and Ken could tell Rupert was also struggling. "I'm going home tomorrow, and back to school on Monday."

"Yeah, I heard. That's why I stopped today." Ken didn't know what else to say. He had apologized, and Rupert had admitted that he had planned to get him stung. That made them even, in Ken's mind.

Rupert looked up at the ceiling. "Well, you're the only one who came besides my parents. I know nobody at school likes me. I know you don't, either."

Ken hesitated; he had never stopped to think about Rupert beyond that one feeling of not liking the other boy. In a twinkling now, he realized that in many ways Rupert was as lonely as himself, even though he hadn't moved to a new home every spring and autumn. He felt sorry for Rupert, but clueless about what to do about it. Or if he wanted to, even had he known.

"What do you want me to do, Rupert? I can't recruit any friends to come visit you; in case you haven't noticed, I don't have many myself. Any, in fact."

Rupert squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. His voice was quiet but grew firmer as he went. "Well, according to Sticklock, we're supposed to be partners, so let's be partners. I want to start things over. As partners, and with the project. After all, it's clear the bee thing isn't going to work."

Ken turned things over in his mind. Rupert was telling the truth; they were supposed to be partners, which meant working together; and they were supposed to come up with a science project. Maybe if they actually worked together, they could pull something together. He flicked his finger-tip against his lip, and then, decisively, pulled a heavy, plastic-seated chair away from the bed and sat down. He watched the muted cartoons on the tiny television set. "Okay. I'm in, I guess. And clearly the wasp nest is out." He glanced up at the IV bag. "Besides, how can you even think about working on some stupid project?"

Rupert shook his head. "I have to. Ms Sticklock isn't going to cut us any slack, not even because of the bees and everything that happened. My dad called her and read her the riot act about not giving us any direction. She told him that if I wanted a good grade, I needed to work for it, not lay in bed crying for attention."

Ken nodded, this time with more empathy than before. Ms Sticklock was mean to Rupert, too, then. Caught up in his own world, it had not occurred to him to consider how anyone else in his class felt about the teachers they all endured. Maybe he and his family had not been singled out. Maybe the teachers in Amosville were just...terrible teachers. And lousy human beings.

Rupert continued. "So if I need a good grade on this project to pass, and the only way to do that is if we work together on this project...well, are you in, or not?"

"In?" Ken thought for a few moments, his new thoughts and feelings swirling inside him like a carnival ride. He spoke slowly, not sure if Rupert really needed him or if he was setting him up for a joke. He decided at take a chance. "What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know. But we need something quick. And not involving bees."

Ken thought. His brain turned different ideas around, spinning them to look at them from all angles, considering and rejecting first one thing, and then another. None of them seemed right. Each was either not big enough to be considered a true project, or too big for the time they had left. After a few moments, he slumped. "I can't think of anything."

"Well, we've got to have something. Something neat, that no one else will think of doing. Some scientific mystery or something we can solve."

Ken sat up at the word mystery. "There is one thing I can't understand," he said, and told Rupert about the leaves that wouldn't leave the back of the truck. He had barely finished when the dragon-nurse appeared and ran him from the building.
Chapter Ten: The Project Comes Together

Ken gathered leaves and stuffed them in a plastic bag. Ken could feel his father watching him from the porch; he noticed his father glancing up as he struggled to remove his work boots.

"What are you doing there, Kentucky?" He dropped a boot to the wooden porch floor.

"Gathering leaves, dad. I have to do a report for school."

"With leaves? I guess that's better than your bee idea." His father dropped his other boot; it banged on the boards and bounced away.

"Yeah. Rupert's still my partner, though."

Ken held a handful of colorful leaves toward his father, who dusted his hands on his legs and walked down the stairs to join him, picking his stocking-footed way across the gravel path. He picked a leaf from Ken's bag, twisted it, and dropped it back in the bag. "I don't get it. What is it supposed to prove?"

"We're going to figure out why they didn't fly out of the back of the truck."

"That was strange, wasn't it? Still, there must be a reason. Maybe if you can figure it out, we can try that again."

Before Ken had a chance to answer, his mother pushed the front door open, using her laundry basket like a battering ram. She glanced toward him and his father as she trudged past. "Are you working on something for school, honey?"

"Yeah, mom. I have to finish my science project with Rupert."

"Rupert. He's the one who got stung, isn't he?"

Ken dropped his eyes. "Yeah."

Ken winced a bit as his father squeeze his shoulder. "I think you've done your best to square things up with him, haven't you, Kentucky?"

"I went to see him yesterday, dad. He and I came up with the leaf idea together. It's for Mrs. Sticklock's class."

"Sticklock?"

"Yeah. Mrs. Sticklock. She's the science teacher. But the project is due at the end of the week, and we're running out of time."

Joe nodded. "Sticklock. I think I did some raking for her, last week. Is she a tall, thin, older lady?"

Ken nodded. "Yeah. She's about a hundred years old."

His mother finished hanging the wash and picked up her empty laundry basket. "That's enough of that sort of talk, Kentucky. She's your teacher, and you're going to respect her."

"I do, mom. Well, I'm trying to. But I really think she might be close to a hundred years old." He sneaked a peek at his father's face and caught him grinning.

***

Rupert showed up at the Simmons' house early on Saturday morning, wondering a bit if he had made a mistake in insisting that he and Ken start the project again. Still, he felt much better since being released from the hospital and thought he and Ken would be able to work things out. He polished his glasses on his striped shirt, replaced them, and knocked on the wooden screen door gently, then a little louder when no one answered. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, listening to the floorboards squeak beneath him, waiting. Finally, a young girl came to the door. One of Ken's sisters, thought Rupert.

"Who are you?"

"Rupert. Ken's science partner. Is he here?"

"Yes, but I think he's in the back yard."

Rupert heard another voice, drifting out to the porch from farther in the house. "Who is it, Missy?"

"It's that fat boy, Rupert, Georgia. He's looking for Kenny."

"You quit calling people names or I'm telling Mom on you. And tell him that Ken is around the back of the house."

"I already did!." Missy giggled and ran away from the door. Rupert heard her call as she ran, "Did you think it was Peter or something?"

"Shut up, Missy."

Rupert ignored the girl and bounced down the steps. He wiped his nose and glanced back at the door. Missy had returned to the screen and was staring at him. He almost tripped on the last step.

Rupert walked around the house to the back yard, which stretched to a thin stand of woods; the ground was thickly carpeted with leaves, and the air was thick with their sharp burning odor. Rupert noticed smoke rising from a rusty barrel at the back of the yard, and Ken poking in the barrel with a long metal pole.

Rupert shouted. "Ken!"

Ken looked up, nodded, and went back to his poking. Keeping the leaf fire burning demanded attention, and he lifted a stubborn, smoldering pile with the end of his stick. Smoke swirled from the barrel and engulfed him. He dropped his head, rubbed his eyes and spun away from the fire, stumbling a bit as he tried to clean the smoke from his senses. His eyes burned and he wiped tears away. "Man, that's bad." Ken grasped his stick and made his way back to the barrel.

Rupert sputtered. "I thought we need leaves for our project, Ken. Why in the world are you burning them?" He leaned forward to peek in the barrel but pulled back. "Wow."

Ken shrugged and tossed the metal pole away. "We've got like a million leaves, Rupert. I don't think we'll run out." He kicked a pile of leaves and sticks. "These, for instance. Stay back, though, because that smoke is terrible."

Rupert squatted down and ran his fingers through the leaves. He tossed a handful up in the air and they drifted down around the two boys. Rupert laughed and tossed another handful.

Ken brushed leaves from his shoulders. "Hey, we don't have time to fool around, Rupert. Have you considered just how we are going to do this? We're not going to be able to bring my dad's truck into the school."

Rupert shook his head. "It's not really about the leaves. It's about the vortex. The leaves just let us see the vortex."

Ken blinked a few times and shook his head. "Okay, I'm stupid. What's a vortex?"

"It's like a tornado. Smaller, but a lot like a tornado. I looked it up after I got home from the hospital."

"You lost me." Ken picked up his pole. "We can't bring a tornado into the school either. Although I would like to."

"Right. Now, okay, follow me. In the back of the pickup truck, the leaves didn't blow out. It seems like they should have, right?"

"Dad sure thought they would."

"But they didn't. Why not? It was because of a vortex on the back of your truck. It was a weak one, maybe, but strong enough to keep the leaves in the truck. The air pushes toward the center of the truck faster than the air moving out of the bed. The leaves in the center move the fastest, but the leaves in the middle of the truck have a shorter distance to travel to complete a ring."

"Oh yeah. It's clear to me now. As clear as mud! What are you talking about?"

"Listen. If you were running a race on the school track, would you rather be on the inside or outside?"

"The inside. It's shorter."

"Right. That's why they have the runners on the outside track start ahead. Now, imagine a leaf floating in a free vortex. The top of the leaf tends to point to the center of the vortex, so the base is tugged backwards while the faster, inner flow of air pulls the tip forward. The drag force opposes rotation of the leaf as it moves around the circle." Rupert picked up a handful of leaves and tried to make them spin in the air. They dropped to the ground and drifted across the ground, driven by the gentle breeze.

Ken laughed. "Okay. That all sounds good, but it didn't work. Plus, I didn't understand anything you said after the bit about the track."

"There's not enough wind. We need to get some air going."

Ken nodded and tossed leaves in the burn barrel. "Alright. Let's do it and see what happens."

***

Ally's senses were alert, and she caught the sound of Ms Dofenbaugh's tight shoes squeaking without needing to look up. The wasp-like teacher stalked down the aisle between the tiny wooden desks. Squeak, squeak, squeak. The squeaks grew in volume as Ms Dofenbaugh approached her. Ally squirmed on her seat, and tried to disappear. Ally had not said a word in the class since having the tape put on her mouth; she had not raised her hand or drawn any attention to herself. She had met a few of the other girls in the class, and talked with them only on the playground, away from Ms Dofenbaugh.

"Silence, pupils. That is very good. Silence is good in a classroom. We cannot tolerate noise when we are trying to learn, can we?"

"No, Ms Dofenbaugh." The class answered with their best robot voices. Ally mouthed the words but allowed no sound to come out. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and wished, as she did every school day, for the bell to ring and set her free.

***

Missy ran down the hall, making her way through the crowds of other students as quickly as she could without a teacher noticing and sending her back to her classroom to start over again, walking this time. The bell had rung a few moments before, and she hurried to join Ken and Ally for the walk home. She bounded down the concrete steps of the school, her backpack bouncing in time with her feet. Missy paused on the sidewalk at the bottom of and spun on her heel. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked toward the middle school, looking for Ken. A few other students passed her, some going down the stairs as they left the building, and others going the opposite way, up the stairs to enter. None of them spoke to her, but Missy knew they were band members by the instrument cases they carried. One boy bumped it into her shoulder and snarled at her, moving the long black case he carried to his other shoulder.

"Look where you're going, migrant."

Missy recovered her balance. "What?"

"Just look where you're walking, that's all. You're right in the middle of the sidewalk."

Missy dropped her eyes, and looked down at her feet. Her worn white sneakers tapped and she swallowed. "I'm sorry. I was looking for my brother. His name is Ken. Ken Simmons. Do you know him? He goes to the middle school."

The boy lowered his hard plastic case and nodded. "So?"

Missy swallowed again. "I'm waiting for him."

"Well, hey, good for you." The boy shouldered his case and ran up the stairs.

Missy watched him depart, and then stared at the door for a few moments. It opened again, and Ally came out. Missy felt a smile growing inside her, and dashed up the stairs to wrap her younger sister in a warm hug.

"Hi Ally. Ready to go home?"

Ally shrugged. "I guess so. But where's Kenny?"

"I don't know." Missy glanced toward the other school building across the parking lot, and she decided it was the last place on earth she wanted to be. "Ken can find his own way home today. Let's go."

The two girls took one another's hands and dashed from the schoolyard, through the playground and along the trees lining the street. Leaves fluttered around their heads and skittered in little tornadoes as their feet kicked through the piles of red and yellow gold.

That evening at the Simmons' home, Ken muttered and wiped his forehead, turning two more screws in the vacuum cleaner's lid, trying to torque them tightly. The screwdriver slipped, and not for the first time; he dropped it on the ground. The boys had cut the black plastic hose open, then fastened another length of hose with black tape, making a configuration that resembled the letter Y. Each leg of the Y circled around a barrier made from a heavy picnic cooler. The cooler represented the cab of a pickup truck; the two lengths of hose duplicated the force of the wind. Ken twisted the left-side hose around the barrier and flicked the power switch to check the blow. The vacuum roared to life.

"Okay," he called, motioning to Rupert.

Rupert nodded, and tossed some leaves into the path of the air surging from the blower. The leaves blew across the room and landed on the floor, without slowing in any way. Rupert held his hands behind the picnic cooler, the air flowing over his palms before turning them and frowning at their contraption.

Ken snorted and snapped off the vacuum. "It's not working, Rupert. There's no vortex. Nothing. No matter which way I turn these hoses, the air just blows the leaves away. They're not circling or anything."

"Something's wrong. We have wind coming from both directions, just like in the back of your truck. They should cancel each other out and make the leaves spin. They're not. We're missing a variable, Ken."

Ken tossed the screwdriver on the worktable. "Well, whatever it is, I can't figure it out." He sat down and glared, patting the side of the vacuum cleaner. "This is due tomorrow."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that." Rupert wiped his nose. "Look, we have to make this work." He put his chin in his hand and stared at their project.

"Maybe the leaves are the problem, not the air. Maybe they're too heavy." Ken seized a piece of paper and tore it into confetti. "Turn it on, and I'll see if this will work. Maybe if the pieces are smaller, they will circle."

Rupert shrugged and tripped the switch. The vacuum growled and spit air over the picnic cooler. As the air blew from the hoses, Ken leaned over and slowly trickled the stream of confetti in the path of the airstream. The bits blew across the room.

"Still not working." Ken dropped the rest of the paper.

Rupert looked thoughtful. "Maybe we need air coming over the top, too. There would have been a lot of air coming over the top of the pickup cab, right?"

"Well, sure."

"Let's try that, then. Hold this hose while I cut a spot. Good. Now, toss me that extra length by your knee."

Ken snatched up the half-empty roll of duct tape. "You splice it in, and I'll tape it to the top of the cooler. Boy, I hope this works."

"You two are sure making a big mess."

Ken looked up at Ally and Missy standing in the doorway. "Yeah. But it's for school so mom won't care." Ken turned his back and dropped a leaf. It skidded around, fell to the floor, and drifted away.

"She's still going to be mad."

Ken stopped unrolling tape and stared at his sister. Why did they always have to be underfoot, wherever he went? He wanted to yell at them, and was amazed that he actually realized it before he yelled. "We're going to clean it up, so why don't you clam up?"

Missy covered her mouth. "Don't talk like that, Ken. It bothers Ally."

Ken paused, catching his thoughts in the middle of composing another retort. He stopped himself, and instead tossed the roll of tape toward his sisters. "Hey, catch!"

Ally screeched and ducked out of the room. "Knock it off, Ken!"

Missy followed her sister. "Wait for me, Ally. I don't want to stay here with these two dummies."

Ken retrieved the tape and returned to the project. "Let's get this thing done. It's almost time for supper."

Rupert nodded and wiped his nose with one hand while he pressed firmly down on the duct-taped hoses with the other.

***

Ally and her mother pulled wet clothes from the washer. Ally struggled with the heavy jeans, but managed to drag them into the plastic basket. Sarah smiled at her daughter and rubbed her hair. Ally looked up at her mother through one turned-up eye, all at once shy. She giggled and pulled more clothes from the washer. She was so short, and the machine so high, she stood on a folding stool. She reached deeply into the depths of the machine and disentangled another pair of jeans.

"This is the last one, mommy."

"You mean the last pair, baby."

Ally dropped the jeans into the basket and looked in the washer. "No, that's all, mommy."

Sarah laughed and held up the jeans. "No, darling." She shook the wet clothes and Ally laughed at the drops of water flying through the air. "This is a pair of jeans. They only come in pairs."

Upstairs, the roar of the vacuum started again, then stopped. Sarah frowned. "I sure am getting tired of that vacuum cleaner. Those boys are going to have to stop, whether they're done or not."

***

Georgia sighed. She quietly replaced the telephone receiver in the cradle, her fingers lingering for a moment on the warmed plastic. She sighed again.

Ken looked at the clock. "Over half an hour, sis. I wonder what dad would say about it."

Georgia glared. "Try it," she suggested.

Ken stared back. "Maybe I will, and maybe I won't."

"Maybe dad would like to know about what you called Mr. Lidtire in study hall."

Ken kicked at the legs of his kitchen chair. "That was last week I've turned over a new leaf."

"The family room looks like you've turned over a hundred of them."

Ken decided not answer. If he really did intend to watch his tongue, he needed to do it all the time, not just in school. Instead, he stretched toward the ceiling, twisted, and cracked his neck. He dipped his head the other way and cracked his neck again. The kitchen clock hesitated, and the hands inched forward.

Georgia dropped into a wooden kitchen chair and opened a magazine. She flipped through the pages without pausing to read. "So where's your fat buddy?"

"He's not my buddy; he's my project partner.. And he went home. We can't get this stupid science project to work." Ken was sorry he had mentioned anything about changing; he realized that Georgia would not make things easy for him. He never had for her.

Georgia stopped fanning the pages. " So what are you going to do?"

Ken shrugged. "Just take it in tomorrow anyway. If we don't show up with something, we'll both flunk. Even if it doesn't work, maybe we'll still get a D, and that's passing." He opened a cupboard door, took out a glass and filled it at the sink.

"Barely."

Ken shrugged again. "It's better than failing."

His father flew into the kitchen, banged the door against the wall with a crush that made Ken jump and stare at his father's excited face. He looked happier than the time his favorite beagle continued her line with a half-dozen puppies.

"Where's your mother?"

Georgia crashed the front legs of her chair to the floor. "I don't know, dad." She tossed her magazine to the table. "What's going on, anyway?" She looked at her nails.

Ken dropped his water glass in the sink. He knew what was coming. Another move. But there was nothing he could do about it. And maybe, finally, they would wind up in a place that he liked. Maybe. "I think she's in the cellar doing the laundry."

"Get her for me. My boots are all dirty and I don't want to mess up the floor."

"What's up, dad?" Ken reached for a bag of potato chips. He tried to keep his voice from cracking.

"I have a job, son. Not a temporary one; a bona fide job, a steady job with paychecks and even some benefits. No more moving for us!"

Georgia rose. "I'll get mom." Her voice jumped up an octave, and she almost squeaked. "This is awesome!"

Ken's hand stopped, a potato chip half-way to his mouth. The thought of mentioning Peter crossed his mind, but he banished it. His sister was happy. "Really?" He crunched the chip. "That is great dad. I guess. Where is the job?" He filled his glass again and began drinking it.

"At your school. Son, you are looking at your new janitor!"

Ken spit his mouthful of water across the kitchen table, soaking the tablecloth..

Chapter Eleven: Redemption

Ken and Rupert pulled their contraption from the cardboard boxes; Ken tossed the pieces out with little care.

"Be careful," Rupert said.

"It doesn't work," Ken muttered, again, as he had already stated three times that morning.

Rupert struggled to place the vacuum on the desk without it falling apart. He failed, and, the hoses fell apart but he deftly reunited them with more black tape that he produced from his pants pocket. He spoke in a quick, quiet voice, and Ken leaned in to catch his words. "It doesn't matter now whether it works or not. Sticklock doesn't know beans about science anyway. She won't know if it's doing what we say it will or not, or why it isn't, or anything. Just so it makes a lot of noise and looks big. So whatever it does, that's what we want it to do. Got it?"

Ken could find no answer to that argument, so he arranged the hoses on either side of the picnic cooler and nodded. "I don't know. It seems like it should do something better than what we have." A week before, Ken would not have cared what grade he received. Now, he found himself not only caring, but worried, and clueless about how to avoid a failing mark.

Rupert wiped his nose and shoved the roll of tape but into his rear pocket. "Listen, don't get flustered, whatever happens. Just go with it. I don't want to flunk this stupid class and have to repeat it. One year of Sticklock is more than enough. Get this going for me, will you?" He tossed Ken a new roll of duct tape from the nearest box to him.

Ken caught the roll and stroked his thumb-nail over the tape until he found the end. He pulled long strips of duct tape from the roll. The tape screamed and sputtered, but he ignored the sound and pulled more strips, tore them off, and handed them to Rupert.

Rupert taped the hoses to the desk.

"This is going to look impressive when it's done, really. Tape really dresses things up."

Ken looked at the hoses with a critical eye. "If you say so."

"I do." Rupert continued taping.

Ken watched him, then glanced up and to see Miss Sticklock approaching their display. Her knees snapped like firecrackers. He nudged Rupert. "She's coming."

Rupert nodded and squeezed a final piece of tape down, and turned, almost bumping into Miss Sticklock.

"What do we have here, boys? It looks like a vacuum cleaner locked in mortal combat with a picnic cooler. I see our shop class no longer teaches craftsmanship."

Ken heard Rupert clear his throat. "It's a vortex display, Miss Sticklock."

Miss Sticklock pursed her thin lips, reminding Ken of the tied end of a burlap sack. She poked one chop-stick-thin finger at the hose closest to her. "I am glad you told me so, Rupert. I fear the concept would not have presented itself to me."

Ken sucked his breath in and blew it out. "We're toast," he muttered.

***

The rest of the day was spent with the younger classes coming to the science fair. The wide-eyed, small students tramped noisily through the large room, touching and breaking everything they could reach with their eager fingers. Students howled in outrage as children scarcely larger than toddlers were somehow able to snap solid steel bars, shatter plywood stands, scatter ball bearings, and otherwise create a vortex of chaos. Ken watched the mayhem, and was gratified the vacuum was not bothered.

"We might have a chance to win yet," Rupert observed, "if those little snots will just break everything else." He dropped some leaves in front of the hose ends, and in response, Ken flicked the power on; the leaves blew across the room. A mass of kindergartners disentangled themselves from a nearby display and surged after the leaves.

Ken fretted. "They're like zombies or something. If they get close to this thing, it'll fall apart."

Rupert snorted. "Just keep blowing some leaves for them to chase. You know, it's too bad this thing isn't a kid repellent. It seems to be good at that."

"Maybe that's because it looks like a pile of wadded-up tape blowing garbage."

"Only to the casual, untrained, unscientific, eye."

A group of first-graders began edging toward Ken and Rupert. Ken watched them for a few moments, and then blew more leaves, and the children chased them across the room, laughing. Ken watched them run and shrugged. "Maybe this will be America's hottest new toy."

Rupert didn't answer Ken. Instead, he scurried behind the children, and Ken watched him gathering the leaves into a small pile before stuffing them into a plastic grocery bag. He returned to the project and checked the hoses again, and ticking off the diagram on their cardboard display. "Wind from both sides, yes," he muttered. "Wind over the top, check." He tapped the hose. "We have that now. The wind is all about equal because it's blowing through all three hoses at the same time. It's not perfect, but it should work enough to spin at least a leaf or two. Why not?"

Ken turned off the vacuum. "You see if you can figure it out. I'm going to check out our competition."

The display next to Ken and Rupert's belonged to Caleb Johnston, who had not been able to find a partner, so he stood by his display alone, nervously defending it from the would-be vandals swirling around him. He had taped two large soda bottles together. One of the bottles was half-filled with colored water, and when he turned them upside down, the water swirled from the top into the bottom. He passed it to Ken, who turned the bottles upside down, watched the water, and flipped them back to watch again. "Hey, this is like a vortex." He held it toward Rupert.

Rupert glanced over and then went back to their diagram without answering.

Ken moved to the next display. Miss Sticklock had beaten him there, and was jabbing at it with a pencil.

"What is this, pray tell? What does it represent, children?"

The two partners, Arthur and Lance, trembled a bit. "It's a set of lungs, Miss Sticklock. We made it to show how the lungs fill up with air."

"Demonstrate."

Arthur nodded. The display consisted of a half-gallon milk jug with one side cut away. The two boys had slid two clear plastic tubing through holes cut in the lid of the jug and attached two small red balloons to the end. Arthur put the tubes in his mouth and blew a puff of air into the device. The balloons popped up, inflated. Arthur stopped blowing and sucked in; the balloons deflated. He repeated the process, over and over, until he swayed a bit, and clutched the table.

"The lungs in action," announced Lance.

Miss Sticklock leaned forward. Her knees cracked like a broken piece of chalk and she nodded. "Yes. Exactly. The lungs work just like that. This project will earn a high grade, I believe. Very good work, children."

Ken studied the balloons and thought again about the soda bottles. "Our force has to equalize, somehow. There must be something that causing tension; something we missed." He tapped his teeth, thinking. Even if he came up with a solution, it would be too late. He couldn't run home and fetch more materials. They were stuck with what they had, for better or worse. He returned to the vortex display and dropped onto a folding chair to await their fate.

The fair went on through the morning. Rupert twisted the vacuum hoses, searching for balance that would allow the leaves to create even the illusion of a vortex. After resisting some coaxing, Ken gave up and helped Rupert try to tune their creation, hoping to create a tornado effect; just the illusion of a slight spin would be enough to demonstrate the effect and maybe get a passing grade. "Come on, come on, come on!" Ken dropped more leaves and watched as they skittered across the wooden floor in a straight line. He dropped to the chair defeated.

***

Joe Simmons pulled at his shirt collar. Swallowing his pride always left a burnt taste in his mouth, and he was all-too-familiar with the taste. He touched his shirt pocket and tapped the plastic nametag. The first day of any new job was always the hardest for him. The new guy was always an outsider, blundering through the workplace, never in the right spot at the right time. The plastic nametag didn't even have his picture on it yet; the principal had printed JOE with a permanent marker. He smoothed down his hair, and pulled open the wooden door facing him. He stared into the closet, cataloging everything he saw. There were brooms, and dustpans, and white plastic jugs with black and white labels. There was a large plastic bin of kitty litter, and stacks of paper towels. He leaned in a little further, noting the cases of toilet paper, and the tin cans of floor wax. Sweeping the hall was first. He selected a push broom, spun it onto the scuffed wooden boards at his feet, and closed the door.

The halls were quiet. Joe could hear a murmur of voice behind some of the doors as he pushed his broom past them, but could not distinguish what was being said behind the closed doors. As a child, he had always ducked school whenever he could. He remembered standing by the road, waiting for the bright yellow bus to pick him up, a giant dragon he feared would consume him. One sunny day in late March, he had seen the bus approaching, and had come to a sudden decision. He dropped his books and ran. He had run for fifteen or more minutes before he climbed a hillside above the road and looked back. He had seen the bus, prowling down the road, and he had known it was searching for him. That was the last day he had gone to school.

Now, pushing a small but growing mound of dust and debris down the wooden halls, he wished things had been different. He could not imagine how his life would have been different, but he knew it would have been. He had no diploma. He had trouble reading. Math was a great mystery to him. He knew his children were better educated than he was, and he knew he was losing their respect as they realized the same fact.

Joe shoved the broom, little clouds of dust and debris dancing ahead. There was not a lot of dirt in the halls, and he meant to see that it stayed that way. Ahead, he saw a door was open and a sign pointing in. He could hear children's voices clearly, and now and then a muffled bang followed by a shout. He leaned the broom against the wall and went to see what was going on.

Ken leaned his chair back until it hit against the wall. He held a clipboard, and the clipboard held a piece of white paper with purple letters. It had a faint smell, a unique school odor and for the first time, Ken realized he enjoyed it. He tapped his pencil on the clipboard. "Have we proved or disproved our....our....our something?"

"Hypothesis?"

"Yeah. Our hypothesis. Have we proved it or disproved it?

"So far, we've disproved it here. But you proved it in your truck. I just don't get it."

Ken wrote on the paper. "Disproved. And so, I think we're done."

Miss Sticklock appeared, dropping down beside them, vulture-like. "Ah, yes. The vortex. What are your results, boys?"

Ken swallowed. "Disproved."

Miss Sticklock shook her head, slowly, back and forth, as though it pained her to move. Ken listened as her neck squeaked and cracked like the rusty tin man from the Wizard of Oz, and he fought the urge to say, "Oil can!"

Miss Sticklock flipped a leaf over with one bony finger. "You have disproved what? Vortexes most certainly exist; therefore, you cannot have disproved their existence. There is no logic in your response, Kenneth."

Ken blinked twice, and then again, trying to think how to answer. He passed the clipboard to Rupert. "You tell her."

Rupert held the clipboard like a bomb. "Yes. Well. Miss Sticklock, that is to say, vortexes do exist. We know that. What we're showing here is the conditions that lead to their not being present, at this point in time."

Miss Sticklock crossed her arms. Her elbows clicked into place. She pointed her chin at Rupert. "That would seem to be a very easy feat, Rupert. You hardly need this pile of rubbish to demonstrate that. In fact, one could just stand here without a thing, without having done any research or work or effort, and demonstrate conditions that preclude a vortex. I am thinking that perhaps that is exactly what you two have done."

Before Rupert could respond, Ken heard the familiar sound of a throat being cleared, and Miss Sticklock whirled away from them.

Ken's jaw dropped. "Dad?"

"I don't mean to interrupt. Boys, you forgot a piece of your project. Let me go get it for you."

Ken was speechless, and Rupert kicked the floor with his sneaker. He leaned closer to Ken and muttered, "What's your dad talking about, anyway?"

Ken shrugged, and waited, trying not to glance at Miss Sticklock as she twisted her bony head to look at the door through which his father had vanished. After a few minutes, his father returned, carrying a wide board. "The tailgate," he announced, smacking it with his palm. "The wind needs to hit against this. That's what makes the leaves bounce back."

Rupert rubbed his nose. "I see it. Come on, Ken. Hold the tailgate up while I turn on the vacuum. Mr. Simmons, would you drop some leaves in front of the hoses when I start things?"

"Sure."

Ken took the wooden board from his father and held it upright on the floor, about five feet from their vacuum device. "Alright," he nodded to Rupert, still not knowing exactly what his dad was up to; he decided it was a better time to trust than to ask questions.

Rupert adjusted the position of the hoses over the picnic cooler. "Hold on. Okay, Miss Sticklock. With the tailgate up, represented by the board Ken is holding, a stagnation point is created. That point will cause air to be redirected over the tailgate. There will be less transverse drag force applied to the floor because less of the floor has air rushing over it. The leaves will lift, but their weight keeps them from exiting and they are instead brought forward in the vortex. Ready Mr. Simmons?"

"Ready."

"Alright, drop the leaves."

Ken steadied the board as his father dribbled leaves from his hands, dropping them into the flowing air-streams generated by the hoses. The leaves took flight, blowing toward where he held the board, before turning back toward Rupert and their contraption. Most of them dropped to the floor, but a few circled around again, returning to the picnic cooler. They hung in the air, then blew away, repeating the slow trip.

"A vortex," said Ken, relief flooding him until he actually found himself smiling at Miss Sticklock.

She nodded, her neck making a sound like a dropped cafeteria tray. "Very impressive. Very impressive, indeed."

12. Welcome Home

Georgia traipsed up the wooden stairs, paused and looked back. Instead of following her up the steps, Peter was still standing at the bottom, fumbling until he seized the banister. She caught his eye and smiled. "Are you all right?"

"Sorry," he grinned. "I guess I feel a little woozy."

Georgia ran back down and took his arm. She gently squeezed it, trying to reassure him. She knew he would be nervous. "Come on, Peter. He's just my dad. He doesn't bite."

Peter shook his head and inhaled deeply. "I'm more afraid of being shot than bitten. Look, he all but threatened me that day in the pepper patch. I don't think finding out that we want to date will change his mind."

Georgia dropped her hand. "We just want to see each other, not get married. And, he knows now. He wasn't so mad about that. I know mom talked to him; and I think he's okay with it, now."

Peter took her hand, and Georgia smiled. She had always been self-conscious about her hands; they were soft on the top, but with hardened palms. Her father had always said hands spoke volumes about a person; their habits, their virtues and vices, and whether the person was afraid to work. Georgia was not afraid of work, and nor was she afraid of her father. She was glad that Peter was willing to meet him face to face, and knew it was only because he really, really liked her. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back.

Peter took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. I guess I have to face him sooner or later. Let's get it over with, okay?"

Georgia squeezed his hand. She liked his hands. They were gentle and strong. "It's going to be okay. I know it will. He was your age once, and he and mom had to date. He had to know today was coming, sooner or later. And after all, there's nothing wrong with you."

"Not yet, anyway."

Georgia brought his hand to her cheek. "I like you, Peter. I like you a lot. Maybe even more than like you."

Ken crawled from beneath the porch, leaned on the newel post, clutching his stomach. "Okay, I've heard enough to make me sick for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of my life."

Georgia dropped Peter's hand and snatched at Ken as he scrambled past her. "You jerk. Why are you always sneaking around?"

"I'm not sneaking, Georgia. I live here, just the same as you." Ken dusted his hands off on his pants and smoothed down his hair. "Besides, I...oh, forget it," he said, seeing the screen door open and his father step onto the porch. The door slammed, and Peter jumped.

His father grabbed Ken and roughly rubbed his hand over his head. "You're right, Ken. We all live here." He turned to Georgia and Peter. "What's more, we're going to live here from now on. So I guess we'd better get used to seeing this boy sniffing around the place." He pointed his finger directly at Peter's nose. "I want you to behave yourself. I was your age once, and I guess you know what I'm talking about."

"Daddy!" Georgia turned red and she ducked her face into her hands.

"It's alright." Peter's voice was firm, and he stuck his right hand out. "I understand, Mr. Simmons. I'd like your permission to see your daughter. And I promise to behave myself."

Ken waited a heartbeat for his father to explode, and was amazed when his father did not hesitate. Instead, he shook Peter's hand. "Alright, then son. We have an understanding, it seems like. You have my permission."

"Yes, sir."

Ken sat down on the bottom step, reflected briefly, and for a moment, put himself in his sister's position. He decided to keep quiet and did not move. He felt as though someone had hit him in the head with a large, heavy object. Growing up was far more complicated than he ever thought it could be. Finally, he managed to get some words out. "So, dad, it's okay that Georgia has a boyfriend?"

"I suppose it is, Ken. And although you may not be aware of it, someday, you'll want a girlfriend. And you'd better talk straight with that girl's father, the same way this young man did with me today."

***

A moment later, Missy and Ally dashed down the wooden stairs, their small feet thumping each step thumping like a snare drum. Ally dashed against Ken; he caught hold of her and held her at arm's length. "What in the world is wrong now?"

"Mommy's ready to have the baby! Mommy says the baby's coming! Hurry, daddy! Hurry!"

Joe smacked his leg. "Where did I leave my truck keys?" He pulled them out of his pocket and stared at them for a moment.

Ken reached out and touched his father. "Dad? Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay, I found them. Ken, put your mother's suitcase in the bed of the truck. It's behind the couch, there by the door. Georgia, I'm taking your mother to the hospital. You're in charge; so you keep an eye on the little ones until I call. Peter, it's time for you to go home."

"Yes, sir."

Ken pounded up the stairs and banged the door open. "Mom! Are you all right? Dad's getting the truck!"

Sarah struggled up from the kitchen chair and smiled at him. "Yes, Ken. I'm all right, but this baby intends to be born today. We need to hurry, I think. Get my suitcase for me, will you?"

Ken nodded and dashed to the living room. Stowed behind the couch was his mother's suitcase, already packed for a few days' stay in the maternity ward. He seized the heavy suitcase, turned, and headed for the door.

Sarah paused and touched his head as he went by. "Ken."

Ken stopped. "Mom?"

"I want you to be nice to your sisters while I'm at the hospital. Especially while your dad is there with me. You're the man of the house until he gets back, and I'm counting on you."

Ken dropped the suitcase. "Okay mom. I've been trying."

"I know. I've noticed."

He picked up the suitcase again. "Mom?"

"Yes, Ken?"

Ken's voice was thick and he had a little trouble getting the words out. "Mom, what are you going to name the baby? I mean, really? Is it going to have a normal name, or be like the rest of us?"

Sarah smiled and her eyes got very distant. She spoke quietly. "Your name is a good name, if you carry it honestly. And, I suppose I always wanted a little Tex. But we never made it to Texas. And anyway, the doctor said this little Tex is going to be a girl, so I think we've decided on Penny."

"Pennsylvania?"

"No, Ken. Just Penny."

Ken picked up the suitcase and hefted it. "Penny's a pretty name, mom. I guess Pennsylvania is okay, too."

"I'm glad you think so, Ken. Now, come on, or I'm going to have to name her Kitchen Floor."

Ken laughed, deep and from his center, and helped his mother into the waiting pickup truck. Although his family didn't have much money, Ken knew that his parents loved him and his sisters, each and every one, and that the new baby would not divide that love, but multiply it. Being different, perhaps, was not so bad. In fact, he reflected, watching his parents drive away, maybe it was even something to be proud of.

***

"Good morning, class." Ms Dofenbaugh entered the classroom briskly. Ken tried to avoid her burning gaze as it darted across the assembled rows of vacant-faced children. She nodded. "I am your substitute teacher today, and we need to have some things straight right away. I detest substituting. However, I am only here today, and a person could sit in a red-hot frying pan for that length of time. So behave yourselves and we shall get along splendidly. Good morning. My name is Ms Dofenbaugh.

"Good morning, Ms Dofenbaugh."

Ms Dofenbaugh frowned. "Dofenbaugh. I expect my name to be pronounced accurately." She cleared her throat, reminding Ken of the class frog scratching at its aquarium lid.

"Class, I do not tolerate the improper use of proper names. It is not proper. Not in the least. I do not tolerate it in my regular class, and I will not tolerate it here." She pulled her glasses to the tip of her nose. "So let us start anew, on a new foot; I will call the roll and you will introduce yourselves to me, in a proper, respectful fashion. Respond to your name by standing when I call."

One after the other, boy, girl, boy, girl, girl, boy, she called them in turn, her voice taut and her finger jabbing at her list. Suddenly she paused and frowned.

"Obviously there is some mistake with the list the principal provided me this morning." She rested her precise fingertip on the paper and stared at the class. "I will not tolerate mistakes. Kenneth Simmons, rise please."

Ken stood to his feet. "My name is Kentucky, not Kenneth." He took a deep breath and let it out. "Kentucky Bluegrass Simmons!"

The End

\--The End--

