Truly, Madly, Sheeply, page 12
“What’s a harbinger?”
“A sign of sorts. I met your grandmother the summer I added my first snowy owl to my life list, for instance.”
Life lists were records that birders like Gramps and me kept, to keep track of the birds we spotted. Mine was barely two pages long. His filled an entire notebook.
“Your aunt was born the year I traveled to the Pacific Northwest and saw a spotted owl, and your father came along shortly after I spotted my first great gray. That was something.” He was quiet for a moment, remembering. Then he gestured toward the two exquisitely beautiful creatures above us and continued, “Barn owls are considered the most romantic of owls. Probably because of those Valentine-shaped faces of theirs. It’s a very sweet start to your aunt’s marriage, to have these two choosing to nest here in their barn.”
I knew a few other things about barn owls, too, thanks to the books that Gramps had given me over the years. I knew that they mated for life, and that a pair of them could catch more than two dozen mice a night, which had to be a good thing for a farm.
“And maybe,” he added, glancing down at me, “they’re harbingers of good for you, too.”
“Me? Why?”
Gramps ruffled my hair. “Owls have an ability to see what others can’t—and because of that they have long been a symbol of wisdom and intuition. As I recall, seeing clearly is something very much needed at your age.”
He didn’t know the half of it, I thought ruefully. From more boys in my life than I knew what to do with to the looming prospect of a life of crime, I had a lot I needed to think clearly about these days.
Sunrise at the farm wasn’t anything like it had been on top of Mount Lovejoy, but it was still pretty spectacular. In the brief span of time that we’d been standing there watching the owls, the sky had begun to lighten and was now stained a deep pink. Fingers of gold reached toward us as the sun peeked over the far edge of the pumpkin field. The owls retreated inside, away from the light. I knew they’d spend the day sleeping, before emerging again after dark to go hunting.
Meanwhile, restless noises and scattered clucks and baas from inside the barn told us that the sheep and chickens were awake.
“Sounds like our barn friends are ready for breakfast,” said Gramps. “Since we’re already up, I suppose we might as well take care of morning chores.”
I followed him inside. It was a funny thing, but as much as I wasn’t the world’s biggest animal lover, aside from birds—and Miss Marple—I had always adored barns. I loved everything about them. I loved the way they looked like they belonged. Like they’d sprung up out of the ground and been there forever. I loved the soaring space inside that reminded me of church, and the way the dust motes danced in the light that filtered down through the high windows. I loved the creaking floorboards and the wooden beams worn by decades and sometimes centuries of use. Most especially, though, I loved the smell. And as rattletrap a barn as this one was, it was still full of the same perfect barn smell as any other barn I’d ever been in.
I’d felt this way ever since Lola read Charlotte’s Web to me one summer when we’d visited Pumpkin Falls. It was her favorite book, and she was always quoting from it. One of the parts that she’d memorized was a description that the author, E. B. White, wrote about the barn that Wilbur the pig lived in. I still remembered the last line: “It often had a sort of peaceful smell—as though nothing bad could happen ever again in the world.”
Mr. White was exactly right, I thought, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply. It definitely was a peaceful smell. I also detected the fresh straw that Uncle Rusty had laid down in the sheep pens, and a pungent but not unpleasant mixture of chickens, fleece, and an unnamable something that was probably sheep poo. It didn’t smell bad, though, just kind of earthy.
“So, let’s see what we need to do.” My grandfather headed downstairs to the sheep pens with me close on his heels. He fished his reading glasses out of his pocket, propped them on what he grandly referred to as “the Lovejoy proboscis”—the large and rather hawk-like nose that I saw echoed on my dad’s face and which Hatcher was terrified he was going to end up with—and peered at the chalkboard that Uncle Rusty had put up on the wall by the gate.
At the top was written IN CASE OF EMERGENCY along with Theresa the sheep whisperer’s cell phone number. Underneath was a list of the names of each sheep along with the tag number in their ear. Aunt True and Uncle Rusty had been busy before they left, naming their flock. Besides Beatrice and Benedick, there was what my aunt called her new husband’s “Ladies of American History”: Abigail, Martha, Harriet, Frances, and Sojourner—for Abigail Adams, Martha Washington, Harriet Tubman, Frances Scott Key, who wrote the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and Sojourner Truth, a famous African-American minister.
Grabbing my cell phone, I snapped photos of the names on the chalkboard and the sheep milling around in the pen and texted them to Mackenzie and Jasmine and Cha Cha: Just hanging out in the barn with my new besties.
Mackenzie wouldn’t be up for ages—it was the middle of the night in Texas—but Jasmine and Cha Cha texted me right back.
HAHA!
SOUNDS LIKE ELLA BELLOW’S SENIOR SATURDAY KNITTING GROUP!
While Gramps served up breakfast—hay that he pitchforked into the metal baskets that hung around the edge of the pen at intervals—I grabbed two buckets and filled them with fresh water, which Theresa had told us was one of the major food groups for sheep. I took the first bucket inside the pen with the ewes, who were intent on their breakfast and ignored me. Benedick was giving me the evil eye, however, so I just lifted his bucket over the edge of the pen and placed it carefully on the ground.
When I was done, I leaned on the railing for a bit while Gramps and I watched the sheep eat.
“Look at them go!” said Gramps admiringly. “Busy making wool for knitters.”
When they were done, he poured grain into the trough that ran around the base of the pen.
“All right then, ladies,” Gramps told the ewes as they jostled each other to get at the treat. “I’ll leave the barn doors open for you so you can peek outside at your new home. It’s a beautiful morning! But you have to stay here in your pens for another day or so until you acclimate to your new surroundings. You too, Benedick.” He glanced over at the ram, who was watching him with his odd, sideways eyes. If a sheep could glare, Benedick would be glaring. “You’re not sure you like me being in here with your harem, do you?”
That would be a no, I thought, as the ram gave a sharp bleat in response. My grandfather chuckled and gave him some grain as well.
“Looks like True wanted to be sure we wouldn’t forget,” he said pointing to a big sign in capital letters that my aunt had posted above the bottom of the stairway. It read GATE CHECK!
I nodded. “Already done.”
“Good. We don’t want coyotes carrying off any of these lovely ladies. And gent.”
“That’s it?” I said as we headed back upstairs. “We don’t have to muck out the pens?” I’d had friends back in Texas with horses and they were forever cleaning manure out of the stalls.
My grandfather shook his head. “Nope. Sheep are much lower maintenance than cows and horses. From what Bert said, with the deep bedding method they’re using, Rusty and True will only have to clean out the pens a few times a year.”
Gramps saw the horrified look on my face and laughed. “Well, thank goodness sheep are different than people, right?”
Back inside, we hung up our jackets in the mudroom.
“Since someone so foolishly and shortsightedly talked us into finishing up the cider doughnuts last night,” said Gramps, “how about pancakes for breakfast?”
I gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“Good. I’ll whip up a batch while you get dressed.”
Upstairs in my room, I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and texted Danny: DO YOU STILL HAVE THAT BOOK GRAMPS GAVE YOU FOR CHRISTMAS?
WICKED GOOD SURVIVAL SKILLS?
YEAH.
CAN I BORROW IT?
MAY I AND YES.
I rolled my eyes. Since when had Danny turned into the grammar police?
CAN YOU SEND IT TO SCHOOL WITH LAUREN?
He sent me an okay fingers emoji. I thrust my cell phone back into my jeans pocket, grabbed my backpack and swim duffel, then headed downstairs to breakfast.
CHAPTER 16
Coach Maynard kept us later than usual at swim practice that morning with a punishing series of dry land strength-training exercises. “Just because you won a meet yesterday doesn’t mean you’ll win the next one,” he told us. “No resting on your laurels around here.”
“The only thing I want to rest on is a chair,” grumbled Lucas when we finished the final set of squats.
“No kidding,” I replied, wincing as I rose to my feet. “My glutes are on fire.”
“Glutes?” asked Emilio, who was developing an inconvenient habit of materializing unannounced.
I felt my face go pink and sheepishly pointed to the spot in question.
He laughed. “Ah! Didietro. Si!” He stuck his backside out and waggled it, making us laugh.
Calhoun came over just then. He looked at the three of us. “What’s so funny?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
Behind Calhoun’s back, Emilio waggled his rear at Lucas and me once more. I couldn’t help it, I started laughing again. Calhoun rolled his eyes and stalked off toward the locker room.
“Wait!” I said, running after him. “It was just—”
He flapped his hand at me. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.”
But it did. I watched the locker room door swing shut behind him. Why did things have to be so complicated, especially where boys were concerned? Gramps was right. I needed the wisdom of an owl to navigate life.
At school, we spent most of the morning at the covered bridge again, making final adjustments to our catapults and trying one more time to beat The Beast. As if that was going to happen. Finally, after an hour of humiliation, Mr. Bigelow put us out of our misery and declared Scooter the winner.
“You’ll be representing Daniel Webster School two weeks from now at the Halloween Pumpkin Toss,” he told him. “We expect you and The Beast to do us proud.”
I stopped by my locker before lunch to check and see if Lauren had delivered the book from Danny. She had. I flipped through the pages on my way downstairs to the cafeteria. Yes! There was a section on lock-picking! I scanned it briefly, then stuffed the book into my back pocket.
At lunch, Scooter couldn’t stop bragging about his contraption. I kept waiting for an opening in the conversation to tell my friends about what had happened last night and share my plan for breaking into the shed, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. None of us could. Finally, I slid the book out of my pocket, held it up, and said in a loud voice, “DOES ANYONE WANT TO LEARN HOW TO PICK A LOCK?”
Unfortunately, I spoke just as Scooter finally paused long enough to take a bite of his tuna sandwich. As my words rang out through the lunchroom, everyone nearby—students, teachers, lunch ladies, and Principal Burnside—turned and stared at me. I clutched the book to my chest, mortified, and slunk down in my chair, wishing I were in a galaxy far, far away.
“What was that?” whispered Cha Cha.
“I think you heard me,” I whispered back. “I think pretty much all of Pumpkin Falls heard me.”
“Why would any of us want to learn how to pick a lock?” asked Jasmine.
“Because it’s cool,” said her twin, spraying her with tuna sandwich crumbs. Jasmine made an “ew” face and brushed them away.
The noise in the cafeteria quickly returned to its usual boisterous level and I leaned forward. “So here’s the deal,” I began, and explained—in a low voice this time—what had happened at the farm last night. Then I pointed out the pertinent section in Danny’s book. “I’ve looked it over and it doesn’t seem all that complicated.”
“We definitely need to get inside that shed,” said Calhoun.
Scooter nodded. “I’ll bet you anything Elmer is the real pumpkin snatcher.”
Emilio, who was sitting at a neighboring table talking to Franklin and Amy, must have overheard our excited chatter, because he kept glancing over at us.
“Keep it down,” I told my friends, adding in a whisper, “If we go right after school today, we’ll have the place to ourselves. Gramps and Lola will still be at the bookshop.”
Cha Cha shook her head. “I can’t. I promised my mom I’d help her teach a beginning ballroom class.”
“Me neither,” said Jasmine. “Dress fitting for my cousin’s quinceañera. Can’t you wait until tomorrow?”
“Guys, it’s Hatcher we’re talking about!” I protested. “This can’t wait! He’s in trouble, and the faster I can clear his name, the better.”
One by one, my friends were forced to drop out. Scooter had a math tutoring session with my dad, who was running a thriving after-school business at the bookshop. Calhoun had soccer practice. Lucas was heading to the stamp shop, where he’d promised to help Bud Jefferson, his soon-to-be stepfather, with a reorganizing project.
“Plus, my mom would kill me if she found out I was learning to pick locks,” Lucas added, which was probably true.
I knew Lauren was babysitting Pippa again, so that was that. I was on my own.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I’ll let you all know how it goes.”
Our last class of the day was Language Arts. We were just settling in to watch Scooter and Calhoun act out the final scene from “The Cask of Amontillado” when I caught a flash of something white outside. I glanced over at the window, frowned, then did a double take. Was that a sheep on the front lawn of our school?
It was! I gave a yelp and dashed over to take a closer look.
“Truly, could you please sit—”
“Ms. Matthews, I think that’s one of our sheep!” I cried frantically. Chairs scraped against the floor around the room as my classmates all rushed over to join me. Ms. Matthews did, too.
“Oh no!” I said in dismay, counting frantically. It wasn’t just one sheep—all six ewes had managed to escape! But how? I was sure that Gramps and I had double-checked the gates this morning!
Grabbing my cell phone, I called my grandfather.
“Hold the fort!” he said crisply when I’d filled him in. “Your dad and I will be right over.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but I have to go,” I told my teacher. “This is an emergency!” She nodded mutely and I ran out of the classroom and flew down the stairs two at a time. My entire class was right behind me.
Principal Burnside was already outside, making flapping motions with his hands and looking more like a flamingo than ever. “Shoo, sheep!” he called, as the flock eyed him—and the growing crowd—uneasily.
“Please don’t,” I said in a low voice. “You might spook them. Those are Aunt True’s sheep! Gramps and Dad are on their way.”
Mr. Burnside stopped mid-flap. “What should we do?”
“Um,” I said. How should I know? Think, Truly, think! I racked my brain, trying to remember any instructions we’d been given about runaway sheep. Were there emergency maneuvers for rounding up strays? Grabbing my cell phone again, I quickly scrolled to Theresa the sheep whisperer’s number, deliriously grateful that she’d made me save it.
HELP! My thumbs flew as I texted her, filling her in on the situation. I pressed send and prayed she’d answer.
She did!
STAY CALM OR THEY’LL RUN, she texted back.
I repeated her words to the crowd gathered around me. My cell phone buzzed again.
FORM A HUMAN CHAIN AND SURROUND THEM QUIETLY. REMEMBER THE GRAIN CAN? THEY’LL FOLLOW IT HOME.
I stared at my cell phone screen, flabbergasted. Grain can? Did she think I’d brought that to school with me?
“Cha Cha!” I called in a flash of inspiration. “Can you grab one of the maracas from the music room?”
“You bet.” As she dashed off, I thought of one more thing that might help.
“Lucas!” I grabbed him by his skinny arm. “How fast can you get to the pool?” I told him what I wanted and he nodded and sped away as quickly as his equally skinny legs could carry him.
“Can you get the sixth and seventh graders down here?” I asked Mr. Burnside. “We’re going to need more people for our human chain. I don’t think anyone younger than that will be strong enough to hold on if the sheep make a run for it. Some of these ladies are pretty big.”
“Done,” he said, and sprinted back inside.
While my classmates clasped hands and spread out in a long line, I walked slowly toward Beatrice.
“Hey, girl,” I said in a soft voice. “It’s me, Truly. Remember the back rub?”
Beatrice eyed me skeptically and kept her distance.
Cha Cha reappeared with the maraca. I took it from her and stuck it in my back pocket. Mr. Burnside was right on her heels with the sixth and seventh graders. They joined my classmates, stretching out the human chain. Our teachers spaced themselves out along it like beads on a necklace.
“Hold tight, even if they make a run for it,” I told everyone, keeping my voice low. “They won’t bite or anything. Think of them like big dogs.”
That’s what Theresa the sheep whisperer had said, right? Sheep are the best dogs you’ll ever have? I fervently hoped she was telling the truth.
In the distance, I could see Gramps and my father and what looked like half of Pumpkin Falls racing toward us down School Street. The ewes spotted them, too, and started milling around restlessly.
We couldn’t wait. We needed to move now. I was worried the flock might bolt at any moment.
“Start circling around them—slowly, slowly. That’s it! Mr. Burnside, you take one end of the chain that way and I’ll take the other end this way. We’ll meet on the other side of the sheep.”
I grabbed the nearest hand and started moving to the right. The person I’d grabbed squeezed my hand and I looked over in surprise to see that it was Calhoun. He smiled at me, the first real smile I’d seen from him in a while. I smiled back.
