True (. . . Sort Of) (2 page)

D
elly Pattison was born smiling.

“That's one happy baby,” Mabel Silcox said.

“That baby's too happy.” Clayton Fitch scowled.

Even after the trouble took over, Delly started every day with a smile. As soon as her eyes opened, she'd cheer, “Jiminy fipes!” and run down to breakfast grinning.

But now the feeling bad went to bed with her. “Another day of trouble,” it would tell her when she woke up. She'd wait till Clarice hollered, “Last call, Delly!” to drag herself out of bed. It'd been a long time since her smile made it downstairs.

The Saturday the Boyds came to town, though, was different. That morning the top of Delly's head twitched, like every hair was hopping with excitement. Then her whole body tingled.

It was the feeling that told her a surpresent was coming.

“Happy Hallelujah,” she shouted, and bounced out of bed.

The surpresent feeling didn't show up too often, maybe once or twice a year. But every time it did, something wonderful came Delly's way, like the hockey skates she got out of the Teeters' garbage, or the five dollars she found on the IGA floor. All Delly had to do was show up at the right place at the right time, and a surpresent would be waiting for her.

That morning the surpresent feeling filled her, so there was no room for feeling bad. Her lips couldn't help curling at the corners.

She ran to the top of the stairs. “Ma,” she called.

Clarice came to the bottom of the steps, with a spatula in her hand.

“Are you baking a cake?” Delly asked.

“No,” Clarice told her.

“Did you get us a puppy?”

“No.”

“Are we going on a trip?”

“Delly.” Clarice was waving the spatula like a weapon. “You get down here, or you'll be on a trip to I Missed My Breakfast Land.”

“Okay, Ma.” She grinned, not minding Clarice's tone or temper. Because after all the trouble, something good was finally coming to her.

When she got downstairs, the smile was still there.

Clarice Pattison worked at the hardware store in town. Boomer Pattison drove trucks long distance, so he was gone more than he was home. That left Clarice alone with six children, one of them Delly. She was a hardworking woman, tired most of the time.

Four of the Pattison children were peaceful. But Galveston and Delly were like volatile chemicals— put near each other, those girls would explode. Mealtimes were worst for it: food had been thrown, children had flown.

So Clarice assigned seats. She set Galveston beside her, and put Delly between Dallas and Tallahassee. If a fight broke out, Clarice could grab Gal, and those two would squeeze Delly till she calmed down.

That morning, though, Galveston got after Delly the second she stepped in the kitchen. “We're almost done fixing breakfast,” she hissed. “You're supposed to make toast. Get going.”

Now, any other day Delly would have grabbed the spatula and snarled, “Gal, I'm going to flip you like a giant pancake.” Next thing the fur would have been flying.

But Delly had so much surpresent feeling in her, there was no room for the fight. She walked to the toaster, humming.

“What's wrong with her?” Galveston jeered.

Nobody answered, because nobody knew.

At the table, Delly smiled at her orange juice, then hummed through her pancakes. Clarice ate with one hand on Galveston, holding tight to the peace.

When she was done eating, Delly said sweetly, “Hey, anybody hear about something special happening today?”

The others were stunned by the sweetness. “What sort of something special?” Clarice asked.

“Like free candy at the IGA. Or Karlson's dog having puppies.”

“I haven't heard anything,” Clarice told her. “Why?”

Delly's eyes got big, and she whispered, as if saying it might scare it away, “It's a surpresent, Ma. A surpresent's coming, and I can't miss it.”

Galveston snickered. “Here we go—” and Clarice's claw squeezed her silent.

Now, Clarice Pattison liked surpresents about as much as she liked seeing Officer Tibbetts at her door: more often than not, they meant trouble. But Delly had smiled. And she was looking at Clarice, her eyes full of needing something good. “You'll find it,” she told her.

Delly grinned so all her teeth showed. As soon as she set her plate in the sink, she ran to the door, calling, “I'm going.”

“Delaware Pattison!” Clarice yelled.

And the smile Clarice had waited months to see was wiped away. “What?” Delly muttered, ready to hear what she'd done wrong.

So instead of saying, “I don't want the police near this neighborhood,” Clarice told her, “Take a coat.”

That quick, the smile was back. “It's going to be gimungous, Ma,” she said, and grabbed her jacket.

At the door, she whispered to the world, “Here I come, surpresent. Smack me down with yourself.”

R
B Pattison was seven years old, and he loved Delly like Christmas.

Dellyventures were his favorite. He liked it best if she invited him, but he'd tag along if she forgot.

Delly was running, her feet whap, whapping the concrete. She was concentrating so hard on her surpresent she didn't hear the whap, whapping of somebody else's feet behind her.

Till she got to the end of the street. She turned to see who the whapper was.

And RB ran right into her.

“What the glub are you doing?” she demanded.

“Going with you.” He grinned.

“No, RB,” she told him. “Now go home.”

RB stood still, like a possum pretending.

Delly turned and started walking again, whap, whap.

Two seconds later, there was that other whap-ping.

Delly faced him. “RB,” she hollered, “I'm trying to find my surpresent.”

“I know,” he answered.

“That means no lugdraggerers tagging along.”

“What's a lugdraggerer?” he asked.

“It's somebody who slows you down and has to tie his shoe fifty times a day.”

“I'm not a lugdraggerer,” he told her.

And he was so sure of it, she couldn't tell him otherwise.

“Please, Del?” he said sweetly.

“Bawlgrammit,” she grumbled, because she couldn't say no to that.

“You got to do what I tell you,” she ordered.

“I know.”

“No whining.”

“I know.”

“No messing around.”

“I know, I know, I know.”

“And what about food for you? I'm not going home till I find my surpresent.”

“I got food in here. For both of us.” He showed her his backpack. It was loaded. Delly just hoped it wasn't cans of sardines and broken-up crackers like last time.

“You're something,” she told him. But he heard it in her voice; he was something good.

She took off again, with him beside her. At Main Street, RB grabbed her hand.

“Just for crossing,” she said.

“I know.”

She didn't shake him off, though, when they got to the other side.

T
hey walked all over town, seeking the surpresent.

They went to the river and looked for packages, wrapped or unwrapped, floating down it. They checked the garbage cans at the nicest houses around. But there was no surpresent tingle, not even a twitch.

Delly sent RB to knock on Mabel Silcox's door. “You baking something today, Ms. Silcox?” he inquired.

She wasn't.

They stopped at the Dettbarn twins'. Julius and Sissy were sitting on the stoop with a shoebox between them.

“What you got?” Delly asked.

They showed her the mouse their cat brought home, still alive. They'd put it in the box with a wash-cloth for a blanket and some peanut butter to eat.

“You want it?” they asked Delly.

She thought about the fun she could have with that mouse and Galveston. She closed her eyes and waited for the tingle to tell her this was her sur-present. It didn't come.

“No, but thanks,” she answered.

RB and Delly sat on the steps of St. Eunice's Church, with their hands folded and their eyes raised to heaven for ten whole minutes, but nothing happened.

“This is a mysturiosity.” Delly sighed.

They ate lunch at the church. RB had stuck a jar of grape jelly and a loaf of bread in his backpack.

“Knife?” Delly asked.

He shook his head. “Water?”

He shrugged.

So they ate giant-hunks-of-jelly-on-bread sandwiches. Their teeth and tongues turned slimy purple with white chunks.

“Where are we going now?” RB asked when they were done.

She thought for a second. “To the IGA,” she told him, and they took off down the street.

The corner in front of the IGA was the busiest spot in town. If something special came to River Bluffs, it was sure to pass that place. They parked themselves on the sidewalk by the front door and waited.

But it was boring, just sitting there. Delly got an idea to pass the time. “I'm going to teach you how to spit,” she told him.

“Yay.” RB clapped.

“Watch,” she said. She hacked up a goober and sent it flying down the sidewalk. It landed with a
splat.
It was purple with white chunks in it.

“Wow,” RB said.

“Now you do it.” She directed him.

He puckered up and moved his mouth back and forth. Delly gazed down the walk, watching for the splatter.

Instead, she heard a t-t-t beside her. She felt a mist of spit on her face.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Not t-t-t. Not through your teeth. Like this.” She hacked up another one.
Thup
it left her lips, then
splat
. “Your mouth's a spitzooka,” she told him.

RB nodded. He got a giant goober on his tongue. And his mouth exploded.

It was big and purple. It went more up than out. But it landed with a
whap
, sending saliva in every direction.

“Nice,” Delly said, and RB glowed.

Then it was spit fireworks at the IGA. Those two were so busy perfecting their spit skills they didn't notice people trying to get by without getting splattered.

Clayton Fitch turned them in. “You got those little Pattisons outside, spitting purple at everybody,” he tattled to Norma, the cashier.

Norma looked out the window, and two purple spitballs sailed by. And there was Mabel Silcox, all eighty years of her, trying to jump out of their way.

“Delly.” Norma scowled. She ran to the window and banged on it.

Delly was too busy to hear her.

Norma was yelling now, things like “calling the police” and “jail time.” She was so loud RB heard her through the glass.

“Delly,” he told his sister, “you'd better look.”

So she did.

But by then Norma was shooting out the door of the IGA, like she'd been blasted out of a bazooka herself. “Delly Pattison,” she shouted, “I'm taking you to Verena!”

Delly heard that. “RB,” she yelled. “Run!”

The three of them raced down the walk, with Norma howling, “Stop those Pattisons!”

Suddenly the air was filled with a strange song. It was metal squeaking and something creaking, rubber thumping, and something else bumping. It was coming straight at them.

They all stopped running and turned to it.

That's when Delly got the tingle, bigger and stronger than ever.

“My surpresent,” she breathed.

F
ive minutes before, the green Impala with the trailer behind it had turned off the highway onto River Bluffs Road.

The car's brakes squeaked every time they got tapped. One wheel whump, whumped as it went around. Wind got into the trailer and made a wailing whistle as it passed through. On their own, each of those sounds might rub an ear raw. But together, they made a song, a sad song of things gone wrong and barely hanging on.

The green Impala with the trailer behind it squeaked and whumped into town. It passed the Dettbarns, yelling, “Mouse for sale!” and silenced them with the song. It screeched by the park, and the kids on the basketball court quit playing. Finally, the green Impala with the trailer behind it squealed toward the stop by the IGA.

By the time Delly saw it, she was tingling to her toes. It was the surpresent coming at her so loud she couldn't miss it.

She forgot about Norma. She walked to the curb and waited. “I was worried,” she whispered, “but you're here.”

She closed her eyes. “Better than ten pans of brownies,” she told herself. “Better than a new sister to replace Galveston.” She could tell by the tingle.

She felt the heat of the car beside her. She opened her eyes and gazed into the green Impala.

“It's . . . ,” she exclaimed as she searched the front seat. “It's . . . ,” she said, scanning the back. Then she muttered, “What the glub?”

The back of the car was empty. Up front, a man was driving. And in the seat nearest to Delly was a boy, a pale, skinny one with short hair. He was hunched over, wearing a too-big T-shirt.

“It's nothing?” she mumbled.

The tingling was so strong, though, it was shaking her. “You got to be here somewhere,” she insisted.

She searched again.

But there was nothing close to a surpresent in that car. There was nothing that said, “See, Delly? After all the trouble, here's something good. There's still hope for you.”

She felt her hope leaving her. “No,” she rasped.

The “no” joined the rumble of the car so no one heard it.

Except the boy. He glanced over at her.

After, Delly only remembered his eyes. They were blue like ice, with sad stories frozen inside. They made her shiver.

The boy turned away. Then the green Impala with the trailer behind it whumped and whistled through the stop, over the bridge, and out the River Road.

Delly stood at the curb, blinking. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the boy's blue ones.

“Delly.” RB tugged on her.

“Huh.”

“You ready to go? 'Cause here comes Norma.”

With the song gone, Norma was blasting off again. “You stay right there!” she shouted.

“Run!” Delly yelled.

They sprinted full speed, no-stops all the way home. They dashed to Delly's room and dove behind the bed.

“Del?” RB asked, still gulping air.

“Huh.”

“Was that your surpresent?”

It took her a second to answer. “No,” she told him. Then she hollered so the world would know it, “That was not my surpresent!”