“I don’t mind,” said her father.
He’d been in such a good mood lately; nothing seemed to faze him. As he served up the spaghetti and set the steaming plates on the table he started whistling “You Are My Sunshine” again.
“What is it with you and that song?” asked Melody.
Melody’s father reached over and tousled her hair.
“Give me a break. Can’t a fellow whistle a happy tune around here if he wants to?” he asked.
But Melody couldn’t shake the feeling that her father was hiding something from her.
One way or another, she was determined to find out what it was.
Honey.
That’s what started the whole thing. It’s what awakened Melody Bishop in the middle of the night, and what she was still thinking about the next morning when she got up. Maybe she had misheard, she told herself. After all, she had been half-asleep. Or maybe she had dreamed it. But deep down, Melody knew she hadn’t been dreaming, and she was certain about what she had heard.
Honey.
It had been a week since she and her father had run into Nancy Montgomery at the grocery store. Her father had continued to behave strangely and deny there was anything unusual going on. As a result, Melody had kept her eyes and ears open, and eventually it had paid off.
After making her bed and tucking her pajamas under the pillow, she got dressed and went downstairs. Her grandfather’s oxygen tank was sitting in the hallway, the long thin plastic tube coiled up on the floor beside it, hissing like a snake. Melody had completely forgotten that he was coming to stay for the weekend. She pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the front porch.
“In case anyone’s interested, I’m awake!” she hollered across the yard.
The garage door was open and the scuffed toes of her grandfather’s leather slippers were sticking out.
“Be there in a sec!” Gramp-o hollered back. “I’m just looking for the hammer!”
That’s what Gramp-o always said when he got caught smoking in the garage. Even after he’d been diagnosed with emphysema, he’d refused to give up his precious Pall Malls. When he thought no one was paying attention, he would unhook himself from his oxygen tank and sneak out for a smoke.
Melody went back inside, where she found a note on the kitchen table scribbled on the back of a yellow flyer announcing the grand opening of a new beauty salon in town. She ran her fingers through her short brown hair. She’d never set foot in a beauty salon. Her grandmother had always trimmed Melody’s hair for her when she was little, and after Gram-o had passed away, Melody had learned to do it herself, angling the mirror on the medicine-cabinet door in order to be able to see the back of her head.
Have a great weekend and take good care of Gramp-o, her father had written in his familiar chicken scratch. In case of emergency call this number.
Melody sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be any reason to call the number since it was impossible to tell her father’s eights from his fours or his twos from his threes. He’d signed the note in his usual way, XO times infinity, Dad.
Melody set the note aside and poured herself a glass of milk. There was a box of assorted donuts sitting on the table. She chose one dusted with powdered sugar, broke it in half, and was just about to dip it in the milk when the screen door squeaked open and Melody heard her grandfather shuffle in.
“I’m in the kitchen!” she called out to him.
A minute later Melody’s grandfather was wrapping his arms around her in a big bear hug. The oxygen tube was back in place under his nose, tethering him to the cylindrical tank, which sat on a little cart beside him. Melody held her breath as she returned her grandfather’s hug. She loved him dearly but hated the smell of the cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes and hair.
“Did you see the note from your father?” he asked. “He should have been a doctor with that handwriting of his.”
“Do all doctors have bad handwriting?” Melody responded, dunking the tail end of her donut in the milk.
“Mine’s got hairy arms,” said Gramp-o.
“In case you don’t know, that’s a non sequitur,” Melody told him. “Hairy arms have nothing to do with handwriting. And give me a break, Gramp-o. Do you really think I don’t know that ‘looking for the hammer’ is a euphemism for smoking out in the garage?”
Gramp-o laughed and pinched her cheek.
“Somebody’s full of beans this morning,” he said. “Any particular reason?”
As a matter of fact, there was.
“Have you noticed Dad’s been acting kind of discombobulated lately?” Melody asked.
“Henry’s always been a little forgetful, even as a boy, but come to think of it, this morning when I got here I noticed his socks didn’t match,” said Gramp-o, rubbing his chin.
“That’s nothing,” Melody told him. “Yesterday I opened the freezer and found a copy of The Red Badge of Courage sitting on top of a box of frozen waffles.”
“In the freezer?”
“Dad tried to laugh it off, but he’s been acting strange for weeks — staring off into space, whistling the same song. And he burns everything he cooks now, too!”
“That reminds me — I made us a tuna noodle casserole for dinner,” said Gramp-o.
Melody tried not to let her disappointment show. Her grandfather was a terrible cook. She’d been planning to ask if they could order a pizza for dinner.
The phone rang and Gramp-o reached to answer it.
“It’s Nick,” he said, handing her the receiver a moment later. “I’ll give you two some privacy while I go out to the garage to look for — oh, who am I kidding? You’re right, it is a euphemism.”
He started to leave, then paused and put a hand on Melody’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about your dad, Melly,” he said. “He always gets this way at the end of the school year. Once he turns in his final grades, I’m sure he’ll be back to his old self again.”
What Gramp-o didn’t understand was that Melody wasn’t worried — she was excited. In fact, she was overjoyed.
As she watched her grandfather head off to the garage, Melody thought back to the previous spring, and the spring before that. It was true that her father tended to get a little distracted at the end of the school year, but this was different. For the past few weeks she’d gotten the distinct impression he was hiding something from her; she was pretty sure now she knew what it was. When she heard a tinny, faraway voice calling her name, Melody realized she’d completely forgotten about Nick.
“Bishop!” he was shouting into the phone. “Bishop, are you there?”
“I’m here,” said Melody. “And you’ll never guess what’s happened. I’ll give you a hint: It’s about my dad.”
Nick Woo and Melody Bishop had been best friends since they’d been in day care together. People sometimes teased them about being boyfriend and girlfriend, but it wasn’t like that at all.
“Don’t tell me you found another book in the freezer,” Nick said.
“No,” said Melody, “but last night, in the middle of the night, the phone rang and woke me up. I heard my dad talking to someone, then when I asked who had called, he told me it was a wrong number.”
“What’s so strange about that?” Nick asked. “We get wrong numbers all the time at my house.”
“This wasn’t a wrong number,” said Melody. “My dad definitely knew who she was.”
“She? How do you know it was a woman?”
“Because right before my dad hung up, I heard him call her something.”
“What was it?” asked Nick.
“Honey.”
Nick gasped.
“No wonder your dad’s been acting so strange,” he said. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
Melody knew. Even though he’d never said it, Melody could tell her father’s heart had been broken when her mother passed away. For years Melody had been making the same wish on every birthday candle, eyelash, wishbone, and shooting star that ca
me her way, and now it had finally come true.
“My dad’s got a girlfriend!” she said.
“Who is she?” asked Nick.
That’s what Melody wanted to know, too.
“Knock-knock!” Teeny Nelson called through the knothole in the fence.
Melody groaned. She was in no mood to be pestered. Her mind was going a million miles an hour trying to figure out who Honey was.
“I said, ‘knock-knock,’ ” Teeny informed Melody, scrambling up to the top of the fence.
Teeny had on a tight pink T-shirt and her blond hair was pinned up with two silver barrettes decorated with tiny roses.
“I’m busy,” Melody told Teeny. “And please don’t ask if you can help, because the only thing I need right now is for you to stop bugging me.”
Teeny crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at Melody, then dropped back down into her yard. Melody smiled. That had been a lot easier than she’d expected. Returning to her thoughts, she replayed the end of her conversation with Nick in her head.
“I can’t stand the suspense. You have to help me figure out who honey is!” Melody had told him right before they’d hung up.
“Why don’t you just straight-up ask your dad?” Nick had suggested.
“I can’t. He went camping, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” said Nick. “I forgot about that.”
Melody had teased her father mercilessly when he’d first revealed his camping plan. Henry Bishop was not exactly the Boy Scout type, but he was the coach of the debate team, and after winning the statewide championship that year, the members had voted unanimously to reward themselves with a Memorial Day–weekend camping trip. If he didn’t get lost in the woods, or eaten alive by mosquitoes, he’d be home around dinnertime on Monday.
Gramp-o had fallen asleep in front of the TV watching CNN and Nick couldn’t come over until he’d finished his weekend chores, so Melody decided she might as well take another stab at pulling dandelions while she waited for Nick to arrive. It had rained a little the night before, softening up the ground, and she was finding it a lot easier to work the fork into the lawn. Having loosened a large dandelion plant, she held the jagged green leaves to one side with her left hand and carefully worked the fingers of her right hand down into the dirt until she felt the top of the root through her glove. Wrapping her hand around it, she gave a firm tug. This time the plant popped out of the ground with such force that she fell over backward in a shower of dirt.
“Eureka!” she shouted, holding the dandelion aloft with the hairy brown root still attached.
No sooner had she set her hard-won prize aside and picked up the fork again than one of the fence boards squeaked and swung to the side. Before Melody could say anything, Teeny Nelson squeezed through the gap and stepped into the yard.
What Melody had earlier taken to be a pink T-shirt turned out to be a short-sleeved leotard. Teeny also had on matching tights, which bagged at the ankles, and a little pink tutu that encircled her stout middle. On her feet she wore pink leather ballet slippers held on with narrow bands of elastic.
“Mama got her fingernails painted for free this morning,” Teeny announced.
“Fascinating,” said Melody, jamming the fork into the ground beside another dandelion and working it back and forth.
Undeterred, Teeny babbled on. “Bee-Bee gave me a root beer Dum Dum and she let me pat her dog, too.”
Melody pulled the second dandelion plant out and tossed it on top of the first one.
“Who’s Bee-Bee?” she asked.
“She’s the tall lady with macaroni hair and orange toenails,” said Teeny.
“Thanks,” said Melody. “That really helps narrow it down.”
Her sarcasm sailed over Teeny’s head like a Frisbee.
“Mama says if I’m a good girl, next time I can get my fingernails painted, too. Mama got number thirty-two but when it’s my turn I’m either going to get number fourteen or number fifty-four.”
“Why do the colors have numbers?” asked Melody as she pulled out a third plant and tossed it on the pile. Now that she was getting the hang of it, it was actually kind of satisfying.
“Beats me,” said Teeny. “Wanna see me do a trick?”
She reached into the waistband of her tutu and pulled out a yo-yo.
“No thanks,” said Melody.
“Wanna see me pop the clutch?” asked Teeny.
“No,” Melody told her.
“Wanna see me walk the dog?”
“Still no.”
“Come on,” Teeny whined, stamping her foot. “Watch me. Watch me do a trick.”
“Do you have any idea how annoying you are?” asked Melody. She pulled out a large plant, which actually turned out to be two, bringing her grand total up to five.
“Mama says I can’t help it. I was born annoying,” Teeny told her.
“That would explain things, all right,” said Melody.
Teeny wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then stuck her middle finger through the loop at the end of the yo-yo string and let it drop. It hung for a moment suspended just above the grass, then whizzed back up into her palm with a soft phwupp.
“Mrs. Armstrong’s mother dropped her teeth down the dispose-all by accident and had to buy a whole new set,” Teeny reported, releasing and catching the yo-yo again. Phwupp. “And Emily Barber’s husband has a piece of bullet stuck in his shinbone.”
“Who shot him?” Melody asked.
“Beats me. But Abby Gaebel’s appendix burst and the Lebson family is expecting another visit from the stork.”
Phwupp.
“Do you even know what that means?” Melody asked Teeny.
“No. But Wrigley’s is having a sale on Miracle Whip and it looks like Henry’s been bitten by the love bug.”
Melody froze.
“What did you just say?” she asked.
“Wrigley’s is having a sale on Miracle Whip.”
“No,” said Melody. “The other thing.”
“It looks like Henry’s been bitten by the love bug.”
Melody’s heart did a little somersault.
“Who told you that?” she asked.
“Beats me,” said Teeny. Rising up on her toes, she began to twirl.
“Well, where did you hear it?”
Teeny stopped twirling. Melody could almost hear the gears turning inside her little head. Then a sly smile slid across her face, like butter in a warm pan.
“Give me a turn with that ding-dong fork and I’ll tell you where I heard it,” Teeny said.
An upstairs window next door banged opened and Mrs. Nelson stuck her head out. Even from a distance Melody could see that her fingernails were painted a vibrant red.
“Uh-oh,” Teeny muttered under her breath.
“Christina Marie!” shouted her mother. “What did I tell you about going into other people’s yards?”
“I have to be invited first,” Teeny mumbled, kicking at the grass with the toe of one of her pink ballet slippers.
“Excuse me?”
Teeny threw back her head and yelled at the top of her lungs, “I HAVE TO BE INVITED FIRST!”
“Or else?”
“OR ELSE I GET A SPANKING!”
When Melody’s father was angry he got very quiet, but he’d never threatened to spank her, let alone actually done it. The miserable look on Teeny’s face told a different story.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Nelson!” Melody called up to Teeny’s mother. “I invited her!”
Teeny was so surprised her eyes looked as if they might pop out of her head and roll around the yard like a couple of hard-boiled eggs.
“Did you hear that, Mama?” she crowed. “I’m invited!”
“I heard,” said Teeny’s mother. “Now get over here, for golly’s sake. It’s already half past eleven. Roxanne’s going to be here any minute to drive you and Julia to ballet, and you know how she hates to wait.”
Mrs. Nelson ducked her head back inside and slamme
d the window shut.
“Well?” said Melody.
“Well what?” asked Teeny.
“Are you going to tell me where you heard that thing about Henry and the love bug or not?”
Teeny considered holding out a little longer for a turn with the weed fork, but they both knew Melody had just saved her from a spanking.
“Okay,” said Teeny. “I’ll tell you.”
The window next door banged open again. By the time Mrs. Nelson stuck her head out, Teeny was already shooting across the yard like a pink comet.
“Wait!” Melody shouted after her. “Tell me where you heard it first.”
Teeny had reached the fence. She took hold of the loose board and swung it to the side, but right before she disappeared through the gap, she turned and called back over her shoulder, “At the Bee Hive!”
Ever since Bee-Bee Churchill was a little girl, putting curlers in her dolls’ hair and coloring in their fingernails with markers, she’d dreamed about having her own beauty salon. She even had the name picked out. After high school, Bee-Bee entered the Indiana School of Beauty, quickly rising to the top of her class. She learned how to weave a French braid as tight as a Twizzler, wax an eyebrow without so much as a pinch, and buff a calloused heel smoother than a baby’s behind. She could crimp and curl and clip and trim as well as anyone, but the thing that set Bee-Bee Churchill apart from the rest was her uncanny eye for color.
Bored with the humdrum nail polish colors available at the manicure stations at school, she decided to try making her own. Starting with a clear base, she added tiny pinches of powdered eye shadow, patiently mixing the colors until she achieved the exact shade she wanted. For extra sparkle she added a sprinkle of glitter, then dropped two metal ball bearings into the bottle, screwed on the cap, and clickity-click-click shook it until the polish was blended and smooth.
“What an extraordinary color!” one of her teachers exclaimed, holding up a bottle of iridescent blue nail polish Bee-Bee had concocted. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it!”
A proud graduate of the Indiana School of Beauty, Bee-Bee Churchill returned to Cloverhitch to be near her family. She rented a cabin by the river and took a job as a shampoo girl at the only salon in town, Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow. The owner, Devora Flynn, quickly recognized Bee-Bee’s gifts and promoted her to head stylist. For the next fourteen years, Bee-Bee saw to the beauty needs of the fine citizens of Cloverhitch. Whether coaxing a reluctant child into the chair for a first haircut or putting the finishing touches on a nervous bride-to-be, Bee-Bee had a way of putting her customers at ease. Her appointment book was always full and her styling chair never empty.