Everyone else was way ahead of us.
Patrick looked a little discouraged on our walk home. I decided it would be a good time to put my plan into action.
"The flyers didn't work," I said, "and Mr. Maxwell doesn't know anyone with a mulberry tree." I shook my head and sighed. "It's not looking good, Patrick—maybe we should think of a backup plan, just in case."
He scowled. "I don't want a backup," he said. "You heard Mr. Maxwell. He thinks it's a great idea for a project. There's gotta be a mulberry tree somewhere in this dumb town."
I was about to tell him that we could start thinking of other ideas and still look for a mulberry tree at the same time when someone shouted "Hey!" from behind us.
We turned around. It was the gas station lady. She was waving at us from the doorway.
"Hey, kids!" she called again.
We stood in the tiny office while the lady went back behind the counter. "Mr. Dixon comes in here once a week," she said. "Monday morning at ten-thirty, like clockwork. He always buys the exact same things: ten bucks' worth of gas and a roll of wintergreen mints."
I tried not to fidget. Why was she telling us this?
"Well, when he came in yesterday, I showed him your sign, like I said I would," she went on. "And he kinda mumbles, 'Mulberries.'" She made her voice low and grumbly, so I got the idea that he must be an old man.
"So I ask him, 'You know anybody who's got a mulberry tree?' And he says, 'Young lady'—I know, that must seem funny to you, him calling me a young lady, but compared to him I am young"—she laughed, showing all those green teeth. "Anyway, he says, 'Young lady, time was, everybody around here knew I had the only mulberry tree in town.'" She looked at us, smiling and shaking her head. "How about that! Here you are looking for a mulberry tree, and he's got the only one around." She laughed again and slapped the countertop.
" Yes," Patrick whispered fiercely as he pumped his fist in the air.
My stomach lurched a little. So there was a mulberry tree nearby, dang it!
"Did he say he'd call us?" Patrick asked eagerly.
Her face fell. "Oh. I was getting to that. I tried to get him to take your number—even got out a pad of paper for him. But he said no thanks and left. Sorry about that."
Patrick made a noise like he'd been punched in the stomach. Meanwhile, I was suddenly feeling much better.
I looked at the lady and smiled. I wondered if my teeth looked really white to her. "Thank you for showing him our sign," I said in my politest voice. I foot-nudged Patrick. I mean, it wasn't the lady's fault that the guy hadn't taken my number, and Patrick should show some appreciation.
"Yeah, thanks," he muttered.
Green teeth grinned at us. She said, "I'll leave the sign up a while longer. Maybe something else will turn up."
We walked for a few moments in silence. Patrick's head was down, and he was hunched over. I felt bad for him—I mean, I was glad the guy hadn't taken my number, because that was one more obstacle to the silkworm project, but I hated seeing Patrick so disappointed.
"Patrick, don't forget, Mr. Maxwell is going to ask around for us," I said. "He's a farmer—he must have a lot of farmer friends. Maybe one of them will know about a tree."
I was starting to feel like a secret agent working undercover—thinking one thing while acting and saying the opposite. It was getting a little confusing. When I said that, it almost made me hope that Mr. Maxwell would be able to find us a tree, and I had to remind myself that what I really wanted was no tree.
"Yeah, maybe," Patrick said, his head still down. "But we're losing time, Jules. We won't see Mr. Maxwell again until next Tuesday. There's gotta be another way...."
He stopped walking and grabbed my arm so suddenly that I sort of got jerked backward. It hurt a little. "Monday!" he exclaimed.
"What about Monday?" I said crossly, pulling my arm away from him.
"He goes there on Monday mornings! She even told us the time, ten-thirty! If we're there when he's there—if we could talk to him ourselves—"
Stay calm, I told myself. Think fast. This was what a secret agent must feel like, having to think up stuff on the spot. "Haven't you forgotten something?" I said. "It's a great idea, except for one thing. We're both a little busy on Mondays at ten-thirty, remember? It's called school."
Neither of us ever cut school. For me, it was mostly a matter of fear—fear of death, because my parents would kill me if they caught me skipping class. And it would never have occurred to Patrick to cut school; that was just the way he was.
"Oh. Right. Well, do we have a Monday off anytime soon?"
I shook my head. "Not for ages." Our spring break had been two weeks ago, and we were in that long stretch with no holidays at all. "Memorial Day, I think." The end of May. Almost two months away.
Agent J. Song, cool as a cucumber.
"Maybe I could get my mom's permission to miss one period," Patrick said. "Or maybe your mom could even go talk to him for us. We could ask her."
Patrick turned around and stared at the gas station. A car had just parked in front of one of the pumps. The driver got out and started filling his tank. Patrick stared like he'd never seen anyone pump gas before.
Then he was running back to the station and calling to me over his shoulder.
"The car!" he shouted. "He comes in every week—that means he lives around here—we might be able to find him—"
I ran after him. By the time I caught up, he had already talked to the gas station lady and was on his way back toward me.
Grinning.
"A Ford LTD," Patrick said. "Green chassis, darker green vinyl top. From the seventies, Jules. That's really old. There can't be many of them around."
Patrick was already on the job, looking at every car on the street. "We might as well start searching," he said. "If we haven't found him by the end of the week, we'll ask about getting out of school."
I looked at the houses. And the sidewalk, and the grass, and the bushes.
I did not look at the cars.
Me: I like the idea of being a secret agent.
Ms. Park: Me, too. I've always liked spy movies and spy books.
Me: So did you plan it in advance?
Ms. Park: No. This is a good example of what I was talking about before. You don't want to do the project, but you don't want to let Patrick know that, and it occurred to me that you're living kind of a double life, which means you're acting like a secret agent. It was the story itself that gave me the idea. Get it?
Me: Sort of. So do you know how my story is going to end yet?
Ms. Park: Not really. Everything is happening as we go along.
Me: Sheesh. That doesn't sound like very good planning to me. You're lucky I started talking to you—you need all the help you can get!
Ms. Park: I don't want to be rude, but I feel I need to remind you that I've written stories before, and the characters never talked to me.
Me: Well, this story is like a project, isn't it? We're doing a project together, so the Ideas should come from both of us.
Ms. Park: Not just you and me, remember. Patrick has had lots of good ideas that have gone into the story. So has your mom. And even Kenny.
Me (snorts): Kenny'—yeah, right. Like he could be any help.
6
Patrick was sure we had enough clues to find the car. I was equally sure we'd never find it—which was what I was hoping, of course.
"Hardly anybody drives a car that old, Jules," Patrick said. "The thing is, usually we go around and don't notice cars. I mean, for all we know, the guy drives past us every day on the way to school! All we have to do is keep our eyes open."
I was about to ask what an LTD looked like, but Patrick was in excited mode—he plowed right over me. "He's an old guy, right? So he's probably retired. Which means"—he snapped his fingers—"the car's at home most of the time. We'll probably spot it in a driveway somewhere."
"What if he keeps it in a garage?" I said. "With the door closed. We
wouldn't be able to see it."
Patrick said I was being a big pessimist. I said he was being totally unrealistic. When we got to my house, we did our homework together as usual—more exponents—but we were both pretty quiet until he went home.
I knew he was still upset with me when he left because he didn't stop in the kitchen for his bite of kim-chee.
"Green. Two-tone. Old Ford. Got it." My dad and I were finishing up in the kitchen, and he was repeating what I'd just told him about the car. "I'll keep my eye out for it."
"Thanks, Dad," I said with a sigh.
My dad dried his hands on a dishtowel. "There's a guy at work who's really into old cars," he said. "I don't know if he likes Fords or not, but I'll ask him. These old-car people sometimes keep in touch with each other."
"Okay," I said. I was still being Agent Song. I'd be able to tell Patrick I'd asked my dad for help about the car, so it would seem like I was doing my best. Then maybe he wouldn't be so mad at me.
The phone rang. I ran to get it, hoping it was Patrick. We probably wouldn't apologize to each other, but if we had a normal conversation, it would mean everything was all right.
"Hello?" I said.
"Hello there." The little prick of hope I'd felt disappeared—it wasn't Patrick's voice. A man—probably someone from my dad's work. "My name is Cal Dixon, and I'm trying to reach a young lady name of Julia."
I didn't know anyone named Cal Dixon. I didn't recognize his voice, either; he spoke in a polite, old-fashioned kind of way, with a little bit of a southern accent. Cal Dixon ... there was something familiar about the name....
"This—this is Julia speaking."
"Hello, Julia. I hear tell from Miss Mona down at the filling station that you're in need of a mulberry tree."
Dixon! That's why the name had sounded familiar! The gas station lady had said, "Mr. Dixon comes in on Mondays" or something like that.
Cal Dixon was the Mulberry Man!
But he hadn't taken my number with him! Wasn't that what she'd said? How could he be calling me? What was I going to say to him?
And along with all of these thoughts at the front of my mind, there was another, smaller thought somewhere at the back of it. The gas station lady had been so nice to us, and we hadn't even asked her name. Miss Mona. I promised myself I'd call her that the next time I saw her.
"Julia? You still there?"
"Yes—yes, sir, sorry. I'm still here."
"Good. Miss Mona says you need my tree for a project, is that right?"
"Yes, sir. But not a school project. A project for a club I'm in."
"Mmm-hmm. Well, I might be willing to help you out there, but I'd like to meet you first. Would you care to come by my place sometime this week?"
I was getting over the shock of figuring out who Mr. Dixon was, and my brain was starting to work again. I was talking to a man with a mulberry tree. This was good news for our silkworm project—which meant it was bad news for me.
Stay calm. Think fast.
I could tell him we didn't need his tree anymore. And I didn't have to tell Patrick about this call. Unless he asked me straight out—and why would he? Mr. Dixon hadn't taken my number, so we weren't expecting him to call — I wouldn't have to lie.
A perfect execution of my plan. No mulberry tree, no silkworm project.
Except...
Except for two things. The first was, what if Patrick did end up finding Mr. Dixon's car and his house and his tree? Then Patrick would figure out I hadn't told him about the call. He'd be really mad at me for not telling him, and double mad because of the time we'd wasted. And Mr. Dixon would think I was a complete idiot.
The second thing was harder to think through because I didn't want to think about it. But I couldn't stop my brain from trying anyway.
I'd helped make the flyers. That was a fact, plain and simple. It didn't matter that I didn't really want to find a tree. Now Mr. Dixon was inviting me to his house because of those flyers, and it wasn't fair to him when he'd gone to the trouble of calling me—it almost was like making a promise in public, and not keeping it....
Mr. Dixon cleared his throat a little. I guess I'd been quiet for too long again. "Tomorrow afternoon would be fine," he said. "Would that suit you?"
Say something, Agent Song. Anything. Stall for time. "Um, sir?" I said. It came out a little squeaky. "Sir, it isn't just me, it's my friend, too. We're doing the project together. My friend Patrick."
"Teamwork," Mr. Dixon said. "That's fine. But you go on now and ask your momma or your daddy. I need to make sure it's all right by them."
Gak. Somehow I'd ended up saying yes by saying hardly anything at all.
"Yes, sir. I'll go right now."
I went into the living room. "Mom, it's Mr. Dixon. He has a mulberry tree—he saw one of our flyers. He says we can go over to his house tomorrow if it's all right with you—"
My mom nodded. "Tell him I'll be coming with you.
"Oh, Mom," I groaned.
She lowered her chin at me. "Julia, you are not going to a stranger's house by yourself."
"I won't be alone. I'll be with Patrick."
She shook her head. "If you want to go, I'm going with you. That's final."
So I went back to Mr. Dixon on the phone and told him it would be me and Patrick and my mom coming over.
"That's fine," he said again. "Tomorrow around four o'clock or so? I'm at 157 Grant Street. Off Orchard Drive, back of the school."
"One fifty-seven Grant Street," I repeated. "Four o'clock would be perfect, sir. Thank you."
"Bye for now, Julia," he said. "See you tomorrow."
I hung up.
Agent Song reporting: MISSION FAILURE. NEW ORDERS REQUESTED.
***
"One fifty-seven," Patrick said, peering out the car window. "One forty-six ... one forty-eight ... it must be on the next block."
"And on my side of the street," I said.
Now that meeting Mr. Dixon was unavoidable, I figured we might as well get it over with. I'd check everything out and be on the lookout for the next snag.
It was me and Patrick and my mom in the car. No Snotbrain, thank goodness. My mom had arranged for Kenny to have a play date while she took us to Mr. Dixon's.
Grant Street was only about half a mile from my house, on the other side of the school. The neighborhood didn't have rows of townhouses like ours; instead, it was mostly small homes, with a few apartment blocks mixed in.
"One fifty-seven—there it is," I said. A smallish brown house.
I was surprised to realize I was feeling a little excited. It was kind of like a treasure hunt, only instead of a chest of gold coins or something like that, our treasure was a mulberry tree.
Well, not exactly. Patrick's treasure was the tree. For me, it was more like Agent Song having to locate and reconnoiter the enemy's headquarters before being able to carry out orders. My new orders were to find some way to avoid getting leaves from Mr. Dixon's tree.
My mom pulled up in front of the house. There in the driveway was the green LTD. It was old, all right—a big, old-fashioned car. But in good shape. No rust anywhere.
No tree, either.
We went up the short front walk. Patrick and I sort of hung back and let my mom ring the doorbell.
The door opened.
I stared for what I hoped was only a nanosecond, then snapped my mouth shut quickly and looked at my mom.
Mr. Dixon was black.
My mom didn't like black people.
Plainfield was mostly white. Some black kids went to my school, but not very many. I didn't have any close friends who were black. It wasn't like there were big problems or anything; the kids were all friendly with each other, in class and after school and on sports teams, but the black kids pretty much hung out together in one group.
My favorite teacher ever ever ever was black. Two years ago I'd had Mrs. Roberts for fifth grade. She was the kind of teacher who made you wish you could have her every year for the re
st of your life. She was really funny, and we never knew when she was going to say something that would crack us up, so we always listened when she was talking. And I guess because we were listening we learned stuff along the way.
She'd call on someone who had their hand raised, and if they got the answer right, she'd say something like, "Uh-huh, girlfriend!" And when she explained an assignment, she'd say, "We clear here? I said, Are we clear?" And we had to say all together, "Crystal!" I sometimes heard the black kids in school talk to each other like that, but I never heard any other black grownup talk the way she did. I loved it, because it made me feel like she was really being herself with us.
My mom never liked Mrs. Roberts.
It was a hard thing to learn. I mean, hard in two ways. First, it was hard because it took a long time to sink in. When I got home from school, my mom would quiz me. Not the usual "How was school today?" Instead, she asked question after question; it seemed like she wanted a minute-by-minute account of what I'd done all day long.
A little at a time, my brain put it together: She wasn't really asking about me. She was asking about Mrs. Roberts. I got so sick of all the questions every day that I finally asked her straight out. "How come you ask me so many questions about Mrs. Roberts?"
We were in the car, on the way to the store or something.
"Do I?" my mom said.
I hated that. I hate it when grownups answer a question with another question.
"Oh, come on, Mom. You know you do."
My mom pressed her lips together. She didn't look at me. She kept looking at the road, even though we were stopped at a red light. "Honey, there are some things that might be hard for you to understand," she said.
"Try me," I said. "I'm not a baby anymore."