Vilonia Beebe Takes Charge Read online

  For my family,

  I love you more than cake.

  And in memory of Eloise Ann Owen (2006–2016),

  Vilonia would have picked you for her team every time.

  “Do you think everybody misses somebody? Like I miss my mama?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” said Gloria. She closed her eyes. “I believe, sometimes, that the whole world has an aching heart.”

  —Kate DiCamillo, Because of Winn-Dixie

  Chapter One

  The day I was born I was four times smaller than the trophy largemouth bass hanging in my daddy’s shop.

  My entire hand fit on Dr. Lafferty’s thumbnail. Nobody, Mama included, had planned on me arriving three months early.

  But I did. At two pounds, two ounces, I was the size of a head of cauliflower (I hate cauliflower) and didn’t make a peep. Boy, have times changed.

  • • •

  I pulled the cap off my gel pen, crossed out another line in my journal, and smudged purple ink all across the page. Poodles. More permanent ink stains, or as I call it, “the curse of being a lefty.” But being left-handed could be pretty great. Lefties make better videogamers and multitaskers, adjust faster to seeing underwater, and have an advantage in many sports.

  Maybe that’s why lots of interesting people were lefties. Babe Ruth. Oprah Winfrey. Barack Obama. Me. So I wasn’t A-list famous, but I was the only lefty on my hometown’s ten-and-under softball team, the Howard County Crush. That had to count for something. I mean, I had played first base for three full seasons, and now Coach said I could try pitching. So what if star arm Mags Baloney moved to Texas to join some elite traveling team? I hadn’t been this excited since our sponsor, Guy’s Pies and Shakes, introduced the Crushin’ Cookie Dough Blast in our honor. They promised everyone on the team free kiddie sizes, all season long.

  So far my spring looked plumb awesome. Thank heavens. Because the last two months stunk worse than my brother, Leon, when he forgot to wear deodorant. He was twelve and impossible.

  Speaking of which, writing this tribute to my nana proved impossible too. She’d been dead for forty-three days, and we still hadn’t run her obituary. Mama had been in one sad funk ever since, and spent more time under the covers than out.

  “Vilonia! Game’s in twenty!” Daddy hollered from somewhere downstairs.

  “Coming!” I yelled back, slamming my journal shut and pulling my jersey over my head. Nana’s tribute would have to wait, again.

  I tugged my visor onto my forehead and stopped to check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Howard County Crush blazed across the front of my uniform in royal blue script, popping against the vibrant orange cloth. So did my last name, BEEBE (pronounced Bee-bee), and number, 10, that Daddy ironed on straight across the back. Hallelujah. Ten was a nice even number. I was almost ten. Almost double digits.

  I smudged eye black across my cheeks and grabbed an orange ribbon for my hair. A fact about me: Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead (no offense to Nana) with a ribbon of any sort in my hair. Except for softball. This game blended girly and fierce.

  Daddy called me his “force of nature.” He says I talk faster, and louder, than a car salesman guzzling his third tall coffee. Which was why he always refused to take me fishing. Daddy was a fishing guide, and people who talk too much scare away the catch. You’d think being a force of nature would help.

  But it hadn’t helped me help Mama. It hadn’t even helped me get a dog.

  “Vilonia!”

  Oops.

  I hustled outside where Daddy, dressed in gray flannel and three days’ worth of stubble, lugged a cooler down from the bed of his pickup.

  “It’s a perfect day to play ball!” I held my arms out to the sun, and a cool breeze brushed my face. It was the Thursday afternoon before spring break. Nana loved spring. “Nana would love today.”

  “She sure would, Tadpole. She loved to watch you play.” Daddy reached into the cab of his truck and tossed my lucky glove my way. I snatched it midair and ran my fingers across its smooth leather.

  “And what about Mama?” I asked, and stabbed the dirt with my toe. “Think she’ll feel like coming?”

  Daddy’s eyes changed from sunny to cloudy with a chance of rain. “The forecast changes daily when it comes to Mama, Vi. But I can ask. You know she’s your biggest fan.”

  “I know.” I tried to hide my disappointment. I knew Daddy was doing his absolute best to take care of us, Mama included. But I’ve learned grief has no rules. She’ll make herself at home, eat all your best snacks, sleep in your bed, and no matter what you do or say, sometimes nothing on earth can make her leave.

  Daddy mussed my hair. “Your biggest fan next to me, that is. I’ll be there by the third inning. Got to clean up first. I refuse to smell like bait while my best girl pitches her first game.”

  “Stink bait or not, I’ll just be warming up.” I threw him a fake pitch. “Fish for dinner?”

  “Maybe. Now scoot.” Daddy shooed me away with his cap and grinned. I smiled back. Daddy had the widest, most contagious grin in all of Mississippi. I had it on good authority. Mine.

  “I’ll be looking for ya.” I snatched my bike—Leon’s hand-me-down that I wrapped in paw-printed duct tape—from its usual spot in the yard and sped away.

  The scent of honeysuckles hung thick in the air. I breathed in their delicious smell and zipped past my best friend and next-door neighbor Ava Claire Nutter’s house. Their American flag, long faded by the sun, waved a happy hello.

  “Hey, Vilonia! Come over after dinner, okay?” AC, wearing her black leotard and sweats straight from dance, flitted to her mailbox. Ava Claire loved dance like lizards love sun.

  “Okay!” I yelled, giving her a thumbs-up. Pedaling faster, I rounded the corner onto Hamilton and cruised downhill to the two-way stop.

  My breath caught, and I skidded to a stop.

  A big, fat chicken strode across the sunny intersection. Normally, I’d crack my why’d the chicken cross the road joke, but this wasn’t any old rogue hen. This was Mrs. Willoughby’s prize egg layer.

  “Eleanor Roostevelt, you get back here right this instant!” Eleanor stopped, took one look at me, and then took off running. Hens could be so hardheaded. “You just wait!” I shouted. “You’re going to be in one heap of troub—”

  A white work van with a clanging ladder on its side barreled over the top of the hill, cutting off my words. Shoot. I turned to look at Eleanor. She’d stalled in the center of the road for an insect feast. Meanwhile, the van’s driver bit into a sandwich. I’d landed a front row seat to a literal game of chicken.

  “Run, Ellie, run!” I gripped my handlebars and squeezed my eyes shut, praying against a destruction of fender and feathers. Oblivious, the van roared through the intersection. My heart pounded. I opened my eyes as the vehicle zoomed around the bend. Silence.

  “Ellie?”

  A few feathers floated back and forth, back and forth above the steamy pavement.

  That hen was a goner.

  “Poodles.” I threw my bike to the ground. My eyes scanned the curb for any sign of the bird. Maybe she was still alive. It was a far-fetched hope, but Nana always said that hope was the thing with feathers. Looking both ways, I crossed the street. I walked up and down the sidewalk, trampling weeds with my cleats and calling out Eleanor’s name. I had less than ten minutes until the first pitch, but it was my moral duty as eyewitness and decent human being to at least look for her. I couldn’t leave a wounded critter behind.

  “Eleanor?” I called.

  But there was no sign of the rogue hen.

  Maybe she flew to safety or maybe she flew straight to chicken heaven. Drat! Now Mama would be even sadder. She swore E
leanor’s fresh eggs with their deep orange yolks were what made her sour cream pound cakes so velvety rich. I kicked the curb and walked back to my bike. And that’s when I heard the cluck- clucking. I spun around on my heels and looked up. Way up.

  That big chicken had perched in a tree.

  “Eleanor, you silly bird. You about gave me a heart attack. Now get down here.”

  Another fact about me: I had never caught a chicken. I reckoned catching one’s even harder when the hen’s six feet up. According to the Willoughby boys, the trick was to grab them real stealth-like by the ankles. Chicken ankles. Chankles. I’d laughed.

  I wasn’t laughing now, waiting for Eleanor to come down. “Come on! Don’t you care I have a game?” Eleanor wiggled her wattle and blinked. I shook the tree’s trunk. But Eleanor flapped her wings in protest.

  I looked around my feet and grabbed the first pebble I saw and chunked it close but not too close, hoping to spook her down. No such luck. Eleanor Roostevelt was one stubborn bird.

  “Fine,” I huffed. “I’ll climb this tree faster than you can say bawk bawk.”

  A few scrapes and scratches later, I had Eleanor under my arm. Her right leg stuck out at a weird angle, so I ended up grabbing her from behind as gently as I could. She clucked and flapped herself silly, but I held her wings down like the Willoughby boys had taught me.

  “I’ve got you, Big E. It’s going to be okay.” I patted her back to calm her. I even wrapped my softball towel across her wings so she’d feel cozy and safe. As she nestled next to my glove inside my handlebar basket, I knew what I had to do.

  I had to miss my game.

  Chapter Two

  I steered my bike several blocks to a brick-faced building with a weathered sign that read BEST F IENDS ANIMAL CINIC, DR. ROY KIEKLACK. An old oak with dangling bird feeders provided shade for much of the yard. Kickstand in place, I scooped up Eleanor, still bundled in the towel, and pushed open the glass door.

  The COME IN sign clinked on its small chain as the door slipped shut. Dr. Kieklack’s waiting room was bright and sterile like a hospital. And smelled like one too. I’d know because my memory from infancy was brilliant.

  At the whoosh of the door, the receptionist, Miss Hazel Sogbottom, looked up over her bedazzled spectacles and popped a humongous wad of bubblegum. If anyone deserved a legal name change it was Miss Sogbottom.

  “Good afternoon, Vilonia!” she said, taking a big sip of energy drink.

  It’s always awkward bumping into people for the first time since Nana died. They don’t know what to say: “How’s your mama?” “Are y’all holding up?” Or the classic, “Your nana’s in a better place.” Even worse, some people flat go out of their way to avoid me or give me stuff out of pity. Like the time AC and I rode our bikes to the vegetable stand, and the farmer who usually waited on Mama got so flustered, he gave us two huge bags of asparagus for free. Our pee stunk for a solid week. All that to say it was a relief when someone acted normal. But even normal was a stretch for Miss Sogbottom.

  “Hi.” I shuffled up to the desk. Behind the counter, a red dachshund yipped and growled in his crate. In a flash, Miss Sogbottom turned and snapped her fingers. “Hush, T-Bone.”

  Spinning back to me, she smiled. Her spray-tanned cheeks sparkled with a hint of body glitter. “Someone’s a little cranky after his ear drops.”

  “Oh.” My eyes widened.

  “He’ll survive.” She jammed a pencil into her hair-as-big-as-Texas and peered over the counter. “What have you got for us today? Another baby squirrel? A malnourished kitty?” So, I had a reputation for taking in destitute creatures. It all started when I adopted a nest of baby skunks last spring. I’d found the babies under our front porch after their mama got run over by a car. Mama wouldn’t let me bring the kits (that’s what you call baby skunks) indoors even though I showed her solid research saying most don’t spray until they’re three months old. So on the porch they stayed in a big cardboard box destined to prove Mama right. And science wrong. These kits were advanced.

  Still, it wasn’t my fault the preacher’s wife chose this week to bring over a Dutch apple pie. She spooked those skunks silly when she stomped mud off her boots right next to their box. Maybe she should have worn cleaner boots. Or looked before she stomped. No one touched the pie, and poor Mrs. Pounders smelled like skunk for three Sundays straight. Not to brag, but I did become the talk of the church potluck.

  “It’s nothing like that, Miss Sogbottom. It’s the Willoughbys’ hen, Eleanor Roostevelt.” I held up Eleanor, still cloaked in my towel. “She’s victim to a hit-and-run.”

  Miss Sogbottom clicked her tongue. “Got spooked and flew the coop again, I bet. You know those Willoughby boys and their firecrackers. I’ll call Mrs. Willoughby to let her know we’ve got her.”

  It’s true. The Willoughbys owned Tom Sawyer’s Catfish Hole, a family-style restaurant that served up the best catfish filets your mouth ever did meet, and they ran the only fireworks stand for twenty-five miles. Believe me, those boys tested every black cat, smoke bomb, and parachute the day inventory rolled in.

  “Thanks.” I passed Eleanor over the counter, towel and all. She clucked loudly as if to say Watch it, buster. “Yeah.” I frowned. “Her right leg doesn’t look so good.”

  “Dr. Kieklack will take a look, don’t you worry. Eleanor’s what we call a frequent flyer; she’s used to us. See?”

  Sure as snail snot, Eleanor calmed down in the receptionist’s arms. “You did right by bringing her in, Vilonia. She could have been snatched by a predator, you know. Here’s your towel.”

  “Oh, right. Well, tell Dr. Kieklack hello. I’ve got a game to catch.” I started to leave, but a poster on the wall jumped out at me. With my hand still on the doorknob, I read:

  FEELING BLUE?

  The most powerful antidepressant has

  4 paws and a tail.

  Pets promote well-being. Adopt yours today.

  Contact the Howard County

  Animal Shelter for details. 555-PETS

  Then a photo of a yawning gray kitten cuddled up to a Labrador retriever with a softball in his mouth closed the deal: We Beebes needed a dog like Mama needed to feel better.

  “You know,” Miss Sogbottom said, “we partner with the shelter and have animals available for adoption here, too. Take T-bone, for example.” T-bone growled.

  “Ha, I wish.” My cheeks grew hot, and I read the poster again. “Do you think pets really help with depression?”

  “Absolutely,” Miss Sogbottom said, cradling Eleanor like a football. “Pets provide comfort and companionship. They can make people laugh. They don’t care if you forget to turn in your homework or don’t feel like brushing your hair. They love you regardless.” The receptionist pointed to a framed photo of a rabbit sitting on her desk. “My mini lop Oreo has seen me through hard times and heartbreaks.” She looked at me quizzically. “Are you sure you’re okay, Vilonia?” Oh boy. She didn’t know Mama had come down with the Infinite Sadness, and I had no time to explain. No time to explain I needed a dog now more than ever.

  “I’m just fine, Miss Sogbottom. Thanks and good-bye. Bye, Eleanor!” I blurted instead.

  “Buh-bye.” Miss Sogbottom waved over her shoulder as she whisked Ellie to the back. “And go, team!”

  Heart racing, I rode like the wind on the best kite-flying day. If Eleanor Roostevelt hadn’t crossed the road in front of me, I’d never have read that poster. If I hadn’t read that poster, I wouldn’t know how badly we needed a dog. No one plans on rescuing a chicken and discussing heartbreak right before her first ballgame of the season. But I hadn’t planned on arriving at the ballpark and debating this word either:

  Forfeit.

  • • •

  Daddy arrived at the ballpark in time to drive my bike and sorry self home. “Vilonia, please pay attention,” he said as we walked into the kitchen. “You know the rules. Six players on the field at game time. They were counting on you.”

  �
�I know, Daddy, but Phoebe and Summer weren’t there either! And Eleanor Roostevelt needed prompt medical attention. What’s more important?” My face felt splotched.

  Daddy poured us each a glass of cold milk and ignored the stack of dirty dishes filling Mama’s stainless sink. She loved that sink—back when she enjoyed cooking. “Phoebe and Summer had their family vacations approved weeks ago. Just no more found creatures, okay? We’re a family. We’re not running some animal rescue operation.”

  “But, Daddy.”

  “Don’t ‘but, Daddy’ me. Vilonia, last week you hid a peacock. In our basement. He ruined your nana’s velvet couch!”

  “How would I know Steve had escaped from a petting zoo?”

  Daddy ran his fingers across his uneven beard and sighed. “You’re a smart girl, Vilonia. Use your noodle.”

  My noodle. My noggin. My brain. The one they were so worried about when I was born ten weeks too early. I did use it, and Daddy had no idea how much. There was this side job I sort of fell into. It was 100 percent hush-hush. Number one, I could get Mama in trouble because it was really her job. She hasn’t been able to write a single thing since Nana died. (I knew because I was watching videos of those fainting goats when a work e-mail came through stating Mama would be replaced if she didn’t write something.) And two, no one, not Mama or Daddy or Mama’s boss, knew I was doing it. I was writing the county obits.

  Obits, or obituaries, are paragraph summaries of dead people. They appear online or in the paper and make nice people out to be super nice and not-so-nice people out to be better than they actually were. For the most part.

  When you spend your free time writing about the newly dead, it’s best to keep a sense of humor. This biz can and will suck the life right out of you. At least that’s what Mama says, and look where it got her.

  Daddy whistled and waved a hand in front of my face. “And Leon found this by the tire swing.”

  Great Danes and greyhounds! Peon Leon had found my long-lost library book. I’d only checked it out a gazillion times before it’d disappeared. Shoot, Because of Winn-Dixie was the whole reason I started the Great Pet Campaign in the first place. I’d have traded my lucky softball socks to have a dog half as good as him. Of course, I’d searched Pet Campaign Headquarters (aka my room) and emptied my desk at school and never came across the book. Until now.