The Key to Extraordinary Page 8

  As it happens, I’d dawdled long enough that someone had already delivered another basket of muffins. Cody Belle sat across from the young lady Blue was referring to: my favorite mountain fairy, Waverly Valentine.

  “Every nook and cranny in Blackbird Hollow is haunted,” Cody Belle was saying as I made my way to the table. Since Waverly had her own basket of muffins now, I helped myself to a fresh one from the basket in my arms. “Even my neighborhood is haunted. I live in Sweet Peaches Trailer Park. Our ghost, Eli Tucker, used to make up holidays, at least once a week, but sometimes more than that. Wear Your T-shirt Backward Day. Celebrate Alabama Day. Mismatched Sock Day.”

  “Cody Belle and I still celebrate that one,” I told Waverly. Cody Belle swiveled around and kicked out her legs so Waverly could see her fine pairing of stripes and polka dots.

  Waverly smiled. “Cool.”

  “I see you two have met,” I said, pulling up a chair.

  Cody Belle nodded. “The kitchen had me deliver more muffins because you’re too slow. Waverly was walking in the woods this morning when she thought she heard something, so I was just here assuring her that she probably did.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “Whole town’s haunted. I don’t mean to interrupt but we really need to—”

  “So as I was saying,” Cody Belle carried on. “Eli celebrated birthdays of people he didn’t know. Usually famous people—like Willie Nelson and Abraham Lincoln. There’s no telling who he’d pick to celebrate. But once he got it in his mind to celebrate something, he set off in his little blue truck for the state line to buy fireworks. And as soon as he got back home, he’d bunch up the fireworks in his scrawny arms, let out a crazy cackle, and take off running through the woods. Sometimes he set off fireworks all night long. Drove most people in the town bananas. But I thought it was fun.”

  “It didn’t drive you bananas?” Waverly asked with a grin. She was wearing dark-rimmed glasses today, with tiny little rhinestone clusters in the corners.

  Cody Belle shrugged. “I think it’s kind of a cool way to live—to find something to celebrate every day. And it’s not like he set them off right beside our trailer or anything. He’d run up into the hills for his fireworks show. I always thought it sounded pretty, like somebody popping popcorn above the clouds. Anyhow, Eli died a few years ago. But people claim that they still hear his fireworks some nights, just that faint poppity-pop-pop in the skies. My grandma says it’s a sacred echo. She says it’s proof that Eli’s still celebrating in the hereafter.”

  “Well, that’s a lovely thought,” Waverly said, reaching for a muffin. “I started to head back to the trail this morning and … I got a little spooked.”

  “The ghosts around here are friendly,” I assured her. “I mean, the dying part of their lives was tragic. But they lived marvelous stories full of wonder and hope and love …”

  “Ugh.” Waverly peeled the paper off her muffin. “I’d sooner believe in a ghost story than believe in love.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I told her. “Love still believes in you.” Even in the most perilous times—like when I’m plotting to save my family’s home and business—I’m a hopeless romantic. I can’t help it.

  Waverly gave me a sad smile.

  “We have to go, Cody Belle,” I said, pulling my best friend away from the table.

  “I am not going to dig,” Cody Belle told me in an anxious whisper.

  “No digging,” I promised. “Not yet.”

  Cody Belle sighed as she uncapped a bright green marker. We sat on the front porch of the Boneyard Cafe, making protest signs. The air around us was permeated with inky-wet marker smell.

  CAW CAW.

  “Hey, Penny Lane,” Cody Belle said without looking up.

  Penny Lane swooped up to the roof of the cafe and perched over us, admiring our work.

  “You might be surprised when Penny Lane talks back someday,” I said. “Blue always said you could teach a crow to talk.”

  “That’d be weird but awesome,” she said. “So, about Waverly. Do you think somebody broke her heart?”

  “Probably,” I said, steadying my own marker on the edge of the poster. “My mama used to say said that everybody you meet is a walking, talking broken heart. Some people put the pieces back together better than others.”

  “That sounds like a song.” Cody smiled.

  I nodded. “She used to sing it to me. Okay!” I popped the lid back on the marker. “Tell me what you think.”

  I proudly held up my freshly inked protest poster:

  BOO ON YOU, WARREN STEELE!

  “Cool.” Cody Belle nodded. “Here’s mine:

  GET AWAY FROM THE RIDGE!

  OR I’LL PUT YOUR KEYS IN THE FRIDGE!

  “I … uh”—I shook my head—“don’t know if it makes sense.”

  Cody Belle shrugged. “I wanted it to sound menacing but not evil. You know?” She pulled the smaller poster boards and started marking them up the same way. “What made you think of a peaceful protest?”

  “Daphne Prescott. She’s one of the Wildflowers in the Book of Days. Dreamed she was standing in the field of blue flowers, holding a sign that read VOTE in one hand and the American flag in the other. We’re not doing something quite that important, obviously. But I think Daphne would approve.”

  The Suffragette

  I am seventy-four years old, and far too close to Glory’s gates to have the Destiny Dream of my ancestors. At least, that’s what I thought. But I was wrong. Not a week ago, I dreamed of a field of blue flowers. In the field, I saw a mirror.

  And in that mirror, I saw myself holding a sign that said WOMEN GET THE VOTE!

  In my other hand, I held an American flag. Now, it’s a cause I’ve been passionate about, that’s for certain. But it’s a cause I’ve supported quietly, and in my own heart. Who wants to hear a seventy-four-year-old lady talking about women and the vote?

  Turns out, lots of people do.

  I pinned a yellow rose to my apron. And I campaigned for the vote through the entire Hollow. Folks were surprised when they saw me. They said I’d never been one for causing a stir. That’s a shame, I’ve decided. Because there are things in life worth getting stirred up over. I took the train to Nashville with women twenty and thirty years younger than me. But age was no barrier between us, and I felt younger than I ever had.

  We all waited at the capitol building on the day the vote was taken, all wearing yellow roses on our lapels. Finally, a young man told us women had the vote … by a margin of one.

  My admonition to you: You are never too old to be daring. Whether fifteen or ninety-five, when the Destiny Dream finds you, believe your words have power. And use them.

  Cody Belle nodded. “It matters big. Don’t worry. You’ll have your entry in there soon. Let’s get rid of Warren Steele’s minions and then we’ll find the buried treasure.”

  By the time Warren Steele’s survey people showed up at the Boneyard Cafe, I’d enlisted the Marcums, plus a bevy of patrons, to help stage a peaceful protest. The surveyor was surely surprised to pull up in the parking lot and see ten people with signs, barring the gates of our beloved graveyard.

  It was an old man who climbed out of the truck. His yellow hard hat and thick white mustache made him look more like the mayor of a cartoon town than one of Warren Steele’s minions. Frankly, as he read the signs we were holding, I couldn’t tell if the look on his face was one of approval or amusement. “Care to tell me what this is all about?” he asked, looking first to the adults among our group.

  Cody Belle answered, hoisting her menacing-not-mean sign as high as possible. “Back away from the graveyard!” she yelled.

  The guy held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just here to survey. I’m not digging up any graves. I’ve heard the stories all my life, too. I wouldn’t mess with the ghosts for anything.”

  “Survey if you must,” I told him. “We’ll wait here peacefully. And when you go back to your snake of a boss, Warren Steele
, please tell him that we are here to protect this place. No matter what it takes.”

  “Also, you’ll have to climb over the gate to get in,” Cody Belle yelled. “Emma’s the keeper of the key, and she left the key at the Taco Mart downtown.”

  “It’s true.” I nodded. “When somebody puts a plate of nachos in front of me, I lose my train of thought.” Of course, he could have just entered the graveyard via the cafe. But I decided to keep that fact a secret. I hoisted the sign up. “Also, please be careful in the graveyard. Some of the graves are hundreds of years old.”

  The man tipped his hat at me and smiled. “I promise to be careful.”

  I nodded. “Come back for a tour sometime! I give them every—”

  “Could we, um, hurry up just a smidge?” Mr. Marcum said kindly. “No offense, Emma. We’re just getting hungry over here.”

  The old man waved to his crew. They were a scrawny band of surveyors, but climbing over or through that gate is no easy task. Between all of them nearly getting stuck as they climbed and my band of peaceful protesters, we drew quite a crowd that day. All summer, I’d taken out weekly tour ads in the Tailfeather, our town’s only newspaper. They only charged me fifty cents for each ad, but that kind of change adds up. I’m not sure any of my ads ever drew the kind of attention we had then.

  Among the throngs of onlookers a newly familiar face showed up: Earl Chance.

  “Earl!” I grinned and waved. “Want to help us protest? You don’t have to talk. You can just hang out.”

  Earl didn’t speak, of course. But he looked like he might be about to smile. Or even laugh a little bit.

  “Welcome back to the Blackbird Hollow Cemetery, Earl Chance!” Cody Belle bellowed.

  I kept my sign in front of me, but walked over to where he stood. His hoodie was unzipped, showing a Batman T-shirt underneath. “There’s no tour today, on account of Warren Steele’s evil minions surveying the property. Why don’t you go inside and grab a free cookie and brew anyway?”

  One of the men in the graveyard suddenly yelled, “D’ya hear that, boss?”

  I spun around to see the rest of the crew pointing fingers at the woods.

  “You’ve probably made the ghosts mad,” Cody Belle said. “They don’t like it when people are up to no good in this town. They’ll put your keys in the fridge!”

  “It’s fine, folks,” said the grandpa in the yellow hard hat. “You’re a bunch of grown men! Stop acting so skittish.”

  “Hold on, now …” A man in overalls stepped up and pointed shakily. “Aren’t those the Wailing Woods?”

  I nodded. “They’re full of history! A Civil War skirmish happened there! And legend says that ghosts watch over the—”

  “I know the legend,” the scrawny man in overalls yelled, running for the gate. He was huffing and puffing and red faced when he finally squeezed out through the bars. “I didn’t know we were right on the woods. I’m headed home. Warren Steele can survey his own land.”

  “Ain’t nothing to worry about!” yelled the boss in the hard hat. “The ghosts ain’t mad unless you hear something …”

  As if on cue, a faraway sound—something like a high-pitched, wheezing squeak—echoed throughout the woods.

  The rest of the men ran out of the graveyard before making any further observations. They tripped over one another as they squeezed through the gate. The boss in the yellow hard hat jumped clear over the top. He climbed into the bed of the work truck just as the tires spun and it zoomed away.

  I ran to the gates of the cemetery, closing my hands around the bars. “Is it a ghost, Cody Belle? Do you see anything?”

  “That’s not a ghost.” Mr. Marcum laughed. “That’s Peri.”

  “When did he get a bicycle?” Mrs. Marcum asked.

  It wasn’t just any bicycle Uncle Periwinkle rode out of the woods that day. The bike was spray-painted gold. With his long beard billowing in the wind, and the basket on the front overflowing with flowers, Peri laughed happily as he sped toward us down the brick path. The horn attached to the handlebars made another terrible squeaky-scream sound. “Emma! Come quick! There’s something you gotta see down on Starbloom Farm!”

  “What … wait! Slow down, Uncle Peri!” I shouted as I tossed my sign aside.

  “Open the gate!” Peri hollered. “I forgot how to stop!”

  “I don’t have the key!” I yelled just as Uncle Peri crashed his bike into the other side of the gate. By the time we’d all rushed forward to see if he was okay, Peri was already standing up, laughing. He brushed the dirt from his jeans. “Greta says I can’t tell you what’s happening on the farm, because you’ll never believe it. We have to show you. Come quick. You can bring Cody Belle.”

  “Can Earl come?” I asked. Then I looked back. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

  But Earl nodded like he was game.

  “Of course!” Peri said. “Bring Earl! The more the merrier!”

  The front door of the Boneyard slapped shut, and my brother jogged down the steps. He came to stand beside us, fists propped on his hips, and looked all around.

  “Lose something?” I asked.

  Topher shook his head. “I just thought I saw … somebody …” He shivered. He pressed his hand to the back of his neck. “Never mind.”

  He walked back inside with a sad look in his eyes.

  Just as the door closed behind him, I saw Waverly Valentine push her bicycle away from behind the old shed. She wore a pink camellia stuck in her ponytail. Before she mounted her bike, she reached for the back of her neck, the same as Topher had. She looked toward us and waved. She pedaled away so quietly, so fast, as if she had experience at disappearing. As if she had the ability to come and go as she pleased without leaving any tracks behind.

  Quiet as a whisper.

  Lonely as a ghost.

  “Get ready, Earl Chance!” I yelled over my shoulder as I pumped my bike pedals.

  Cody Belle and Earl followed close behind as we biked to the top of a high green hill. I’d let Earl ride my new bicycle, and I’d fished my old one out of the shed. Being perpetually small has some perks, and this was one of them: My old bicycle wasn’t too uncomfortable. I’d kind of missed the feeling of the streamers on the handles flappity-flapping against my hands.

  It occurred to me that the last time I’d been on this bike, my mom had been close by. She wasn’t a memory back then. She was real and in-person and beside me. For a heartbeat second, I wished my old bike was a time machine that would take me back to her, just long enough to hug her again.

  I kicked out my leg at the top of the hill and came to a stop. Cody Belle’s bike screeched to a stop on my right side. Earl paused at my left. I watched the reaction on his face as he stared into the valley below. His lips parted, and I wondered if he might speak. He didn’t. But his mouth formed a single word: Wow.

  Starbloom Farm is nestled down in a valley, surrounded by sloped green hills. A white barn anchors the property in the middle, only a short walk from the old farmhouse Aunt Greta and Uncle Peri call home. But the house and the barn aren’t the first thing most people notice, Earl Chance included.

  First, you see flowers.

  Thousands of flowers circle the house and barn, blooming up into the hills. From an angel’s point of view, I believe, Starbloom Farm looks like a big quilt, patched together by blooming, firework colors. As we watched, the wind whispered across those blooms, carrying the smell of lavender and a warm summer day.

  “I’ll lead the way,” I said. “Careful on this hill, Earl.”

  “Emma and I have wiped out here more than a few times,” Cody Belle explained.

  I agreed with my BFF. “Wiping out is a common side effect of our adventuring. But it’s the most fun when you go fast.”

  I perched my bike at the top of the hill and kicked off, down the dirt path to the barn. As I zoomed past the flowers, the colors blurred together, like a dream. I felt the roller-coaster zoom deep in my belly. Warm wind prickle
d against my face.

  “Onward!” Cody Belle shouted as she charged down the hill behind me. Earl never shouted, but I hoped he was filled with the quiet joy that existed in that place.

  The three of us tossed our bikes in the grass near the welcome sign:

  GRETA’S MAGICAL GARDEN:

  GET YOUR FLOWERS—THEN GO AWAY

  “Peri’s already here,” Cody Belle said, pointing to the golden bicycle propped against the barn. “He might have forgotten how to stop, but he’s a speedy rider!”

  “I’m glad he’s here.” I planted my feet and slid open the heavy barn doors. “We need to see whatever amazing discovery this is, then get back to treasure hunting.”

  Earl’s eyes filled with wonder as he stepped inside, spinning in a slow circle to take it all in.

  While the barn looks all proper-barn-like from the outside, the inside is quite different. Aunt Greta remodeled the place to serve as her flower shop, so the barn is bursting with blooms. Dozens of flowers are growing up tall trellises, wrapped around old furniture, and creeping up the walls. The three long tables stretched across the barn floor are always covered in flowers ready to be bundled for customers.

  Aunt Greta taped notes above the bundles she’d been assembling:

  A bouquet of sympathy to Alice McKee,

  on the loss of her grandmother

  A bouquet of congratulations to Evona Marcum,

  for winning Most Robust & Rollicking Tomato Plant of the Season

  “Aunt Greta?” I called out.

  “Back here, darlin’!” Aunt Greta yelled. We raced toward the pergola in the corner of the barn, where Greta sat with a clipboard in her arms. Tiny blue Mason jars were hanging from the pergola slats, each one holding different-colored bursts of daisies. Greta was scribbling notes about the flowers, mumbling to herself and probably talking to the blooms occasionally. She likes to pretend she’s an old grouch, but I’ve seen her speak sweetly to the flowers on many occasions.

  “Uncle Peri said you had something to show me,” I said as I bounced over beside her scooter. “I don’t mean to sound pushy but we’re in a bit of a hurry and …”