Arlo Finch in the Valley of Fire Page 9

  “Mine too,” said Arlo.

  Wu stared at his drawings, hoping that somehow they would provide him with an answer. He rearranged them on the table, then rearranged them again, as if they were puzzle pieces. Finally, he said, “Maybe we could adjust the design a little bit based on what we have.”

  “What do we have?” asked Arlo.

  “We could check the garage.”

  * * *

  Except for a small space by the workbench, Wu’s garage was packed from the floor to the rafters with boxes, bicycles, baby furniture, two snowmobiles, three lawnmowers, a canoe and a stack of damaged mannequins. “We used them one Christmas as the Three Wise Men,” Wu explained. “But a moose ate their hands.”

  Indra took charge. “Everyone take a section. There’s got to be something here we can use.”

  Arlo chose the area closest to the garage door, figuring that if the piles of junk suddenly collapsed, he would have the best chance of leaping to safety.

  He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, so he decided to focus on eliminating items that were definitely non-sleddy. He quickly ruled out three stacks of astronomy magazines, a miniature pinball machine, several bowling balls and a giant teddy bear with stuffing coming out of its foot.

  In one box, Arlo found a taxidermy skunk posed like it was dancing. He wondered if it was Uncle Wade’s work, but it wasn’t signed on the bottom.

  He skipped over a broken table, but then gave it a second look. The three remaining legs were stout, square wooden posts. He could envision them being part of a sled, even if he wasn’t sure what function they would serve. With his fingers, he carefully unscrewed the bolts, detaching the legs from the tabletop.

  “They don’t like it when you do that,” said a girl’s voice.

  Arlo turned to see Merilee Myers standing on the driveway. She was carrying a flute, which she pointed at the disassembled table. “When you take a table’s legs, it’s basically amputation.”

  “It was already missing one,” said Arlo.

  “We had a dog with three legs and it was perfectly happy. But we would never cut off its other legs. That would be unfathomable.”

  Arlo remembered why he rarely spoke to Merilee in class.

  “I live across the street,” she said, pointing to a yellow house. “We don’t have a television. Our family doesn’t believe in it. But we do have a puppet theater. Every summer we put on a play. Sometimes a musical.”

  “Do you invite the neighbors?”

  “No. It’s a private show.” She looked past Arlo to scope out Indra and Wu. “What are you doing?”

  “We’re building a new sled for Rangers.” He immediately regretted saying it. What if she told Connor or Julie or Jonas?

  Merilee’s eyes narrowed. “Can I help you?”

  Arlo paused, trying to think of a reason to say no. Then, in a flash of inspiration, he said, “We have to do all the work ourselves.” Arlo wasn’t sure that was actually a rule, but it felt plausible. Merilee nodded.

  “Can I play my flute?”

  He had used up all his no’s. “I guess?”

  Tucking her long hair behind her shoulders, Merilee positioned the flute in the curve between her lip and chin. She closed her eyes. Then she began to play. It was a cheerful piece that Arlo had never heard before, or at least didn’t remember. Classical music all tended to sound the same to him. But Merilee was clearly very good. He could imagine her playing with an orchestra.

  Wu and Indra came over, curious. The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Merilee play on the driveway. Her fingers clicked on the silver keys. Her breath fogged the cold air. With a final trill, the piece was finished.

  The three kids clapped politely. Merilee half curtsied. “That was by Mozart. No one knows where he’s buried, but he’s probably still there.”

  Without the music, it was very quiet. Arlo felt he should speak, but had no idea what to say.

  “You can keep building your sled,” Merilee said. “I’ll just play to inspire you. That can’t be against the rules, can it?”

  With that, she started a new melody, just as lovely as the first. Arlo, Wu and Indra exchanged glances, shrugged, then got back to work.

  Wu found a pair of skis by the back wall. They were twenty years old, but still in good shape. Wu felt certain his father wouldn’t miss them.

  Indra dragged over an old papasan chair. Made of bamboo or some other wood meant to look like it, it was essentially a giant cushioned bowl. The fabric was ripped and water-damaged, but, “I thought we could use the base,” she explained. Indeed, the chair’s stand seemed ideal, particularly when flipped upside down: light, sturdy and the perfect width. “We could lash ropes across and form a sling to hold our gear in a bag.”

  Arlo’s table legs were the perfect size to attach to Wu’s skis. Together they could form the sled’s runners. Indra’s chair base could sit atop them.

  They had the pieces. All that was left to do was assemble them into a sled.

  With hammers and screwdrivers, they smashed and pried the bindings off the skis. To attach the table legs to the skis, they debated between steel bolts and a tube of construction adhesive they found on a shelf. They decided to use both.

  The glue was the easy part. They squeezed it on in thick, toothpaste-like ribbons.

  The bolts were trickier. The drill bit screeched and sparked as it dug into the steel-and-fiberglass ski. The whine was so loud it drowned out Merilee’s flute. Eventually, they managed to make two small holes in the bottom of each ski.

  The heavy bolts they’d planned on using were far too big, so they settled on smaller wood screws. After a lot of struggle and sore wrists, they managed to get them in.

  To strap the papasan-chair base to the runners, they salvaged pieces from an old Erector toy set. Since this was a crucial connection, they decided to use as many nails as possible. Arlo hit his thumb twice. When all sixteen nails were in, the joint felt solid.

  Indra had a clear vision for how the webbing would work, so Arlo and Wu just watched as she wove and knotted the scratchy sisal rope around the frame. As she finished the final lash, they stepped back to admire their creation.

  The sled was surprisingly beautiful. Compared to Blue Bertha’s boxy bulk, this was sleek and rounded. Even Merilee was impressed. She shook the spit out of her flute, the droplets raining down on the sled. “I christen thee Butterflower.”

  “We’re not calling it that,” said Wu.

  “Definitely not,” agreed Indra and Arlo.

  All that was left was to actually test it on the snow. They carried it over to the street—it was light enough to lift!—and pointed it in the right direction. Arlo and Wu took their spots on the towlines, while Indra held on to the back edge.

  Merilee raised her hat high in the air like the flag at a car race. “Three! Two! One! Go!”

  As the hat dropped, they started running. Arlo could hear the skis cutting into the snow behind him, but he barely felt the drag of the sled. Even with half the patrol, they were twice as fast. They passed mailbox after mailbox, racing in a straight line.

  Reaching the end of the street, Arlo and Wu stopped. The sled slid gently forward between them, easily stopped.

  Red-faced and winded, the three kids screamed with joy. Wu jumped in a snowbank to celebrate. Indra beamed. “Connor’s going to have to admit we were right.”

  * * *

  Connor shrugged. “It’s only fast because it’s empty.”

  They had called the rest of the patrol, inviting them over to see their creation. Julie and Jonas came quickly—they lived just down the street. It took nearly an hour for Connor to arrive. The sun was starting to dip low in the sky. The wind was rising, and the temperature was falling. Even Merilee had gone home.

  “Once you get all the gear in, it’s not going to be any faster than Bertha. And these ropes”—Connor tugged on Indra’s netting—“they won’t support the weight anyway. I don’t know what’s going to break
first, the rope or the wood.”

  Wu’s grandfather, a heavyset man with white hair growing out of his ears, watched the discussion from the edge of the driveway. He didn’t speak English, but seemed to follow the gist of the conversation. He was eating a bag of crumbly pecan cookies. Little bits were stuck in his beard.

  “Why are you so negative?” asked Indra. “A patrol leader is supposed to inspire.”

  “A patrol leader is supposed to make decisions. That’s what I’m doing. I’m deciding that we’re sticking with the plan we voted on as a patrol, which was to use Bertha.”

  “But Bertha’s terrible,” said Wu.

  “Bertha is reliable! She’s not going to fall apart on the mountain. We have a hundred pounds of gear to carry, and your little bamboo sled can’t do that.”

  Finished with the cookies, Wu’s grandfather handed Arlo the empty bag. He then sat down in the sled. The cargo ropes strained, but held. It easily supported his weight. The old man said something in Chinese. Wu translated: “He wants us to pull him.”

  Everyone looked at Connor. He sighed, resigned. “Fine. You’ll see.”

  The patrol took their regular positions, with all four boys on the ropes, and both girls in back. Waving his hand, Wu’s grandfather shouted something in Chinese that presumably meant “Go!”

  The boys pulled. The girls pushed. The sled shuddered, then slipped a bit to the right. But soon enough, they were moving in a straight line. Before they even reached the next mailbox, Arlo realized Connor was right: the sled had seemed fast because it was empty. This time, he could feel the weight of Wu’s grandfather behind him. Pulling him was work.

  But it wasn’t a struggle the way pulling Bertha had been, fighting for each step. He imagined himself as a dog pulling on the leash. That’s how much effort it took, no more, no less. He could do this all day.

  He looked over at Wu, then back at Connor and Jonas. Without any planning, all four had fallen into perfect sync—left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Back in the sled, Wu’s grandfather started clapping to the rhythm. “Yi! Er! San! Si!” he shouted, repeating the words again and again.

  Wu started a chant to the same rhythm: “I don’t know but I been told!”

  Arlo listened as the rest of the patrol repeated back, “I don’t know but I been told!”

  “Mountain lakes are mighty cold.”

  “Mountain lakes are mighty cold!” All the while, Wu’s grandfather kept counting off in Chinese: “Yi! Er! San! Si!”

  Wu pushed the cadence just a little faster. “If you fall in, you’ll get wet!”

  This time, Arlo joined in. “If you fall in, you’ll get wet!”

  “And hy-po-ther-mi-a I bet.”

  “And hy-po-ther-mi-a I bet.”

  Connor shouted, “Sound off!” The rest of the patrol shouted back, “One! Two!” They were picking up the pace. “Sound off!” Arlo joined for “Three! Four!” The whole patrol together shouted, “One, two, three, four. One, two—three, four!”

  They were nearing the end of the street. “Let’s try to circle back!” shouted Connor. “Pullers, slow to half. Pushers, keep the weight on the left ski.” Sure enough, the sled began to turn. They were about halfway through the arc when Arlo and Wu ran out of road. They were waist-deep in a snowbank.

  “It’s okay,” said Connor. “There wasn’t enough room.”

  Arlo and Wu waded out of the snow. Together, the four boys pulled the front of the sled while the girls kept it steady. Wu’s grandfather stayed put. After all, he was supposed to be cargo.

  As they pulled the sled back to Wu’s house, Arlo was barely even winded.

  Indra and Julie helped Wu’s grandfather get out of the sled. He tapped it appreciatively, muttering something in Chinese. He nodded, then slowly made his way back to the house.

  “What does hen hao mean?” Arlo asked.

  “Pretty good,” said Wu.

  The six members of Blue Patrol stood around the sled, no one wanting to acknowledge the argument from a few minutes before. The tension was unspoken but unresolved. Arlo sensed that at any moment, Indra and Connor would be yelling at each other.

  And he would once again have to decide where his loyalties lay.

  Connor spoke first. “I say we name this sled Mr. Henhao. And we never tell anyone what it means.” Arlo looked around, surveying the reactions, relieved to see excited smiles. “All in favor?”

  Every hand went up.

  15

  SNOW AND ICE

  IN WINTER, IT SNOWED ALMOST EVERY NIGHT in Pine Mountain. Usually just an inch or two, but occasionally enough that powder spilled in over the tops of Arlo’s boots.

  Jaycee grumbled about having to scrape the snow off the car before school, but Arlo loved it. Sometimes he would pretend to be a sculptor chiseling marble, or a paleontologist carefully brushing away sandstone to reveal a fossilized Stationyx wagonpithicus.

  His favorite part was when the defrosters finally started melting the ice on the windshield. The plastic blade of his scraper would slide across the water drops until it rammed into some still-frozen sections, breaking them into glassy shards. He had seen videos of special ships that sailed the Arctic Ocean, cracking the ice so other boats could get through. That’s how powerful Arlo felt.

  Sometimes Jaycee would let him start the car. It was her job—she was almost old enough to drive anyway—but Arlo would quietly ask her every morning after breakfast while their mom was headed upstairs to get ready for work. He could never predict whether Jaycee would hand him the keys. There was no pattern, no warning. When she declined, it was with a simple shake of the head. Arlo couldn’t tell if it was out of spite, or responsibility, or fear of getting caught. When she agreed, the keys came with a shrug that suggested indifference more than sisterly kindness.

  This was one of the shrug days. Arlo took the keys and raced to the door.

  The air inside the car was sparkly and still, light filtering through the snow on the windshield. He could see his breath. Because of the cold, the sounds were heightened, from the metal scrape of the key in the ignition to the crinkling of the plastic seats. He felt like an astronaut on a spacewalk.

  Pushing the clutch all the way to the floor, Arlo turned the key. The engine hammered and whined, struggling. He counted aloud, “One, two, three, four.” Suddenly, the station wagon shook to life. Arlo exhaled, then turned all the knobs on the heater to full.

  By the time his mom came out, her waitress uniform under her long coat, the car was toasty and snow-free. “Thank you, guys,” she said as they all climbed in, even though Jaycee had done almost nothing.

  They dropped Jaycee off at the corner of Wirt Road, where four other high school kids were already waiting for the school bus to Havlick. The boys in letter jackets kept their shoulders hunched against the cold, kicking at clumps of snow. Arlo was pretty sure one of the girls was smoking. She turned away as the station wagon approached, but as they drove off, Arlo watched her in the side mirror. Sure enough, a cigarette came up to her lips.

  “Yeah, I see it, too,” said his mom, looking down from the rearview mirror. “You know not to smoke, right?” He nodded. “And you know why?”

  “Because it’s bad for your health and it’s illegal?” He watched as the girl receded into the distance.

  “I’m not sure it’s illegal. Maybe it is. The signs at the store always say it’s ‘unlawful’ to sell to minors. I’ve always thought that was weird. Why ‘unlawful’? We never use that word anywhere else.”

  “Maybe we could tell her parents. I’m sure Jaycee knows her name.”

  “We don’t know what her parents are like. Maybe they already know.”

  “Then they’re bad parents, aren’t they?”

  His mom cocked her head, a small grimace. “Maybe they’re doing the best they can. It’s not easy being a parent. There’s no field guide like in Rangers.”

  “It’s a Field Book.” He immediately regretted correcting her, and the tone of his
voice. “Sorry.”

  She had already forgiven him. “How’s all that going? Any more sled drama?” Arlo smiled, surprised to hear her describe it that way. He told her about the latest practice run with Mr. Henhao, this time with all of their actual gear in the sled rather than Wu’s grandfather. “Turns out the water is the heaviest thing, so you need to keep it at the bottom so the sled doesn’t get top-heavy. Also the fire barrel is sort of hard to fit in, so we need to figure out—”

  His mom’s hand pressed against his chest. “Hold on.”

  She had her foot on the brake, but they were still moving. Sliding. Turning. Arlo could hear the wheels scrunching across the snow. Time slowed as he stopped breathing, simply watching as the hood of the car angled towards the edge of the road.

  His mom turned the wheel delicately. Turn into the slide, he remembered hearing somewhere. She was doing that. But they were still sliding. Her foot gently tapped the brake. They were still sliding. Every second, every heartbeat, they were inching closer and closer to the steep drop-off on Arlo’s side of the—

  The road was gone. He could only see trees and sky. “Mom!” He gripped the armrest tight.

  “Hold on!” She kept turning the wheel. Kept tapping the brake. Nothing changed. They kept moving in a straight line, right over the edge. Arlo closed his eyes tight. It was quiet.

  Until it was loud.

  The car slammed down with a crunch of snow and metal. He could hear the wheels straining. Something cracked on the underside of the car. They were still moving, but in a different direction. Arlo felt his weight against the door frame. His cheek was pressed against the cold glass.

  “Arlo!”

  He opened his eyes to find his mother floating above him. She was still in her seat, held in by her seat belt.

  The station wagon had landed on the passenger-side door, like a domino on its edge. Arlo was at the bottom. His mom was at the top, yelling, “Arlo?!”

  “I’m okay.” He said it instinctively, but he was pretty sure it was true. He could see his feet and his hands. Nothing hurt. Nothing was bleeding. Even the car seemed to be intact, no windows broken, the snow having cushioned the impact. It’s just that cars weren’t supposed to be on their sides, which made the whole thing so strange. Like being in space, he thought, remembering how it had felt when he first got into the car that morning. Snow was covering all the windows again.