“Hey, Bilbo!” I called, opening the Mitchells’ back door. I heard scrabbling from across the kitchen. The ferret was waiting by the door of his cage, pacing back and forth and looking at me with his bright little eyes. I wasn’t wild about any animals except birds, but even I had to admit Bilbo was pretty cute. We’d almost become friends.
After I’d fed him, given him a little playtime, and made sure he was settled for the night, I headed back outside. There was no fence between my grandparents’ backyard and the Mitchells’, so my father had commandeered the entire expanse of twin lawns for our reunion. The picnic tables were on our side, closest to the kitchen. The fire pit and lawn chairs were just beyond, also on our side. The tents and hammocks were spread out pretty evenly across both backyards, and the far side of the Mitchells’ back lawn had been arranged with separate zones for badminton, croquet, and horseshoes.
“Organized mayhem” my dad called it. He was more cheerful this weekend than I’d seen him in months. There was nothing Lieutenant Colonel Jericho T. Lovejoy liked better than bossing people around, and the reunion had given him a real boost in that department.
Just then our back door banged open, and Hatcher finally appeared. “Need any help?”
I shot him a look. “Not anymore.”
He shrugged and sauntered off. I glared at his back. I’d hardly seen Hatcher all weekend. He’d vanished into the herd of older male cousins, all of whom were sharing one of the huge tents that Hatcher and Danny had set up at the far end of our lawn. It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, Hatcher spending time with his favorite cousins. I was spending time with mine, after all. But I hadn’t seen a whole lot of Hatcher since summer started—and for months before that, now that I thought about it. He’d been involved with the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes, at least for a little while over Spring Break. But other than that, he always seemed busy with wrestling and his school friends. It wasn’t like it used to be. Back in Texas, Hatcher and I had always been a team—the two of us against the world. Now things were changing. I’d seen them change before, after my brother Danny started high school. He’d gotten his driver’s license and a girlfriend and a part-time job, and after that he was hardly around anymore. This fall, Hatcher would be starting high school too. Would the same thing happen to him?
Does anything ever stay the same? I wondered. My gaze wandered over toward my dad. That question was easily answered. Things could and did change in the blink of an eye.
I watched as he picked up a spatula with the Terminator and started showing off for some of my uncles. The Terminator was what we called my father’s fancy prosthetic arm, the one made of black titanium. He’d gotten it this past winter, after our move to Pumpkin Falls, so none of my relatives had seen it in action before. Some of the littler cousins had been afraid of it at first, just like Pippa had been, but fascination eventually won out over fear.
“Having a bunch of brothers-in-law around is good for him,” said Aunt True, coming up behind me.
I turned around. “Huh?”
She nodded toward the grill. “Your father. It’s good for him. All that male-bonding stuff.”
She was probably right—my aunt usually was. My father did seem like he was in his element this weekend. Besides the whole I-get-to-organize-everything-and-boss-everyone-around thing, he adored my uncles, and they adored him. The seven of them had always had fun together. My father had even agreed to an arm-wrestling competition, for old times’ sake. The tale of how my uncles had made my dad arm-wrestle every single one of them before they’d allow him to date their little sister—now my mother—was part of Gifford family lore.
After his injury had forced him to become a lefty, though, my father wasn’t as invincible as he used to be. Last night, Uncle Lenny had finally managed to beat him—something he’d been waiting years to do.
“Time for Rooster Rover!” hollered Uncle Rooster, popping through the back door like a jack-in-the-box. The scavenger hunt was over, apparently.
A herd of younger cousins spilled out of the house behind him, squealing with excitement. I smiled. I used to squeal like that too.
Uncle Rooster had made up the game years ago. It was just like red rover, except instead of chanting “Red rover, red rover, let so-and-so come over,” he’d changed it to “Red Rooster, red Rooster.” And before a player could run toward the opposing team to try to break through the line of linked arms, he or she had to crow like a rooster. Of course the little kids thought this was hilarious, and everyone tried to outdo everyone else. By the end, it wasn’t much of a competition, just a bunch of kids collapsed in a pile of giggles.
I watched my uncle as he led the group to the far side of the lawn. His nickname suited him perfectly. Uncle Rooster was, well, like a rooster. Big, colorful, and loud. A bit of a show-off, he definitely liked to strut. And right now, he was strutting his stuff at the head of a line of little kids who would come to dinner worn out, hungry, and happy.
I did a final sweep of the picnic tables to make sure everything was ready, then headed to where I’d stashed tonight’s surprise.
“Three at every table,” my mother whispered from the
