What Happened on Fox Street

angry man in the water department uniform or the nervous man in the knotted tie.

Sitting in the bleachers, Mo imagined him happy all the time. Behind the bar of the Home Plate, serving cheesy omelets and juicy burgers and ice-cold beer, joking and talking with the customers. His own naturally happy self. The way he was meant to be. The way he’d been, before.

When happiness was his domain.

All day long Mo had struggled to think, and not succeeded, but now her thoughts tugged her down a dark road, leading her somewhere she didn’t want to go. Her father would never be happy if things went on the way they were. His dream would wither and wilt like all of Fox Street’s unwatered gardens and grass, all the lovely green life gone out of them.

What’d I tell you about thinking too much? You’re going to get yourself in big trouble one of these days.

She slid her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the square of dark blue paper.

To leave their house and move away would be to abandon everything, everything she knew and loved, everything that made her feel safe. Not just feel, that measly word. Made her safe. Made her Mo.

To go would mean leaving behind her fox. That, most of all. Just when Mo was getting closer, when what she’d longed and waited for so patiently had given her a true sign. How could Mo abandon her?

It was unthinkable, even for a thinker.

“Who’s that present for?”

Mo hadn’t realized she was clutching the packet of fur in her pocket, but Dottie had. Her X-ray vision penetrated Mo’s shorts.

“Me? Huh? Me, right?”

“Mind your own business,” Mo told her, in a tone so harsh that, miracle of miracles, Dottie grew quiet.

Another Gift, If That Was What You Wanted to Call It

“SO. THE FACTS AS WE KNOW THEM. B and B want Fox Street, and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to get it. They’re targeting your dad.” Mercedes tapped her chin. “My guess is they’re counting on the domino effect. Meaning, one falls and all the others can’t help but follow. If he sells…”

“Which will never happen,” Mo said automatically.

The two of them hunkered on the floor of Da’s porch, out of Starchbutt’s sight. They’d swept it clean of winter dirt, but still you had to arrange yourself carefully in order to avoid splinters in certain tender body parts. What Mo really needed now was a refreshing glass of Da’s extra-tart lemonade-just the thought of it made her pucker up. But Da was inside, napping on the couch.

Mercedes peeled off a sliver of wood and regarded it. She cocked her head in that familiar, quizzical, hungry- bird way. “Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that your dad gets struck by lightning, and when he comes to, he begins speaking in Japanese, and when we find a translator, she explains how your dad is saying he wants to sell the house to Buckman.”

“Ha! So funny I forgot to laugh. Never. He’ll never-”

“Mo! We have to examine all the possibilities!”

“Okay, okay, but even if he did.” Mo swallowed. She gently pushed a ladybug corpse through a crack in the porch floor, down into the cemetery below. “There wouldn’t be a domino effect. Because Mrs. Petrone wouldn’t sell out. Mrs. Steinbott wouldn’t, unless he pays in solid gold. And…” Mo paused for emphasis. “For sure, Da wouldn’t.”

She waited for Mercedes to agree. Seconds ticked by.

More seconds.

“We’re talking Da!” Mo said at last. “Who’s lived on Fox Street even longer than me! Who had to face discrimination and all kinds of bad juju to buy her house! Da, who stands taller on six toes than most people do on ten!” Mo shouted these last words, causing the sparrows to burst out of the old lilac with indignant peeps.

As if Mo’s words gave off a bad smell, Mercedes wrinkled her fine-tuned nose. But before either could say anything more, her phone rang. She wiggled it out of her jeans pocket.

“Cornelius! Just what I need.”

“Don’t answer.”

“He’ll just leave a pompous, boring message. It’s easier to answer and try to annoy him.” Mercedes pressed the phone. “Wazzup, dawg?”

She stood up but immediately wheeled about and fled inside. Peeking around the porch railing, Mo beheld Mrs. Steinbott at the bottom of the porch steps.

“You!” Her voice was loud and accusing.

“Yup. It’s me again.” Mo lumbered to her feet. How in the world had she gotten into this go-between role? Stationed on the crumbly front walk, Mrs. Steinbott wore a black suit that stunk of mothballs. On her feet were black shoes so tiny, Cinderella might have trouble wedging her feet in. She looked headed for a funeral, except that she was…wait.

Was Mrs. Steinbott smiling? One corner of her mouth had gone up but not the other side, as if the mechanism were rusted.

“Wow,” Mo said. “You’re…you’re all dressed up. You look very, very…”

“The time has come. Where did she go?”

“She had an important phone call.”

Mrs. Steinbott clutched a handbag the size of a microwave. An uncertain look stole into her eyes. In spite of herself, Mo added, “But she said to be sure and tell you hi.”

Just then a stampede of Baggotts pounded down the street. Armed with Super Soakers and dirt bombs, they went into slo-mo at the sight of Starchbutt. An evil grin spread across the face of Leo, possessor of the reattached finger. He raised his gun to his shoulder and took aim.

“Wicked witch alert!” he yelled to his brothers. “Prepare to fire!”

Mo ran down the steps and leaped into the space between the Baggotts and Mrs. Steinbott. “Just try it!” she yelled. “I’ll tell my father you’ve been playing with the hose all week, and your mother will get slapped with a fine so fast you guys won’t see daylight for weeks!”

Mo knew this wasn’t true-the Baggotts never got punished for anything-but it sounded good. The other Baggotts threw their hands into the air. Leo Baggott sneered but slowly lowered the gun.

“Mo Wren and the witch. Nya nya nya-nya nya. Takes one to know one!”

One definitely lame dirt bomb landed at Mo’s feet, and the boys reverse-stampeded up the street.

“Don’t worry.” Mo cocked her thumb toward the Baggott dust cloud. “I’ll get their big brother to read them the riot act.”

To Mo’s bewilderment, Mrs. Steinbott’s brittle edges all seemed to soften. “Boys will be boys,” she said. “My own could get up to some mischief, especially when he was around her.”

Mo’s own heart turned over.

“I’m…I’m sorry about your son, Mrs. Steinbott.”

The knuckles gripping the monstrous purse went white.

“By now he’d be a grown man.” Her face was like a piece of paper somebody’d balled up in their fist, then felt bad about and tried to smooth back out. “Ten years older than the last time I saw him.”

A lump rose in Mo’s throat. “Think of that.”

“Oh, I do. I do, every day.”

“I’m sorry,” Mo said again.

She lifted her hand, almost as if she meant to give Mo a pat, but then thought better of it. Instead she reached into the big purse and tugged out…another purse, nearly as big. For a moment Mo feared she’d open that and pull out another one, and then another one, like something in a nightmare.