What Happened on Fox Street

At last, when all the lights in Da’s house were out, Mo crept across the street and hooked the hideous purse on the doorknob. She’d considered throwing the thing in the trash, or down the ravine, but at the last minute she couldn’t stand to betray old Starchbutt that way. But this was it. No more favors. No more running interference. From now on, Mercedes could fend for her own high-and-mighty self.

Standing there on that heaving sea of a front porch, Mo heard a faint rustle beneath her feet. A field mouse, probably. Yet for an instant it seemed as if all those bits of toys that had fallen through the porch cracks over the long years of friendship were stirring, coming to life just long enough to whisper Good- bye.

Creeping back home, she saw fireflies drifting up from the grass like the last sparks of a dying fire. She tiptoed into her room, locking the door behind her. Moments later, another creature of the night began to scratch at it.

“Mo! Mo, it’s me!”

How could Mo have gone two whole years without realizing all she had to do was lock her bedroom door? That was how simple it had been all along! Click. The turn of a lock, and she had her whole bed to herself. No leech taking up nine-tenths of the mattress. No suckerfish sucking the life out of her. How could Mo have been so stupid not to think of it before?

“Mo! Mo? Are you in there?”

Scritch, scratch, the little rat. Mo pulled the pillow over her ears, yet still she heard the sound, as if it came from inside her own head. Turning toward the window, she watched the jagged yellow streaks electrify Mrs. Steinbott’s roses. A light burned upstairs, in the window just across from Mo’s. Did that mental case stay up knitting all night long?

Or could it be that, all alone, she sometimes got scared of the dark?

The middle of the bed was so uncomfortable. Mo huddled on the edge, the way she usually did. One last feeble scritch and scratch, then silence.

A siren whoop-whooped up on Paradise. Mo kept her eyes on Mrs. Steinbott’s light- the night-light of Fox Street-till at long last she fell asleep.

The Letter, Part 3

OPENING HER BEDROOM DOOR the next morning, she stepped into an ambush of tangled sheets and candy wrappers. Mo kicked them aside. Her eyes felt hot and grainy, as if she hadn’t slept a single wink.

Downstairs, Dottie’s cereal bowl, swimming with blue milk, sat on the floor in front of the TV. It was Saturday, and Dottie should have been deep into her lineup of favorite cartoons. Mr. Wren should have been trying to start the lawn mower, cursing, trying again, giving up, and borrowing Mr. Duong’s.

Instead, ghost house.

At least he could have left a note. Just because she wasn’t speaking to him didn’t mean he had no obligation to let her know where he was.

Unless he didn’t want her to know where he was.

Mo rushed out the side door. The morning air smelled strangely burned, as if an angry giant had lit and blown out a forest’s worth of matches. The sky hung low and heavy. On Mrs. Steinbott’s clothesline, the boiled sponges should have been swaying in the kicking-up breeze, except her line was empty.

No sponges.

No cartoons.

No car.

No father.

She went back inside and did the dishes, but her hands were clumsy and she broke a glass. Cleaning up the pieces, she nicked her finger and stuck the Band-Aid on crooked, and later, when she put the laundry in, she dripped drops of blood on her father’s T-shirt and had to rinse it in cold water and treat it with stain remover.

Wait’ll I tell Mercedes.

Oh.

No best friend.

As the washer churned, Mo dragged herself up the basement steps. Her father had forgotten his cell phone, there on the counter. Mo looked out the front window. Da’s front porch was empty. The handbag was gone from the knob. What time was Three-C due? Mo didn’t know. The way things stood, she wouldn’t even get to meet him. She’d be reduced to spying from across the street, just like Mrs. Steinbott.

Outside, the heat wrapped itself around her like a wool coat. The air smelled as if the sky were paper and the heat lightning had singed it all along the edges. Bag on his shoulder, Bernard the mailman strode up the sidewalk.

“Nothing but junk for the Wrens today. Sorry!” He handed Mo a bundle of circulars. “Instead it’s other folks’ turn to finally get their registered mail.”

Mrs. Petrone stood on her lawn, refolding a sheet of paper, her lips pressed as straight as if they held a row of bobby pins. A few doors up, Mrs. Baggott paced her front porch, a sheet of paper in her hand, too. She was gabbing into her cell phone, her voice excited. Her shoes were actually going flip as well as flop.

Bernard knocked on Mrs. Steinbott’s door. And knocked. Watching him shift the heavy bag on his shoulder, Mo’s brain served up another one of Da’s quotations. “Love is patient.” She was sure there was more to it-love was gentle, maybe? Or was it strong? Or both? Her mind was fog. A cry cut through its swirling mist.

“Mo! Guess what?” The Wild Child tore across the street.

“Stop! Halt! What’d I tell you about looking both ways?”

Dottie jerked her head from side to side, though she was already on the sidewalk.

Mo grabbed her shoulder. “I thought you went with Daddy.”

“Daddy?” Dottie wriggled free.

“The man who lives in our house? Where is he?”

But Dottie couldn’t be bothered with boring questions.

“Guess what? The Baggotts got a letter. It’s going to be M and M dough rain around here.”

The back of Mo’s neck prickled as if icy fingers had reached out and stroked it.

“Make sense,” she hissed.

“M and M’s!” Dottie giggled at her sister’s stupidity. “I hope it’s not peanut. I hope it’s regular. And I hope the dough’s quarters, not pennies.”

Mrs. Steinbott cracked her door at last. Mo watched her take Bernard’s pen and sign. The mailman clattered down the porch steps, climbed in his truck, and drove away.

“You’re seriously grounded,” Mo informed Dottie.

Dottie made a sound like a sick moose. “But it’s going to rain candy! Candy and money!”

“Inside! Before I pulverize you!”

Dottie walked backward up the driveway, her tongue stuck out. Mo pressed her fingers to her temples. The sparrows were acting oddly, fizzing up like feathery bubbles. Not a single bee hovered over Mrs. Steinbott’s roses. Mo took her neighbor’s porch steps two at a time. In all her years on Fox Street, she’d never done this without permission.

“Good morning, Mrs. Steinbott.”

Her porch gleamed. The leaves of her roses shone. Every speck of dirt and dust had been boiled or scrubbed away. Every beetle and blight had been obliterated. On this sterilized porch, the world was in precise, predictable order. Mo looked around longingly. If only she could stay here, safe and solid!

What was she thinking? Had she really just wished she could stay with Starchbutt?

Who held a piece of white paper, neatly folded and creased.

“I see you got a letter,” Mo said.