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  “In the summer?”

  “We want to get ahead,” Rose answered. “They say middle school can be very challenging and we want to be prepared.”

  Rose is an expert at the Greater-Good lie. It gets the job done without hurting anyone. She’s so convincing that I sometimes believe her. Mrs. Thompson swallowed it hook, line, and sinker, and smiled. “Of course. I’ll keep these right up here. Just let me know when you’re ready to check out.”

  I was ready to check out that very second and run over to the fabric store, but Rose pulled me toward the kid’s section. “We’ve got to act normal,” she whispered. “Librarians watch everything. And librarians tell parents. Come on.”

  We kept an eye on Mrs. Thompson, who didn’t budge from her perch. “What about the back door?” Rose asked.

  “Emergency exit. The alarm will go off.”

  “And we don’t want that.”

  Minutes passed. We hovered in the spot where Romeo and I stood a couple of weeks before, and I half expected him to show up again. That would have been just perfect. Rose and Romeo. And me. As if she was reading my mind, she said, “Romeo gets back from Florida tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Me of the big words.

  “I’ve really missed him,” she whispered. “I think about him every night.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so instead I started coughing. Not on purpose. It just happened.

  “Bird, are you all right?” I nodded but couldn’t answer. I wasn’t dying or anything but I couldn’t stop. Every eye in the library turned my way. “I’ll get you some water,” Rose said. I watched her scurry off, wishing deeply that she didn’t like Romeo.

  “Here.” Returning, she handed me a Dixie cup of water, which I drank in one gulp. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, catching my breath.

  “Then come on. The coast is clear.”

  Quietly, we hurried past the checkout counter and Mrs. Thompson’s empty chair. She must have gone into the back room.

  We crossed the busy street at the light and stepped onto the shopping center sidewalk. Past the Kroger, the Walgreens, the nail salon, the Chinese restaurant, and into the fabric store.

  At the counter, the store clerk looks at us like she’s bored and can’t be bothered. On the wall behind her, hundreds of buttons stare back at us like the scary eyes in Coraline. Rose elbows my arm.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say to the store clerk. “This used to be a butcher’s shop, right?”

  “How would I know?” She looks like a grown-up but her tone suggests otherwise. “Lucy?” she yells, turning her head toward the back of the store.

  We watch as Lucy, who is a grown-up, appears and walks slowly toward the counter. Lucy has gray hair and looks to be from the Mrs. Hale/Mrs. Gates generation.

  “Did this used to be a butcher’s shop?” the shop clerk asks.

  “Yes, it did,” Lucy says and turns her eyes on us. “Who’s asking?”

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hello,” says Lucy.

  “I’m Rose. And this is Birdie. We’re doing a school project about the way the neighborhood used to be.”

  “Isn’t it summer?” Lucy asks.

  “Yes, but we want to get ahead. It’s for middle school, which we understand can be very challenging and we want to be prepared.”

  Good grief, Rose.

  “Hello, Rose. And Birdie, is it?” Lucy says. “I used to know a Birdie in school. How about that?” She looks at us like that’s important but I just smile. “Yes, this was a butcher shop. Back before all the newfangled stores came in.”

  I look around. Is she really calling this a newfangled store?

  But then she tells us the story of Smith and Sons. About Henry Smith, who sold the best pork chops in northeast Atlanta. How he was the third generation of a family of butchers. And how everything was going right until it wasn’t anymore.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, I don’t know how much of this you can put in your report, but his son worked at the store. Think he started part-time during high school. Now, what was his name? Michael? No.” She searches her memory. “Martin! That’s it. Martin Smith. He was the son in Smith and Sons.”

  “What happened to him?” I ask.

  “I don’t rightly know but something. I think at one point he had to leave town.” She gives me a grown-up stare. “I don’t like to believe there are bad kids, Birdie, but that Martin, well … some say he was the devil himself.”

  “Really?” That seems rather extreme.

  Lucy shrugs. “Well, maybe. Who can tell. And his father was such a nice man. Just don’t know how those things happen. All I know is people were afraid of that boy.”

  “Do you remember when he had to leave town?” I ask and lean in. “Like what year?”

  Lucy chuckles. “That was a long time back to remember an exact year. But let me think. It was soon after they closed the butcher shop. We moved in after that. About nineteen seventy…”

  I watch her try to remember but I already know: 1973. So Martin Smith was bad. But what would make a kid like that hurt Ruthie? I think. There’s got to be a reason. What if he liked Ruthie but she didn’t like him? What if she made him angry? So angry he …

  “Somebody told me poor Mr. Smith is in a nursing home in Decatur now,” Lucy continues. “Poor soul. It’s strange, though. One day there’s a thriving butcher shop, and the next there’s a For Rent sign out front.”

  I’m barely listening because my mind is going a million miles per minute. Of course, Smith and Sons closed suddenly. Because Henry Smith found out what his son did. He discovered that his son was a murderer. That’s why Martin had to leave town suddenly. Maybe his father had to come up with some money fast to help him so he sold the butcher shop.

  One thing they weren’t expecting, though: Girl Detective.

  I look down at the floor and picture Girl Detective standing on this very spot, confronting Mr. Smith. Or maybe Martin himself.

  “Wow.” The word spills out of my mouth. Rose squeezes the skin at the end of my elbow. “What?” I ask.

  She nods at the clock on the wall. “Gotta buzz.” And she’s right. My dad will be at the library any minute.

  19

  ALLY LOOKS miserable. I don’t blame her. It’s the Fourth of July—ninety degrees and humidity off the charts—and it’s before ten in the morning.

  But it’s not the weather that’s got her down, nor the sore throat. That got better two days ago. It’s the convertible.

  Joey Wachowski’s dad owns a chain of dry cleaning stores, and he always rents an old-fashioned 1950s convertible to ride in the parade. It’s decorated in red, white, and blue tassels and streamers with signs on each side that read: WACHOWSKI CLEANERS. Sometimes Mr. Wachowski rides in the convertible. Sometimes it’s a local celebrity. Today, it’s Ally.

  The pool parking lot is a line of convertibles and parade floats. At the front, little kids on bikes are waiting to start. They always lead the parade around the circle of Queen’s Way, to Chancery Lane, to Gainsborough Drive, and finally back to the pool.

  It doesn’t take long to spot Zora. She’s to the side of the other bike riders, Dad close by. Last night, we decorated Zora’s bike with red, white, and blue crepe paper, stickers, and flags. This is her first year to ride in the parade. I can’t believe she’s going to do it. But she and Dad have been practicing almost every night, so I’m hoping she won’t run into anyone and bring the whole parade to a standstill.

  Ally, Rose, and I are standing beside the Wachowski convertible when we see Joey coming our way. Flanked by Connor and Romeo, he’s smiling so hard his mouth must hurt. They’re all wearing their Broncos jerseys. “Blondie!” he yells.

  “This sucks so hard,” Ally mutters.

  They walk up to us and stop. Three across from three. “Good to see you girls,” Joey says, then aims his sights on Ally. “I thought you might not show up. But then I thought, Ally’s cool. She’ll be there.”


  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she asks.

  Joey shrugs. “Yeah. Kind of.” He points to the big jersey he’s wearing with pride. “You’re going to look awesome in this, Blondie!”

  “I’m wearing that one?!”

  “Of course. What else would you be wearing?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Rose says. “She’s not wearing your stinky, gross jersey.”

  Joey lifts his arm and sniffs his armpit. “Smells clean enough.”

  Rose, Ally, and I groan. “She’s not doing this,” Rose says.

  “Yes, I am,” Ally says. “Hand it over.” Because that’s how Ally does it. She knows in the world of baseball there is no crying and no welshing on bets. You do what you say you’re going to do. Joey takes off his big Broncos jersey (thankfully, he’s wearing a T-shirt underneath) and gives it to Ally. She pulls her enemy’s blue shirt over her head and it completely swallows her. “Let’s get this over with,” she says miserably.

  I pull her blond braids out from under the jersey, then we watch her climb into the backseat of the convertible.

  “No, up there!” Joey points to the top edge of the backseat, where the convertible top accordions onto the back of the car. “That’s where you sit in a parade!”

  Ally’s jaw clenches as she slowly lifts herself onto the perch.

  “And don’t forget to wave,” Joey adds happily.

  “I feel so bad about this,” Rose whispers in my ear.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t your big idea.”

  A whistle blows. Any moment, the parade will start moving.

  I look up at Ally, her hands folded in her lap, her face so resolute. If it hadn’t been for Ally, the three of us might not have even become friends.

  Three weeks after Rose arrived from England, we weren’t friends yet. Ally sat at the desk on my left and Rose had been assigned to the one on my right.

  I didn’t have any real friends in first grade. I knew some kids from kindergarten but I still felt like some dorky loner. Not a good feeling. Sometimes I wonder if Zora feels that way.

  It was February and Bethany Hopkins passed a note back to Rose. Rose stared at that little note like it might be on fire and didn’t move until Bethany whispered loudly, “Take it!”

  As Rose grabbed the note, I recognized the handwriting on the outside of it—the unmistakable scrawl of Billy Jones. Billy Jones was weird and sometimes mean. His notes had a reputation for bad words and getting the recipient in trouble.

  While Ms. Hillbrook was writing on the blackboard, I found myself staring at Rose. She wasn’t wearing her weird school uniform anymore. She looked pretty normal in a sweater and jeans, but the expression on her face told a different story. Like she was one kind of fish that got dumped into the tank of another kind of fish and she hadn’t been able to breathe right ever since.

  Whatever was in Billy Jones’s note would have only made it worse.

  I reached out my hand. “Give it to me,” I whispered. She looked at me with her big blue eyes, confused, then relieved. She handed me the note.

  “Passing notes is against the rules in this class!” Ms. Hillbrook had turned from the blackboard just in time to see us. “You know the rule.”

  I knew the rule. Whoever was associated with the note would have to miss recess and stay together in the classroom during that time. I had never been punished. Not ever in school or kindergarten. Frozen, I stared at Ms. Hillbrook as she approached.

  Rose would get recess detention and so would I. And since Billy wrote the note, he would be there with us. Forty minutes in a room with Billy Jones! That was the worst punishment of all.

  I heard a quiet whistle to my left and saw Ally’s opened hand reach out. I didn’t know what she was doing and I don’t know why I gave her the note. But I did. And she ate it. Right in front of Ms. Hillbrook. It was the first of many times when Ally would save the day.

  Instead of being stuck with Billy Jones in recess detention, I was stuck with Rose and Ally. As it would be from that day forward.

  Now there’s Ally, all alone on that convertible, and it just isn’t right. The bikes start rolling out of the parking lot and the convertible begins to move. Ally would do anything for Rose or me. It was time for us to do something for her.

  “Romeo! Give me your shirt!”

  At first, he looks confused but then he grins and takes off his jersey. I turn to Connor and use my most compelling teacher/librarian voice. “You too, Gomez.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m not—”

  “Give Birdie your shirt, Connor!” Romeo says.

  “What? I don’t get it. Why does she—”

  “Just do it!”

  “Okay, okay, Rome … but you can’t tell me what to do.” But apparently Romeo can, because Connor takes off his jersey and gives it to me.

  “What’s going on?” Joey asks, alarmed. “Better not be messing with our bet!”

  “Nobody’s messing with your bet,” I say. Romeo hands me his jersey and in return gets a genuine smile from me. I pass it to Rose.

  She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Just put it on, Rose!” It’s Romeo’s jersey so she does. I pull Connor’s jersey over my head, then turn back to the boys. “See ya, fellas!” Then I grab Rose by the arm and say, “Come on!”

  “Ally, stop the car!” I yell as we run after the moving vehicle. As she looks back and sees us, her face goes from night to day. The car stops just long enough for Rose and me to slither into the backseat and take our places on each side of our friend. The three of us, all in blue Broncos jerseys. In the parade together.

  There’s a crowd lined up along the street and in the pool courtyard the middle school band has begun playing “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

  Ally beams. “What are you guys doing?!”

  “Being patriotic!” I yell.

  “Yeah,” Rose shouts. “America rules!” She says this extra loud as we pass her house, her parents standing out front, the FOR SALE sign looming in the background.

  We laugh and look back to see Joey Wachowski running behind us. His eyes say it all. Turns out, he’s the loser today.

  We ride through the neighborhood in the awesome convertible, dodging water guns and waving little American flags. The neighborhood is lined with hundreds of people. Not just from here, but from everywhere. Thomas Jefferson stands on the Declaration of Independence float behind us, shooting a water cannon into the crowd. It’s so hot all the kids yell, “Hit me! Hit me!” As we crest the top of Queen’s Way, I wave to Mr. and Mrs. Gates and look back to be sure trigger-happy Thomas J. doesn’t hit them. And like a good founding father, he doesn’t.

  “Look!” Rose points toward Mrs. Franklin’s yard. The boys—Joey, Romeo, and Connor—are running along, keeping up with us. “Romeo!” Rose yells. She starts waving madly, and Ally and I join in.

  As Queen’s Way curves into Chancery Lane, the steep street that dead-ends in front of our house, I see Zora’s bike stall near the side of the road. Her anxious eyes look into the crowd. Even though the parade is moving at about three miles per hour, I know she’s afraid of riding her bike down the hill. But she’s holding up traffic, and some of the bigger kids start yelling. She’s alone for what must be a heartbreaking moment for Zora, and I’m ready to jump out of the car to rescue her, when I see Dad. He appears out of the crowd like a superhero, grabs Zora and her bike, and pulls them to safety.

  As we pass, I wave at them and smirk at their surprised faces. Ally leans into me and says, “Thanks, Birdie. This turned out great.”

  “Wait!” Rose shouts, and reaches into her pocket. We lean together and Rose takes our selfie. Us three, smiling, laughing, the queens of Queen’s Way.

  20

  I KNOW it shouldn’t be unusual to hear “The Star-Spangled Banner” on the Fourth of July but, trust me, it’s an act of revolution when it comes out of Rose’s violin at the Loser’s Day party. From the first moment th
e bow hits the strings, I know she is doing it on purpose and I know she’s causing trouble.

  Rose’s parents have hosted their Loser’s Day party every Fourth of July since they moved here. At first I didn’t understand why anyone would call a party on Independence Day (clearly a winner’s day) a loser’s party. But the Ashcrofts are not Americans. They’re British—the ones we defeated to get that independence—so they are, in this case, the losers. And strangely, Rose’s dad thinks this should be celebrated.

  The backyard of Rose’s house is decorated with twinkling lights and signs that read: LOSER’S DAY and WELCOME WINNERS. Lots of the neighborhood is there. None of us feel un-American by attending, even though the only flags flying are Union Jacks. That’s the British flag. It’s actually called the Union Flag, but Brits call it the Union Jack. For Jack who? I wonder.

  The food is very strange, with names like Bubble and Squeak, Bangers and Mash, Toad in the Hole, Black Pudding (which is actually blood pudding, and isn’t a pudding at all but a sausage), and Spotted Dick with custard (yep, that’s its real name). Rose’s parents don’t make a big deal about it being counter-revolutionary. After all, they call it Loser’s Day. They know who won. They know they’re in America. They just want to give us a little flavor of their country. Oh, I’m sorry: flavour. And every year, we all think it’s fun (except for the blood sausage part).

  Rose no longer shares this opinion.

  And this is her own little revolution. Each year Rose plays the British national anthem, “God Save the Queen,” while we Americans boo (not too seriously) and Mr. and Mrs. Ashcroft sing proudly. But this year instead, full of the spirit of George Washington and Paul Revere, she’s playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I glance over at Rose’s mother, her arms crossed by the barbecue. Fuming.

  Yet Rose is playing beautifully, transforming our national anthem into a rebellious love song to her adopted home. Some of the American grown-ups place hands over their hearts. Ally leans into the General, her brothers Mark and James by her side. My mom puts her arm around me. Zora sits on Dad’s shoulders. We all tend to forget (because she hates it so much) that Rose is a spectacular violinist.