“It’s more about what you are already. Do you play a musical instrument?” asks Zane. “Your brother plays the cello, I play saxophone.”

  “Nope,” I say.

  “Do you break out in hives or are allergic in some way to more than four things?” asks Zane.

  “We’re allergic to a lot,” explains Nicholas. “Between us, we have allergies to ragweed, strawberries, mold, dust mites—”

  “I know all about your allergies, Nicholas, and no, I’m not allergic to any of those things!” I tell them. “Once I thought I was allergic to wool, but I was only itchy.”

  “Okay, finally—would you do the fire or ice challenge to pledge that Attack of the Zernoks is the greatest movie ever made?” asks Nicholas.

  “Cause we already did that an hour ago,” adds Zane.

  “What’s the fire or ice challenge?”

  “You either drink a spoonful of hot sauce or dump a cup of ice water on your head to show your loyalty that it’s the best movie ever!” says Zane like it’s so obvious.

  “I did ice, Zane did fire,” says Nicholas.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I’m really not interested in being part of your club. You can keep your three-headed aliens, musical instruments, and hives.”

  Nicholas’s eyes go owly. “If you want to come with us, Becket, you can,” he says. I know he’d make it semi-okay for me to be there, but I don’t want to squeak along like a fifth wheel on their play date. I wanted my own play date. “Nah,” I say.

  Zane drops a paw on my brother’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Nico.”

  Nico? Nobody calls my brother Nico. I can see in his face he likes it. Did my twin’s cool country nickname finally show up?

  It isn’t until the boys slam outside that I realize Zane took my net.

  First I had lemons, then I had lemonade, and now I’ve got a lonely lemony afternoon stretched ahead. Plus Zane ate all the extra pasta that was supposed to be second helpings for everyone. So I’ve got some hunger lemons, too.

  I go outside and walk through the meadow into the planting fields. A mosquito whines near me. I swat and swat—until I feel a prick near my elbow.

  Grrr, she got me!

  A fire or ice challenge actually sounds like a fun thing to do. But only with the right kind of friend, like Caleb, who was the best play date ever. Once we made teeny-tiny jellybean and gummy bear pizzas in the toaster oven for our hamblings. Also, Caleb’s house had stairs that we could pillow sled down. At the playground, we both liked mango juice pops from the Yo-Fro health treats truck.

  I could really use a mango juice pop right now.

  I’ve sent Caleb two letters to his camp address since we moved. He hasn’t sent me back anything.

  When I trip and fall over a rock, scraping up my palms, it’s almost a relief to stay put, lying on my stomach.

  Maybe it is not my destiny to be the Country Goods billboard kid, laughing in the sun. Maybe I’m more of a lone wolf, friendless and pet-free. I close my eyes and take a deep breath . . .

  The whistle is loud as a fire siren. I jump up, dizzy.

  “Outta the way!” Farmer Jack’s tractor is lurching at me like a giant tank.

  Did I fall asleep? The sun is in a different place, and my leg has a cramp in it.

  I sit up, squinting.

  What’s going on? That’s not Farmer Jack at the wheel. It’s a woman, and she’s yelling something I can’t hear, and signaling me to do something!

  “Kid! MOVE!”

  “HEY!” When I hear her, I jump to a stand. I can be loud, too. Loud is my specialty. I raise my arms and make my Mrs. Wallerby crossing guard signal for STOP.

  Once she’s close, the lady puts on the brake.

  “You’re not Farmer Jack!”

  “I’m Farmer Jack’s wife, Farmer Jess. And you are standing smack in the middle of this field that I’m baling.”

  I have no idea why tears have started to spill out of my eyes. “I was . . .” It feels like there’s a lemon in my throat.

  Farmer Jess has good listening eyes, even if I am not saying much of anything at all. When she takes off her sun-faded blue cap, her curls spring out everywhere. Then she pats the tractor seat. “Jump on.”

  “On your tractor?”

  Farmer Jess smiles. “There isn’t anything happening here on Blackberry Farm that’s more interesting than what this back-loader can do.”

  The wheels are higher than my head. “A drastic fall could end it all,” I say. “That’s a safety tip I learned, back when I lived in the city.”

  “Good one,” says Farmer Jess. “Bend at the knees and jumping’s a breeze!”

  “I never heard that safety slogan.” I wipe my eyes. The slogans are making me feel better already.

  “Because I just invented it.” Farmer Jess leans down and gives me a hand. I bend my knees, jump, and I’m up! Sitting right next to her.

  “When high in the air, take extra care,” I say. “I just made that up, too.”

  “Quick thinker, I like that,” says Farmer Jess. “Also, you’re safe now. How about just kick back and enjoy the view?”

  It’s—wow! I can see all the grain fields and the woods. “Beautiful Alert!”

  “Beautiful Alert!” repeats Farmer Jess with a smile.

  I can’t stop looking around. “It’s like a farm skyscraper! And now I get to put ‘Ride a Tractor’ on my Country Kid List!”

  “Oh, no. You’re not just going to ride this tractor.”

  “I’m not?”

  “You’re going to drive it.”

  “ME?”

  “You plus me. We’ll team-drive. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here next to you.” Farmer Jess scoots to the side so I’m closer to the wheel. “See what’s attached to the back of my tractor?”

  I look behind me. “A giant thing-er-a-tor?”

  “It’s called a round baler. It sweeps up dried bluegrass, rolls it, and nets it into bundles. All morning, I’ve been making bales up and down these windrows.”

  I’d seen those huge round wheels of hay on the fields, but I didn’t know this thingamajig was making them.

  “I can teach you how we kick them out, if you want.”

  “Yes, I want!”

  Farmer Jess shows me how to put my hands on the steering wheel, how to press the button for pickup, when to change to the net-wrap function, and how to use the kicker so that the baler drops a perfect wheel of hay.

  It is hot, sweaty, sticky work. But I like it.

  “Catch anything yet?” I yell to Nicholas and Zane once we’re closer to the pond. I make sure I’ve got both hands on the wheel, so they can see who is team-driving this back-loader.

  “Woo-hoo!” I shout.

  I know I look cool in the seat, since Zane stands all the way up. Both boys look like a giant suction-fingered Zernok is about to land on them. Awe and a little bit of fear.

  “Hey, guys! Incoming! Watch out for the bluegrass!” I yell as we drop a bale within kicking distance, if anyone could kick something that big.

  With two whoops, both boys jump in the pond and start splashing around. I know they’re half playing, but also trying to protect themselves from me in my tractor.

  “You’re a natural, Becket!” calls Farmer Jess, and to prove it, she takes off her red cap and pops it right onto my head.

  chapter 13

  Dumpster Debt

  My list looks really good with “Drive a Tractor (Like a Natural)” on it. I’d never have thought of that one till I did it. Too bad Farmer Jess is a grown-up or it could have even counted as a play date.

  Which gives me another idea for my list: “Make Something Special.”

  I think about rearranging my list because this one has to do with number four, but I decide to keep it like it is. There’s too much crossing out already. My eyes go right to that scratched-out “best.” Now I know some “bests” don’t come so easy. It’s hard to be best at anything—boat-racer, lemonade-maker, and especially friend-finder. I thought I was okay with Frieda just being my friend. But I don’t know if she’s even that. Still, I have to do something. If the only kid coming over for play dates is milk-snorting Zane, it’s going to be one very long summer.

  I push open the squeaky screen door and walk out into the late afternoon. I’m looking for anything that might be a Beautiful Alert. Soon my pockets are filled with dandelion fluff, odd-shaped twigs, a blue chip of robin’s egg, and a pebble as pale and flat as a full moon.

  By Sunday night, I’ve almost forgotten about those lollipops.

  Okay, not really. I’ve been thinking about them pretty nonstop, with a curled-up anxious feeling in my stomach.

  At dinnertime, I come inside with a bouquet of goldenrod blooms for our centerpiece. Oops. I spy with my nervous eye: Gran’s empty lollipop jar.

  Plunk in the middle of the table.

  Maybe my best plan is to pretend not to notice it?

  “Dee deedle dee,” I sing. I set the table. I even remember placemats. I don’t make any fuss about asking for cheese cubes in the salad. Instead of picking mushrooms out of the chicken-with-mushrooms dinner, I spit them neatly from my mouth into my napkin.

  Nobody is talking at all about the lollipop jar.

  After dinner, Gran yawns and says she is turning in early. Nicholas scoops bowls of chocolate chip ice cream for everyone. I clear plates and put them in the dishwasher. “Dum dee dum,” I sing. “Dee dum dee. I think I’ll turn in early, too. Gotta rest up for camp. Goodnight, everybody.”

  I am on the first step when Dad calls out, “Rebecca Branch?”

  Becket, Dad. But now’s not the time. “Yep?”

  “Could you come back and sit down here at the table with Mom and me? Just for a minute?”

  Oh, boy. I really don’t want to come back and sit down. Not even for a minute.

  I come back. I sit down.

  “You never told us how much money you made from your lemonade stand yesterday,” says Mom.

  First I take off my glasses and clean them with the edge of my T-shirt. Then I put them back on. “Eight dollars, minus the dollar I owed Zane.”

  “Becket,” says Mom. “Did you give out all of Gran’s special barley-sugar lollipops so that customers would buy your lemonade?”

  “Yes.” I squirm. “I thought they were free to give away. Since that’s what Gran does.”

  “So do you think they’re free for Gran to give away? Or free for you to give away?” asks Mom.

  “I’m confused about that question,” I say.

  “Then you should have asked,” says Dad. “If you never ask, you’ll never know.”

  Mom takes one of my hands and folds it like a hand sandwich between hers. She looks into my eyes. “You need to pay back Gran. Did you know that one bag of barley lollipops is nine dollars?”

  It is safe to say that I did not know that.

  “You need to give Gran all the profits you made from the lemonade stand, and then you only owe her a couple of dollars,” says Dad.

  “Owe?” I wonder if Gran turned in early so she didn’t have to see me get so squirmy. “Do you mean I’m in debt?”

  “It’s only fair that you pay for those lollipops,” says Mom.

  “How?” I ask. “There’s hardly any ways in the world for a kid to make money.”

  Dad nods. “That’s why we were thinking you can take over one of the jobs around the house.”

  “But I’m already taking care of the animals. That’s a lot.”

  “Helping out is what family is all about. Nicholas is in charge of unloading the dishwasher every morning, and he has to fold all the laundry. Caroline helps out at the store. And yes, you have shown great responsibility with the animals,” says Dad. “But now you need to repay this small debt, and Mom and I want to help. So we thought we’d give you a paying chore, of fifty cents every time you take the trash bag to the dumpster,” he says. “Just four nights, starting tonight.”

  I look over at the bag slumped by the kitchen door.

  Big, white, heavy, smelly.

  The dumpster is by the store. That’s two whole city blocks away. That’s not even one subway or bus stop, but it feels like a long way to lug trash.

  “Okay,” I say. “But just so you know, I wasn’t going to spend the lemonade money on myself. Since Punkin has no home, I was getting him a camper.”

  Mom and Dad don’t seem too impressed by my thoughtfulness.

  Then Dad points to the bag. “It can’t take itself out.”

  When I pick it up—oof! “It feels like there’s a seventeen-pound frozen turkey in here! I’ll have to carry my fireproof safety pocket flashlight between my teeth!”

  “We have faith in you,” says Mom. “We’ll be right here.”

  “If you see a coyote, run,” Caroline calls from the family room. I know that this is the new, slightly meaner and more teasing Country Caroline, and I shouldn’t pay her any attention. But it gives me scary in-the-dark thoughts anyway.

  Farm dark is darker than city dark. No streetlights. No neighbor windows. In the city, you have Stranger Danger, but out here you get a shivery feeling of All Alone With Wild Animals Danger.

  If only Noble were at my side, guiding my way.

  When I drag the bag, it makes an eely, slithering sound behind me.

  The woods aren’t close. But what if a bear can sniff this garbage?

  Bears will brave anything for a snack, and what makes a better snack than a sixty-three-pound kid?

  I’m halfway to the dumpster and my teeth are starting to hurt from biting my flashlight when I hear a whole lot of noise from the henhouse.

  What the . . . ? I drop my bag.

  Are the chickens always this loud at night?

  I listen harder.

  Archie’s the loudest. I’d recognize his honking and quacking anywhere. And that ole duck doesn’t sound right. His noises are too panicked. Even the squawking chickens can’t drown him out.

  “EMERGENCY!” I yell as loud as I can. “SOMEBODY CALL 911! THERE’S TROUBLE AT THE HENHOUSE, PEOPLE!”

  But nobody can hear me. I’m too far from the house. I’ve got to think on my feet, but my feet aren’t quick enough to run me back to the house for help. This is a right-this-second problem—and it’s up to me to do something!

  I aim my flashlight, sprint over to the henhouse, fling open the door, and—

  “OH, NOOOO!”

  chapter 14

  Intruder!

  I beam my light into a pair of glinting eyes.

  He’s not a big raccoon. He’s even smaller than a medium-sized raccoon.

  Growing up with vets, I’ve been warned to watch out for critters with rabies—how they act snappish and restless and bite on themselves. This little bandit just looks scared. He’s been interrupted in the middle of his crime, with an egg in his paws.

  Do I move? Do I freeze?

  At least he’s close to the screen he must have torn to get in here.

  All I want him to do is go.

  That’s probably all he wants, too.

  The thing is, he won’t. It’s like he can’t. We’re both superglued to our spots.

  Meantime, it’s a madhouse in this henhouse. Poor Archie keeps honking and running around in a circle with his head down and his wings spread. The chickens are flapping and squawking. It feels a little bit like being back on a city playground when someone gets hit by a shovel or falls off the monkey bars, and all the rest of the kids try to tell one single babysitter at the same time.

  “Calm down,” I say to the chickens in a babysitter voice, even though my heart is beating overtime. “Safety first—because injuries last.”

  The raccoon’s nose twitches the air. Maybe he’s trying to figure out how to grab a chicken dinner for takeout.

  He better not be. But raccoons are wily. This one looks like he might do anything. After all, he’s already got an egg.

  Argh! “Catch a Raccoon by Surprise” was never on my list.

  We are locked in a stare-off. Then—zzzwwwp—the raccoon is gone. Ducking out of the henhouse at the same moment Dad and Caroline rush in to meet me.

  “Was that a RACCOON? Eeeeeeeeeee!” Caroline shrieks as her head whips around.

  “What happened?” asks Dad. “Are you okay? Did the raccoon come at you?”

  “I’m fine, the chickens are fine, but . . .” My eyes blink with tears as I point to Archie. He’s got his wing scooped up over his head as he hops in a hurt, bewildered circle.

  Dad sweeps down and tucks Archie in a firm hold so that he can inspect his face.

  “What happened to him?” asks Caroline.

  “It’s Archie’s eye,” says Dad. “Looks like the raccoon gouged it.”

  Noooo, poor Arch! A gouged eye is as opposite as I can think of a Beautiful Alert.

  “Does gouged mean gone?” squeaks Nicholas, who’s right behind with Mom and Gran.

  “In this case, yes.” Dad frowns, grim. “Mom and I better run Arch over to the clinic to clean him up and dress this wound.” He looks at me. “Think you can calm down these chickens?”

  “No problem.” Even though my heart is aching for Archie and racing from my raccoon run-in, it also feels pretty good that Dad is talking to me like I’m the leader—probably since I’m the one who gathers the eggs every morning.

  After Mom and Dad leave with poor injured Archie, I show Gran the rip in the screen where the raccoon tore through. Together, we patch it with duct tape. “This’ll hold until tomorrow, when we can secure it with a stronger welded-wire,” she says. “Raccoons and foxes in the henhouse are a farmer’s worst worry.”