After obsessing about it for a few days, Lucy asked Zoë. They were at Lucy's locker, about to go to lunch.

  Zoë stuck her hands in her pockets and shifted around. Finally she said, "He's not talking to me, either."

  "So he is avoiding me," said Lucy.

  "It's Sam's parents," said Zoë. "They think you're a bad influence. Principal Adams threatened Sam and me with suspension if we got into any more trouble."

  "You didn't tell me!"

  "I didn't want you to worry about it, and anyway, he didn't do anything except threaten us."

  Lucy was beginning to think everyone blamed her for the Wiggins Hill fence cutting, except her dad, the Rossignols, and maybe the police (since Lucy hadn't seen hide nor hair of the police in all this time).

  Suddenly, Lucy felt the weight of it all. She looked at Zoë. "So why are you still talking to me?"

  Zoë looked at her like she was crazy. "First, because we're best friends, and I don't let principals tell me who can be my friends. Second, because no matter how aggravating you are sometimes, you make me a better person."

  "What? I do not make you a better person!" Lucy said, turning away. She needed truth from friends, not this kind of stupid flattery.

  Zoë grabbed Lucy's arm. "I'm not lying," said Zoë seriously. "In my heart, I'm a wimp."

  "That's not true," said Lucy, but for the first time all day, Lucy smiled. "Ha!" she said.

  One day at the end of January, Lucy came home from the Rossignol Bakery and found her dad absentmindedly tapping a pencil. He jumped at the sight of Lucy. Then he gave her a weak smile.

  Lucy knew at once. She dropped her backpack on the kitchen floor.

  "It's okay," she said.

  "No, it's not," said her dad.

  "You tried, Dad," she said. "You tried hard."

  "There's got to be something else. I wish I were more creative, like your mom," he said.

  "I don't see Mom here," said Lucy. She marched in front of her dad. "Dad, it's like this: you hardly ever get what you want. So you've got to focus on what you did do, because you did do something, Dad. I haven't had to go to detention and Youth Action once yet. It's been almost a month. You did that. You're a lot better than I thought."

  Her dad guffawed.

  "I didn't mean that," Lucy added quickly.

  "Sure you did."

  Lucy glanced at him and chuckled, embarrassed. "Okay, yeah, I did."

  Her dad sighed. "Unfortunately, you need to call Mrs. Mudd tonight. I told Principal Adams you would start detention and Youth Action immediately. You'll have to do it for six weeks—until spring break. I'm sorry."

  "I can do it, Dad," Lucy said.

  "I know," he said.

  Then he handed her a letter. It was from her mom. Lucy rubbed the postmark with her finger. On January 27th her mom had been in Boulder, Colorado.

  Lucy hoped this letter meant her mom had gotten the point, and would stop calling. Letters didn't make noise. Lucy went to her room and dropped the letter, unopened, on top of her dresser.

  That night, Lucy called Mrs. Mudd to sign up for Youth Action.

  Mrs. Mudd made Lucy repeat the details back to her. "Let me hear you say it," said Mrs. Mudd.

  "On Saturday and Sunday, I'll be at the corner of Second and Vine Street—where the old gas station used to be, at nine o'clock in the morning," said Lucy.

  "And what will you bring?"

  "A bag lunch?"

  "Yes, and what else?"

  "Three hours of homework for the afternoons?"

  "That settles it," said Mrs. Mudd. And she hung up without saying another word.

  "Good-bye?" said Lucy to the dial tone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On her first Youth Action Saturday, at 9 A.M., Lucy Moon lined up with the other kids for a bus headed to Hopkins Lodge. Hopkins Lodge overlooked the state forest, and it came complete with a wraparound porch, rag rugs, log furniture, and a stone fireplace so large a person could stand upright in it. Lucy imagined listening to forest rangers' rescue stories and sitting in front of a glowing fire while doing homework. Youth Action was decidedly underrated, Lucy thought, except for the presence of Mrs. Myra Mudd, the Youth Action organizer, who reminded Lucy of a mosquito impersonating a human. She was long, thin, and angular, with a needle nose under a beret. A mosquito zipped up in a parka—that's exactly what she looked like, thought Lucy.

  But as the bus door sighed open, and the other kids began to board the bus, Mrs. Mudd stuck out a bony arm and pulled Lucy aside.

  "You're with me," Mrs. Mudd said.

  Lucy started to say that she loved Hopkins Lodge. She knew all about it, like the ladder that came down in the employee lounge and led to the attic, and the underground tunnel that burrowed under the viewing tower. Lucy could clean places those other kids couldn't even imagine!

  But Mrs. Mudd cut her short. "Don't," she said. "I've got you for the entire semester. Think of yourself as my special helper."

  Once everyone had boarded, Mrs. Mudd put a whistle to her lips and blew. The whistle shrieked. Mrs. Mudd nodded to the bus driver, and off the bus went. Lucy's fireplace afternoon at Hopkins Lodge turned into cold, sooty coals.

  Lucy bit her lip. Well, she thought, it wasn't like this was supposed to be all fun and games. Some things in life led to great and mystical tests of character, and truly this had to be one of those times, didn't it? Surely, it did. Youth Action would only last six weekends. This was doable.

  As Lucy piled into the backseat of Mrs. Mudd's sedan, Mrs. Mudd told her they were going to the VFW to clean it for next week's annual ice sculptors meeting.

  Mrs. Mudd didn't say anything else.

  A big box of brochures sat next to her on the seat, so Lucy picked one up. She squinted at the cursive script and finally made out, "The Tiny Tims & the Healing Power of Dickens." Lucy assumed the badly reproduced photograph on the cover was Charles Dickens. But what was on his chin? It was either a bad smudge, or a goatee, or a— yeah—a bushy hamster hanging on for dear life.

  "Ha!" said Lucy.

  "That's enough of that!" Mrs. Mudd's tiny eyes flashed in the rear view mirror. "I'll have you know those brochures are brand new, and I paid good money for them, so I'd appreciate it if you kept your hands to yourself."

  Okay, then, thought Lucy. Lucy turned the brochure over in order to set it in the box in the same direction as all the others and noticed Miss Wiggins's name listed at the top of a list of sponsors. That lady is everywhere, thought Lucy, as she set the brochure down. She put her hands in the pockets of her coat and ran her fingers over her walkie-talkie. Zoë had promised to keep hers on all day. Lucy wondered if the VFW was too far away for walkie-talkie reception.

  Though, architecturally speaking, the VFW probably came under the classification of "lodge," the VFW seemed like the anti-Hopkins Lodge. Lucy knew that the VFW sat out on Highway 32 near Bobby's Truck Stop, but she had never been inside. As Lucy stood inside the big main room, she decided she hadn't been missing much. First, the VFW wasn't close to anything, except the highway and a logged area (scenic stubble). Second, it was about twenty times smaller than Hopkins Lodge. Third, it smelled like it housed an entire herd of damp sheep. Finally, the place seemed grandly imagined, but sort of haphazard and skimpy in the construction: the stairs came straight down from the second-floor balcony and then just stopped, the last step about three inches lower than the one above it. The banisters were simple and square, and parts felt rough. And the roof took a funny veer, making everything seem lopsided. Worse, in Lucy's opinion, was that there wasn't one comfortable place to sit. Straight-backed chairs lined the walls, and stacks of folding chairs filled one of the corners.

  Mrs. Mudd drew back the twelve-foot curtains (dust billowing like smoke), and light flooded in. Lucy noticed the second-floor balcony. (Later, she'd find the restaurant-size kitchen, the bathrooms on the first floor, and the ten rooms upstairs.)

  Then Mrs. Mudd left Lucy alone in the big, empty room. Lucy heard the furnace kick on, and saw the fluorescent lights jerk and startle. When Mrs. Mudd came back, she was holding a broom, dustpan, a bottle of furniture polish, and rags. She piled these on one of the straight-backed chairs.

  Mrs. Mudd spoke quickly: "You're going to start by sweeping this floor, okay? I mean every inch of this room."

  Lucy nodded.

  Mrs. Mudd held out the broom. Lucy took it.

  "Let's see you sweep," said Mrs. Mudd. She crossed her arms. "Lots of you children don't know what you're doing when it comes to cleaning—dab, dab here and a swish and a swipe there. In my book, that's not cleaning. Sweep, Lucy."

  Lucy took the broom and swept a little. This is so dumb, she thought. But then she couldn't stop thinking of the action of the broom. Did a person use circles, long drags, or little pats all in a line? Oh, this was like breathing—something that got harder the more a person thought about it! Lucy watched Mrs. Mudd's eyes skid over her sweeping handhold, then traverse Lucy's upper arm muscles, and stop at her legs.

  There was a sweeping stance? Oh, good grief. Lucy tried to position her feet directly below her shoulders. Didn't everything in life require feet placed directly below the shoulders?

  Mrs. Mudd moaned and grabbed the broom out of Lucy's hand. Lucy looked at Mrs. Mudd in disbelief. Mrs. Mudd thought she was a total disgrace at sweeping?

  "Like this," Mrs. Mudd commanded. She worked in quick little sweeps in a circle, until a pile of dirt formed, and then swept it into the dustpan. "And after you've done that over every inch of this room, you do it all a second time, understand?"

  Lucy nodded.

  "You'll get all the corners and the cobwebs and go up the stairs?"

  "Okay," said Lucy.

  "We'll see how you do," said Mrs. Mudd. "Now, about that hair . . ." Mrs. Mudd grimaced as she tilted her head this way and that. She looked as though she were in physical pain, like chewing tinfoil on a filling. "Can you fit it under that hat of yours? If your hair starts shedding, it'll be murder to clean up, since you've got four times as much hair as any sane person."

  Lucy tucked her two braids up under her hat. She smashed the hat down. The hat gripped Lucy's forehead like a vise, but it stayed.

  Mrs. Mudd nodded. "That'll do."

  Then Mrs. Mudd pulled out a round timer on a string from her pocket and hung it around her neck. "I'm going to be upstairs cleaning." She paused, pointing a finger at Lucy. "But I'll be back to check on your work, and I want it done completely. I hope I've made myself clear?"

  "Yes," said Lucy. Loud and clear, she thought.

  "Then I'm off." Mrs. Mudd turned the timer to twenty minutes. Lucy could hear it ticking as Mrs. Mudd raced up the stairs. Lucy placed her feet directly below her shoulders and began sweeping. A vacuum cleaner roared to a start on the second floor. Lucy sighed and began sweeping in long, long drags. She bet that Mrs. Mudd wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

  Lucy swept that floor three times (Lucy's way, Mrs. Mudd's way, and a final sweep because that's how Mrs. Mudd had wanted it done the first time.) Unfortunately, sweeping wasn't the only cleaning skill Lucy lacked—it seemed she couldn't clean anything correctly.

  "You're twelve years old and you don't know how to dust?" Mrs. Mudd said. Mrs. Mudd seemed genuinely amazed that Lucy did not automatically associate the job "to dust" with dusting the wallboards, floorboards, ceilings, and air vents. Lucy, on the other hand, felt amazed that Mrs. Mudd considered wiping air vents with soapy water to be the same as running a dry rag over something. Cleaning air vents seemed like a task of another genetic makeup entirely. "I'd like you to take some initiative, Lucy Moon. I don't coddle whiners. You're the one who accepted your Youth Action nomination."

  Ah, yes, thought Lucy. Right.

  Taking out the trash and recycling seemed clear enough. Lucy did this plenty of times at home. But as soon as she started to put a trash bag in the empty trash can, Mrs. Mudd stopped her, rushing across the room. "Halt! Have you cleaned out that garbage can with soapy water and rinsed it with the outside hose? That can looks dry to me."

  It had not occurred to Lucy. But now that the idea was mentioned, she thought it bordered on stupidity.

  "Mrs. Mudd?" said Lucy, trying to sound as polite as possible. "It's twelve degrees outside, and I heard that the wind chill is three below. I don't think it's wise for me to be cleaning out trash cans when it's this cold."

  Mrs. Mudd settled her eyes on Lucy and then narrowed them. "At this temperature, it may take you longer," said Mrs. Mudd slowly, "but it must be done. Cleaning ensures health in public gatherings. The greater good is always considered first. I really can't stand shirkers, Lucy Moon. Wash out the cans."

  Shirker? Did Mrs. Mudd call her a shirker? Lucy glanced at her watch, 11:30 A.M. Well, at least that was a relief—it was almost time for lunch!

  So Lucy dragged the trash cans out to the back service entrance near the Dumpsters (which let off a dead animal smell even in the cold) and started to work. She swished soapy water in the cans and then rinsed them with the hose. The hose water was so icy it brought tears to Lucy's eyes when it touched her hands. (She had forgotten her mittens. She would never forget her mittens again.) But she continued on. A test of character—that's what this was—a test of character. Still, she couldn't help thinking that if Youth Action was voluntary, she could walk out right now. She could use one of the VFW phones to call her dad, and he'd come and pick her up.

  The threat of suspension flashed in Lucy's mind. No way. Lucy stayed.

  Lucy fingered her walkie-talkie out there in the service entrance, and even took it out of her pocket several times. Zoë would make her laugh, and Lucy could use a good laugh. But who knew if the walkie-talkie would even work all the way out here? Lucy had heard tales of walkie-talkies working at great distances under certain kinds of overcast skies. This sky was overcast. . . . Still, even pulling the walkie-talkie out of her pocket seemed unnecessarily risky. Mrs. Mudd might show up.

  Lucy washed out thirteen cans, and by the time she'd finished, she found ice chunks floating in the ones she rinsed first. Her hands hurt, too. When Mrs. Mudd announced her lunch break with a blow of the whistle, Lucy thought she'd never heard a happier sound.

  Lucy raced to the bathroom. She closed the stall door, got her walkie-talkie out of her pocket, and flushed the toilet. Water pounded out of the toilet bowl, roared through the pipes under Lucy's feet, and then rattled to a stop. Good, thought Lucy.

  "Zoë?" she whispered into the walkie-talkie. She heard some static.

  "Zoë?" she repeated.

  The walkie-talkie jingled loudly.

  Jeez, thought Lucy. Lucy quickly flushed the toilet again. She hoped Mrs. Mudd hadn't heard that jingle! Lucy put the walkie-talkie to her ear.

  But she couldn't hear a thing, only white noise. Lucy flushed the toilet a third time, turned up the volume on the walkie-talkie, and held it to her ear. She detected a breaking in the static. Was that Zoë?

  But before Lucy could find out, a hand appeared over the stall.

  "I'll take that." The voice, of course, was Mrs. Mudd's.

  Lucy stepped backward quickly, tripping over the toilet and banging against the wall. "No," she said. Her brain sent begging thoughts to the hand: Please, hand, go away. Go away! "I won't bring it again," Lucy said. "I won't use it. I promise."

  The hand disappeared. But the voice was still there: "Not good enough. I don't make deals. If you've had enough of Youth Action, you can quit. Are you quitting?"

  "No," said Lucy.

  The hand came back over the top of the stall, waiting.

  Not her walkie-talkie! How would she communicate with Zoë?

  "Lucy," said Mrs. Mudd's voice. "Now!" The hand furled and unfurled again in a quick motion.

  Lucy placed the blue walkie-talkie in the palm of Mrs. Mudd's hand. The fingers snapped around it. Then the walkie-talkie disappeared over the top of the bathroom stall. Lucy heard the walkie-talkie jingle, and without thinking, Lucy flushed the toilet.

  "And stop flushing the toilet!" said Mrs. Mudd. "I came in here because I thought something was wrong with it. Now finish up and come have lunch. I expect you to behave better from here on out. Consider yourself warned."

  Lucy, feeling like a total idiot, used the toilet and flushed one last time, half convinced that Mrs. Mudd would dash back in to fire her when she heard the sound of water in the pipes. But she didn't. Lucy washed her hands and then went out into the main room to eat her bag lunch.

  After lunch, Lucy sat on one of the straight-backed chairs, doing homework in the big empty room. It wasn't comfortable, but it beat cleaning. Mrs. Mudd removed the curtains from the windows, saying she was taking them home "to launder." At 3:45 P.M., both the timer around Mrs. Mudd's neck and the alarm on Mrs. Mudd's wrist-watch went off, and it was time to return to the drop-off point at the old gas station on Second Street.

  The Hopkins Lodge kids came back in the van, and Lucy couldn't help noticing that they were laughing and shoving one another.

  Finally, Mrs. Mudd checked Lucy's name off the list.

  "Lucy Moon—dismissed," said Mrs. Mudd.

  Lucy walked the two blocks up the hill to her house. A test of character! Right. How could character be built through total and utter exhaustion? She wasn't building character—she was building tiredness (and she was minus one walkie-talkie). After eating dinner, Lucy fell asleep in her clothes and didn't wake until the next morning.

  The next day, Sunday, Mrs. Mudd and Lucy spent the morning cleaning the VFW, and Lucy worked on homework in the afternoon. The only difference was that Lucy began the day with tiredness already draped about her shoulders.

  She slept dreamlessly that weekend, and on Monday, found herself dazedly going through the motions of school. After the last bell rang, Lucy hurried down to Study Hall Room 103 and found her old detention seat. Then she got out her books and began to work. She told herself that between detention and Youth Action, she was going to be way ahead in her homework.