Lucy read this section to Ms. Kortum.

  "Oh, see if there's more," said Ms. Kortum. "I want definitive proof!" So Lucy continued on, and then finally she reached this entry:

  July 8, 1836: Killed last moose today. Smoked the Calumet with Rippling Water’s parents. It is done. We are married in the Chippewa way. I consider myself lucky to have found her -- my wife.

  "You have to tell the social studies class," said Lucy.

  Ms. Kortum smiled. "Yes, I do!"

  Then the little bell dinged upstairs, and Ms. Kortum jumped up.

  "Tour!" she said. "Be back in an hour." She dashed up the stairs.

  Lucy continued reading. Rippling Water taught Amos to speak Chippewa, as well as Chippewa customs and manners. She made Amos (and the other men in the fort) snowshoes and moccasins. She caught and dried fish, harvested wild rice, and made sugar from the sugar bush. She gathered fruit and berries, and snared small game.

  Then a fight broke out between the Chippewa and Sioux. Two of the men in the fort were killed, and the fort was abandoned. The Hudson's Bay Company ordered Amos Zebulon to travel to a fort near Lake Superior. But Amos Zebulon was married, so he decided not to go. He settled in Turtle Rock. He thought he could make a living trapping and working as a guide and interpreter.

  Then Lucy read this:

  September 22, 1836: I hope to record this faithfully. I do not trust my grasp of Chippewa. Rippling Water told me that before we met, she dreamt about the sugar bush. In the dream, song vibrated around and through the big tree in the center of the other trees. She says it wasn’t the tree singing, but something larger, all encompassing, far-reaching, overall. The song passed through her body as if she were water for the song to wade in. She could not move for a long time afterward. Two days she lay. When she moved again, she felt budded with spring. A few months later, she met me at the sugar bush. She says I am part of the dream. I do not understand this. But I record it in the hope that someday I will.

  Lucy let the journal fall on the table and stared at the basement wall. Weird, she thought. As soon as Ms. Kortum came back from her tour, Lucy showed her the passage, watching her read.

  When Ms. Kortum looked up from the page, Lucy asked, "What do you think?"

  "I don't know—it's strange," said Ms. Kortum. "But he doesn't seem the romantic type at all. I wonder why he recorded this. It must have touched him deeply." She rubbed her hands together. "Maybe our Amos was falling in love," she said.

  Our Amos? Lucy didn't know what to say about that, except that it was just like an adult to get all mushy and blame everything on love. "Isn't it time for lunch?" said Lucy.

  Back at school on Monday, Lucy found a note in her locker: Do you still want to be friends? Sam.

  Her heart leaped.

  Then Lucy got embarrassed. Could she be any more pathetic? Look at her getting all hyper and happy. It was just chicken scratch on a piece of notebook paper. Lucy turned the paper over in her hands. Her name wasn't on it—just "do you still want to be friends." Sam probably made a mistake. Even if it wasn't a mistake—he ignores her for months and then tosses a ratty note in her locker? Wimp.

  Lucy scribbled a message on the same note: Did you mean this for me? Lucy. She slipped the note in Sam's locker and tried to forget about it.

  But the next day, the note appeared in her locker with another line written: Yes, the note was meant for you, Lucy Moon.

  Lucy wrote back: So everything is fixed now? You ignored me for months.

  Over the next few days the note moved between the two lockers.

  Sam wrote: I'm sorry. My parents went ballistic.

  Lucy wrote: Yeah, well, no one talked to me. Maybe you noticed.

  Sam wrote: What's going on with you and Zoë?

  Lucy decided not to answer that note. What business was it of Sam's?

  Several days passed, and then Lucy found another note in her locker: I was a wuss with my mom and dad. Sorry about that. Do you still want to be friends? I do. Sam.

  Lucy held the note in her hands, considering. What did she want? If she said yes, Sam could ditch her again and that would hurt. But she missed Sam, and he was the one approaching her, and not the other way around, and he had admitted he was wrong. Everyone deserved a second chance, right?

  Maybe Zoë would give Lucy another chance, too—if Lucy had the courage to ask for it.

  Okay, wrote Lucy. She was careful to write that okay casually, without exclamation marks, or pressing too heavily with her pen, or underlining it. Her heart wanted to do all of these things—in fact, if her heart had its way, Lucy would have underlined "okay" three times.

  The following weekend, Lucy sat across from Ms. Kortum in the basement of the Grundhoffer House, holding a packet of papers tied with string. Lucy picked at the knot until it gave way.

  The first piece of paper looked like a will. It donated land for parks in Turtle Rock. Most of this land overlooked Turtle Rock Lake. It appeared that Amos's house was on the property, but Lucy couldn't recall ever seeing anything there. It must have been torn down. Then she turned to the next paper.

  Agreement between Amos Zebulon and Sebastian Wiggins Concerning the Sugar Bush, the first line read. She peered at the drawing and then read the description. That's when she finally saw the name. Sebastian Wiggins? She looked closer at the drawing. Lucy let out a little squawk.

  All this time she'd been reading about "the sugar bush" and not once had she thought . . . She'd never considered . . .

  Ms. Kortum looked up from her letters.

  "What?" she said.

  Without thinking, Lucy handed Ms. Kortum the paper.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ms. Kortum read the document—trapping it, capturing it in her fingers.

  Or so it looked to Lucy Moon, who berated herself for handing it over. An adult asked, and Lucy obeyed without thinking? Giving away one of the most important documents she'd ever encountered in her life? Did she lack brains? Lucy knew about adults, and though there were a few good ones, a lot of times they talked a kid out of things. Mostly, adults did what they wanted, taking everything out of a kid's control.

  Lucy struggled to contain herself. She wanted to snatch the document out of those fingers—spidery fingers, now that Lucy saw them properly—and run somewhere, anywhere, away from here!

  Calm down, she told herself. Ms. Kortum might give it back—if she didn't realize the significance.

  How could she not realize the significance?

  Ms. Kortum pushed up her bifocals and then turned the paper over to gaze at the drawing. Lucy's hope went out with a feeble fizz.

  "This is Wiggins Hill," said Ms. Kortum.

  "Yeah," said Lucy. She tried to smile, but her face felt stiff, like new cardboard. "Funny, isn't it? Ha! That's history for you." She stuck out her hand for the document.

  Ms. Kortum folded the document along its original fold lines and stuck it in a sweater pocket.

  Lucy's heart beat a quick cha-cha-cha.

  "What are you going to do with that?" said Lucy.

  "I'm not sure yet," said Ms. Kortum. She stood up and pushed in her folding chair.

  Lucy stood up with her.

  "Could I make a photocopy of it?" Lucy said as casually as she could, but her voice cracked, pitching up two octaves. "It's one of the cooler things I've found."

  "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Lucy," said Ms. Kortum. She took a step toward the door.

  "Where are you going? What are you going to do with it?"

  Ms. Kortum put a hand over the sweater pocket that held the document. "Lucy, I know very well that you'll want to publicize this document, that it goes along with those postcards of yours. . . ."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "Look, I want to think about what to do with this."

  "What do you mean 'what to do with this'? You mean burn it, don't you? You're going to burn it so that you don't have to deal with it. You think it'll cause too much trouble. But think about this: Wiggins Hill isn't supposed to be fenced!"

  "I would never destroy history" said Ms. Kortum, turning red.

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Kortum, I shouldn't have said that. But please do the right thing. Please!"

  "I need to think what to do," said Ms. Kortum. "Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I won't tell Mrs. Mudd. This is for me to decide, okay?"

  This is for me to decide. There it was—adult presumption.

  "No, it's not okay," said Lucy. "And it isn't for you to decide. I saw that document with my own two eyes. I'm not forgetting it. Why do you get to decide what's important in life? Because I know you think sledding isn't important, but that document right there shows that there is more than sledding involved with Wiggins Hill!"

  "Lucy, take the day off," said Ms. Kortum. "I want you to give me two weeks with this document, and during that time, I don't want you to ask me about it. I promise not to destroy it. Can you do that?"

  "I don't have any choice, do I? You won't just let me make a photocopy?" Lucy gave Ms. Kortum her most pleading look. "I'll keep you out of it. I promise."

  "And that's exactly what I am worried about—that you'll keep me out of it. Lucy, give me a chance to think about this. The document will still be here in two weeks."

  "You promise?"

  "I promise."

  Lucy grabbed her schoolbooks and her coat, but before she left, Ms. Kortum called out to her. "Happy spring break, Lucy!"

  "Thanks," said Lucy reflexively, already halfway up the basement stairs.

  Then she stopped and turned around. She walked back down the stairs.

  "Did you say 'spring break'?" asked Lucy.

  "I did," said Ms. Kortum, smiling.

  Lucy was still angry, but this was confusing, because if it was spring break, that meant . . .

  "This is our last time together?"

  Ms. Kortum nodded.

  "And I'm done with detention, too. ... I made it." She said this softly. Where had she been? She'd lost track of time.

  Ms. Kortum smiled at her.

  Lucy could feel the Zebulon document sticking out of Ms. Kortum's sweater pocket. It hurt her, knowing it was there, and unattainable. But how could she leave without saying something? This was her favorite teacher.

  Or at least she was before she did this!

  "I've got to go," Lucy mumbled. "Thanks for this." She gestured at the table and boxes. "It was a lot better than Mrs. Mudd." She paused. "See you in class, I guess."

  "Bye, Lucy."

  Lucy left the Grundhoffer House thinking about what an idiot she'd been. If she had used her head, she would now be carrying a photocopy of that document! Ugh, ugh, and triple-ugh.

  She was halfway up the hill to Fifth Street before she realized that spring break meant that she could walk down to the bakery with Zoë again—if she and Zoë were friends. That was unlikely, wasn't it?

  But friends or not, Lucy needed to speak with Zoë. It was time, because no matter how Zoë felt about Lucy, Zoë needed to know about the Amos Zebulon document.

  Lucy marched up to the Rossignol house and rang the doorbell. As the doorbell pealed out its church hymn, Lucy's courage sputtered, did a last pirouette, and died. What was she doing? It had been too long. Zoë would never talk to her. But if she tried to run, someone would see her. So Lucy took a deep breath and stuck her chin in the air. Friendship was secondary. She was here to pass on important information. That was all.

  The door opened, and there stood Mrs. Rossignol.

  "Lucy Moon!" she said with a wide smile. "Oh, we have missed you. You have no idea how boring life is without Lucy Moon!"

  Lucy glanced up, balled her fists, and said what needed to be said in a burst of words: "I'm sorry I ran away that night."

  "Yes, your running away did hurt my feelings some, but I understood. You've had a hard time. You're forgiven, love," said Mrs. Rossignol. She patted Lucy on the head. "But you will talk to Zoë, won't you?"

  It was more an order than a question. Lucy felt Mrs. Rossignol's strong hand guide her inside and give her a gentle shove. She had little choice but to climb the stairs leading to Zoë's room.

  Zoë's door was open, so Lucy walked in. Zoë lay across the bed with her feet crossed at the ankles. She was reading a comic book. Everything looked the same, except . . .

  "Is your hair red and . . . purple?" said Lucy. Lucy hadn't planned on this being the first thing she said to Zoë, and she vowed then and there to learn to control her mouth.

  "What's it to you?" said Zoë, without bothering to look up. "I thought you were ignoring me."

  "I was," said Lucy.

  Zoë turned a page of the comic book and sighed.

  Lucy swallowed and said, "I'm sorry. I want to make up."

  Zoë leaned her head against a hand and kept reading.

  Lucy continued in one long gasp of breath: "Okay, I didn't care at all how you felt and all I thought about was how I couldn't believe this was happening to me and how tired I felt and then your mom lectured me and I just wanted everyone to go away and so I avoided you and gave you back the yellow walkie-talkie." Zoë seemed very still now. "I know I can't be your best friend," Lucy added.

  Zoë pushed herself off her stomach and sat cross-legged in the center of her bed.

  "Why today?" Zoë said. "Why are you telling me this today?"

  "Because today I found something at the Grundhoffer House about Wiggins Hill, something that could really make the difference. Ms. Kortum took it away. And that made me realize that there was only one person I wanted to tell. I wanted to tell you, because you're my best friend, because you're the one person who'll understand. I'm really sorry."

  Zoë didn't say anything. She stared out the window at the Moon house. "You drew your shade," she said.

  "Yeah," said Lucy.

  "I think I hated you for a while."

  Lucy didn't say anything.

  "You wrote tons of notes to Sam, but not to me. Lots of people saw you and Sam dropping notes in each other's lockers. You like him, Lucy."

  Lucy didn't know what to say. What did Sam have to do with her friendship with Zoë? Lucy spit out: "What about you and. Edna? Are you best friends now? You replaced me with her pretty fast!"

  "So that's what this is all about—you're jealous of Edna!"

  "You're jealous of Sam!"

  Zoë smiled then. Lucy laughed a little.

  Zoë's tone softened: "What about you and Sam? Do you like him?"

  Lucy sighed and thought about it. Images compiled and came together: the night at Gustafson's Wild Nature Gallery when Sam held her hand, the talks as they walked down the hill, mongoose-cobra, all the planning for the "Free Wiggins Hill!" campaign, his smile.

  "I don't know . . ." Lucy began.

  "Look," said Zoë, "if you're not going to tell me the truth, we can't be friends.”

  "No," said Lucy, interrupting. "I mean, I don't know. It's yes, maybe, sometimes—all of them. I want to be his friend. I know that."

  Zoë pulled at a string on her bedspread.

  Lucy stared at her friend and thought, it's now or never. "Is Edna your best friend now?"

  "No," said Zoë quickly. "You were always my best friend until you returned that yellow walkie-talkie and dumped me.

  "Oh," said Lucy.

  "But she's been a good friend, especially since you haven't been around. I was so nice to you, too. I tried hard to be nice."

  "Well, you didn't have to get punished like I did."

  "No, I had to watch my best friend get unjustly punished and turn into something as interesting as oatmeal paste."

  Lucy hadn't thought of that.

  There was a pause. The pause stretched into silence, and suddenly the silence seemed insurmountable, a barrier between them. Lucy stared at the floor and realized there was one more thing she wanted to say, whether it made any difference or not. "There's this other thing, too," she started. She paused, and continued. "There's been this little part of me that thought you didn't really want to be my friend because people like you, and I'm this puny, bra-less wonder with a big mouth. I mean, you've got to admit, it doesn't make sense. Why would you want to hang out with me? You could hang out with anyone."

  "Is that true?" said Zoë. Her face broke into a smile. "You've been thinking this all year?"

  "A little," said Lucy, feeling hopeful at Zoë's smile.

  "How often have I told you that you are my best friend?" said Zoë.

  "A lot," said Lucy.

  "So will you promise to believe me this time?" said Zoë seriously.

  "Really?" Lucy felt a bit of hope.

  "Yeah, I want to be friends—even best friends," said Zoë. "But I've got some rules for you this time: One, you can't make fun of my sewing and knitting. Two, it's okay if sometimes I like making things more than I like protesting. You've got to deal with that. Three, if you get mad at me, you have to tell me! Deal?"

  Lucy swallowed hard. Then she nodded. "Deal."

  "I want to be best friends," said Zoë. "But don't ever dump me again!"

  Lucy blinked as Zoë's words struck.

  "I really missed you," said Zoë. She looked away, wiped her eyes, and then said, "So tell me what you found out about Wiggins Hill, and we'll call Edna, Lisa, Quote, and Sam to tell them."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "It looks like the sunniest spring break on record," said Ken, on WBRR, North Country Radio. "Temperatures may hit forty-four degrees around noon!"

  "And remember, the junior high could use your pocket change for that new gymnasium. Help 'Fill the Pencil with Lead,' folks," said Julie. "Now, in honor of spring break and spring fever, here's 'Sandals in the Snow,' sung by the Obertob Sisters."

  Lucy Moon reached up and switched off her radio alarm clock as the three-part harmony began, her mind filling with images of hair scared stiff into bouffants and matching, ruffled dresses—nothing like WBRR for waking a person up in the morning.

  Then she realized this was the first day of spring break and Zoë was her best friend again. "Ha!" Lucy grabbed the yellow walkie-talkie off her bed table and turned it on.