Many people know that Amos Zebulon donated the bluff and the city lakefront property. What is not commonly known is that Amos Zebulon owned Wiggins Hill. He called the land the "sugar bush," and several years before his death, he gave this land to Sebastian Wiggins under a strict agreement. The document is entitled "Agreement Between Amos Zebulon and Sebastian Wiggins Concerning the Sugar Bush." Sebastian Wiggins's and Amos Zebulon's signatures both appear at the bottom of the document.

  The document reads:

  "Being that the sugar bush is a land that was sacred to my wife, Rippling Water, of the Chippewa, and was the location for collecting maple sugar by her clan, I give this land with great reluctance. But being old (and without children), I must choose someone, so I choose Sebastian Wiggins. In taking this land, Sebastian Wiggins indicates that he is not a landowner, but a guardian, a steward of the land. By which I mean that he is to take care of this land, but leave it for others to enjoy. (I've listed my restrictions below.) No money has changed hands, as I do not want Sebastian Wiggins to think himself an owner but a steward.

  If his signature be found at the bottom of this document, Sebastian Wiggins has agreed for himself (and for all following generations who may inherit the title) to act as steward of the sugar bush. These are the terms he has agreed to (in no particular order):

  • He may build a house at the top of the hill where the land is already cleared (see drawing). But this is the only place he may cut into the land.

  • Any road must be built according to the drawing below. He may not remove any of the sugar maple trees.

  • The land must remain in its wild state. No fences, no cutting, no clearing of the land can occur. A fallen limb may be removed to the edges, but it should be left to rot, as I've noted that many birds find homes in rotting limbs. All brambles and other such plants must be allowed to stay. I find the eagerness with which this generation harnesses the land until it matches the pitiful vision in their head detestable. Let there be wild places.

  • The big sugar maple in the center must be protected at all costs. It is a blessed tree and sacred to my wife.

  • The Chippewa must always be welcome in the sugar bush. They must be allowed to stay as long as they like, and harvest the sap as they choose. I doubt very much that they will return, but I want the land to always be open to them.

  I am an unlearned man who loved his wife. Let Sebastian Wiggins refuse to sign this document if he does not intend to follow this agreement. Let Sebastian Wiggins sign under witness of heaven.”

  When called for a comment, Miss Ilene Viola Wiggins said she did not remember her father having any agreement like the above mentioned, and refused to make any further statement.

  Contact Ms. Polly Kortum at the Grundhoffer House for more information regarding the Amos Zebulon document.

  This article caused readers to pause. It was not like the newspaper to poke fun at Miss Ilene Viola Wiggins—especially not with all the trouble surrounding that hill. This caused them to think that the newspaper might be telling the truth, after all.

  Still, all that about Lucy Moon had to be nonsense! Wasn't it a little unlikely that the girl causing all that ruckus about Wiggins Hill would find an old document supporting her claim?

  And a girl gang? Now, that didn't make one iota of sense—not in Turtle Rock, Minnesota.

  After the confusion wore off, nearly everyone wondered what Miss Ilene Viola Wiggins thought of all of this. But no one knew. Eventually, it got around that Miss Wiggins called her secretary at Wiggins Faucet on Thursday, April 1st, and said she had "pressing business elsewhere." Miss Wiggins was gone for the week.

  Of course, Lucy and Zoë racked their brains trying to figure out the identities of the junior-high "girl gang" members. This was after Lucy's mild panic attack upon reading the article. She had looked over the newspaper at Zoë, her face frozen. "They're going to think it's me!" she whispered. She'd get suspended. They'd enroll her in Youth Action for the forever semester, chaining her to Mrs. Mudd. Zoë calmly pointed out that Lucy hadn't seen the police in a very long time, and that if they had a "gang" it would include Sam Shipman, and he was definitely a boy. "Oh, yeah," said Lucy, breathing again.

  But if it wasn't them, who could it be? As far as they knew, they were the only ones in the junior high passionately worked up about Wiggins Hill. Both Lucy and Zoë thought of Mrs. Dreams's shoe box full of "Free Wiggins Hill!" postcards—it had to be full of clues! But neither Lucy nor Zoë wanted to step near that office.

  They even halfheartedly tried to figure out if one of their female friends had gone bad: hadn't Lisa Alt flipped out when her mom refused to replace the powder-blue ski jacket? Lisa had been forced to spend her allowance on a used coat from The Wild Thrift, since she refused to wear the granny coat her mom had offered. Or what about Edna? Edna was the one who'd called them about the arrested sledders. Maybe she'd been there that night and now harbored a secret rage! (Lucy and Zoë knew that Edna had found out because she lived next door to Lisa Alt.) As for Quote, well, they couldn't even imagine her sledding. All of Quote's shoes were pointy and nontread. But maybe this was the perfect cover! Truthfully, the thought of any of their friends involved in a fence-cutting only made Lucy and Zoë laugh. They figured that eventually they'd find out who belonged to this "girl gang." It would all leak out sometime.

  Anyway, this was the conversation that occupied Lucy and Zoë on Thursday, Friday, and now, on Saturday afternoon, as they walked home from the Rossignol Bakery. They had left early. Zoë had complained of "rolling-pin wrist," right after Mrs. Rossignol left to run an errand. "We'll let the hired help run this place for once," Zoë had said as they scooted out the door.

  When they got close to Third Street, Zoë halted in mid-step. "Should we stop at the Grundhoffer House? You know, to thank Ms. Kortum?"

  "Yeah—let's!" said Lucy.

  Ms. Kortum sat behind the tiny desk on the four-season porch, warming her socked feet on a space heater. She seemed to be working on a crossword puzzle.

  Lucy banged open the door. Ms. Kortum jerked upright.

  "Thank you!" Lucy yelled. She ran behind the desk and wrapped her arms around Ms. Kortum. Ms. Kortum shrieked a little, but smiled on seeing Lucy.

  Then Ms. Kortum gave Zoë a look, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Shall I?" When Zoë nodded, Ms. Kortum dinged the "Ring for Tours" bell.

  Suddenly, Lucy heard singing. It was "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow."

  "It was your dad's idea," said Zoë.

  Lucy ran inside and found her dad, Mrs. Rossignol, fresh veggies, cheese curds, and a big bowl of cherry punch. Zoë and Ms. Kortum joined them. Then they all raised paper cups to Lucy.

  "To Lucy, for persistence and historical discoveries," said Ms. Kortum.

  Everyone took a sip.

  "You did it, Lucy," said her dad.

  After a good twenty minutes of stories about postcards, Wiggins Hill, Miss Wiggins, and the Zebulon document, the adults began to talk among themselves, leaving Lucy and Zoë to explore the Grundhoffer House on their own. As Lucy and Zoë' crept from one room to the next, Lucy realized that, along with all the happiness she felt, she still felt unsettled. Something wasn't quite finished. She tried ignoring the feeling as they toured several of the upstairs rooms. She turned her back on it, even stepped on its tail to make it yelp, run, and hide, because, for heaven's sake, shouldn't she be feeling happy? But the unsettled feeling was stubborn, and the more Lucy struggled with it, the more she felt it.

  It was in the Grundhoffer sewing room that Lucy knew what it was all about: Wiggins Hill. Of course. Lucy tried to talk her subconscious out of whatever it was considering. Everyone knew about the Amos Zebulon document now. Wasn't that enough?

  But deep down, Lucy wanted to confront Miss Wiggins about Wiggins Hill one more time—to finally close the matter. It was an instinct, the kind of instinct Lucy had followed in elementary school again and again.

  She felt so tired, though. Why not leave all that elementary-school stuff behind? Why not step into the river that was adolescent brain chemicals and peer pressure, and let the current take her to something else, something new. Why did she have to assume that it would all be bad? And anyway, she couldn't fight it completely. Bodies changed. Facts were facts.

  Still, Lucy didn't want complete metamorphosis, larva to butterfly. She didn't want to lose track of herself, to doubt herself, consider all her past actions babyish. They weren't! And Lucy wouldn't allow Mrs. Myra Mudd, Mrs. Dreams, Principal Adams, Thomas Duke and Ben Furley, oozing hormones, or even her mom's absence to define her. Lucy would step into the river, yes, but with her arms wrapped tightly around what was truly hers: her self. It was easier said than done; still, what choice did she have but to try?

  This instinct to do one more thing about Wiggins Hill was part of her past, but Lucy wanted it as part of her present, too. Maybe she wasn't gifted or talented. Maybe she'd fail all the time. But it was part of the way she was, the way she thought, and Lucy decided she wanted to fight for it, come what may.

  But what would Zoë think? Lucy needed Zoë, and Lucy had been so horrible, and Zoë didn't need a crazy activist friend, did she?

  But Zoë called Lucy her best friend. Zoë knew Lucy. That was the truth.

  Finally, after Lucy and Zoë had made their way back downstairs and into the parlor, Lucy decided to ask her. Lucy watched Zoë as she stared up at the portrait of Mr. Grundhoffer. What if Zoë said no? Lucy couldn't seem to open her mouth to say the words.

  But Zoë took the matter into her own hands. She tossed a mohair scarf over her shoulder and said, "Out with it, Lucy Moon."

  Lucy spoke with the speed of a cheetah: "I want to do one more thing about Wiggins Hill."

  Zoë held her gaze on the portrait. She smiled a little and then picked at something in her teeth. "Look at that," she said finally. She pointed at the portrait. "That is not real hair. He's totally toupee-ed."

  Lucy frowned at the portrait. "It's real. It's a comb-over." She turned toward Zoë. "I want to organize, too," she said.

  "Yeah?" said Zoë. A Mona Lisa smile was plastered across her face. "How do you know it's a comb-over?"

  "In my gut," said Lucy. She smacked her stomach with a fist. "Right there. And I think it's Easter Sunday. Easter Sunday is the big day." Lucy felt breathless now.

  "The Easter Egg Hunt?"

  Lucy nodded.

  Zoë paused for a long minute, leaned to look into the dining room where Mrs. Rossignol, Lucy's dad, and Ms. Kortum were picking up, and guffawed.

  "That's exactly what I've been thinking!" whispered Zoë. "I can round up a little support, too. Want to hear my idea?"

  Then Zoë told Lucy about what she'd been thinking. Lucy listened. Then Lucy told Zoë what she was thinking, and together, they came up with a plan that combined the best of their ideas.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  At one o'clock on Easter Sunday, Sam Shipman handed Lucy Moon her green-and-yellow hat. They stood in front of Lucy's little red house on Fifth Street. They were waiting for Zoë, Edna, and Quote, who had all opted for a last-minute bathroom break.

  Lucy gaped. "My hat," she said.

  Sam grinned.

  Lucy took the hat from Sam and turned it over in her hands. It was the hat made of hemp; the hat that stood for the injustice of women doing piecework for pennies; the hat Lucy had worn every day since her mom returned from that photo trip in Mexico City. Lucy remembered the brightness of the colors and how it had smelled of incense when she had first pulled it from her mom's suitcase. But now she saw the hat as it was—lumpy and misshapen, the colors faded. It was kind of ironic that the hat had returned to her but her mom had not.

  Lucy curled the edges of the hat over her finger and stretched it out. It was still her hat, and it was one of the nicest gifts Lucy had ever received. "I don't know how you got this. . . ."

  "It wasn't easy," said Sam.

  "Well, thank you," said Lucy. She paused and said, "Why did you do this?"

  "You needed to have your hat, Lucy, and . . ." Sam glanced up at the sky, took a deep breath and said, ". . .1 like you."

  Lucy looked away.

  There were the words.

  Lucy knew that the words meant being "more than friends," but she wasn't sure exactly what being more than friends meant, practically speaking. Did this "I like you" mean that Sam wanted her to be his girlfriend? Or did he think of her as some sort of extra-special friend? But people didn't say "I like you" if they were friends. There was no point.

  Lucy's heart began to race. What would her mom say? Lucy imagined her mom sitting on the kitchen stool chopping vegetables, and tried to manipulate the scenario so that her mom talked to her. But the only thing Lucy imagined were tears streaming down her mom's cheeks, and that was probably because Lucy had put an onion on her mom's imaginary chopping board.

  Meanwhile, Sam seemed to be waiting for a response. She was supposed to say something!

  Sam sighed and shook his head. "It's okay," he said. "You don't have to say anything. I ignored you for months. I wouldn't like me either, if I were you."

  But Lucy considered: Sam had seen her in action. Remember when she had broken her promise about parents not finding out about The Turtle Rock Times Shuts Its Eyes? He was still her friend. He had even seen that lacy pink dress. All he had done was say he "liked her." How complicated did she want to make this?

  But it could become complicated. Feelings were complicated. People said one thing and meant another and then tacked on a few dozen assumptions for good measure.

  Lucy spoke quickly (before she lost her nerve): "I like you, too."

  With those words, Lucy felt a surge of feeling. It caught her by surprise. It was as though she'd stepped off dry land onto ice floating on a lake. Lucy wobbled a little. She didn't know how to stand on two feet anymore. Worse, how did a person get back to dry land?

  Sam smiled. Oh, no—could he tell she could barely stand?

  Lucy tried to smile back, but instead ended up frowning and crossing her arms over her chest. "This better not screw up our being friends," she said. "You better promise!"

  "Okay, okay," said Sam, holding his hands above his head. "I promise."

  There was an awkward pause.

  Lucy put the green-and-yellow hat on her head, and the act steadied her somehow.

  That's when Quote, Edna, and Zoë finally clambered out of the Rossignol house.

  Zoë noticed right away. "Your hat!" Zoë said to Lucy. "How did . . . ?"

  Lucy pointed at Sam.

  Zoë stopped midstride. She stared at Sam. She stared at Lucy. "What's going on?" she said.

  Quote gave a knowing look, but Edna was oblivious. Edna was struggling with a scarf that didn't want to be tucked into a coat.

  Lucy started to laugh, and shook her head. She was happy to see Sam blushing. "Are you guys ready?"

  Zoë's eyes darted between the two of them. "I guess so," she said.

  "Yup," said Sam.

  Quote announced: " 'Once more unto the breech, dear friends!' That's from Henry the Fifth, Shakespeare."

  "No wait, this is better," said Edna, finally tossing the scarf over her shoulder. "'Let us ride to Camelot!'You know, from Monty Python and the Holy Grail?"

  "Oh, let's go," said Zoë. "'I deserve a break today.' That's Ronald McDonald—or close enough."

  Lucy smiled at them, feeling very lucky all of a sudden. "Okay, let's see how many people we've got," she said.

  The five of them set off for the ruins of the old sanatorium, which sat on the backside of Lookout Park. They'd told anyone who was interested to meet them there. Lisa Alt said she would be there, and they had hopes of more.

  Turtle Rock was a town holding its breath. More than the usual number of residents turned up at the Easter Egg Hunt that year, despite the chilly weather and a storm cloud suggesting snow. Change was coming to Turtle Rock—a person could feel it in the town's pulse. Mixed among parents (whose children were lined up at the start line) were the elderly, wearing winter boots and leaning on walkers or canes; construction workers with thick backs and callused hands; dog walkers who'd "happened" that way; and high schoolers making snide remarks but waiting all the same. These were the people that could read the events of the previous fall and winter as some people watched the sky to read the weather, which explained the large gathering of gossips. Others simply wanted entertainment of sorts. Anyway, it didn't take a genius to know that the coinciding of the Amos Zebulon document and Miss Wiggins's sudden departure on April Fools' Day meant something was up.

  Whatever was "up" would be revealed, they hoped, at Miss Wiggins's yearly Easter Egg Hunt Address, always given right before the hunt.

  And if Miss Wiggins didn't show up for the event? Well, that would be a story in itself.

  (Many noted that the Turtle Rock Times had sent out a reporter and two photographers, instead of just a photographer. So they weren't the only ones thinking this might be a newsworthy occasion.)

  Then someone in the crowd spotted Miss Wiggins's Cadillac. They all turned to watch as the mayor, dressed in a lilac-colored suit and a pink top hat, rushed across the lawn to meet her. Miss Wiggins stepped out of her car, and the two of them walked briskly toward the platform.

  Yes, it looked to be a fine gathering for the Easter Egg Hunt (if only the weather were a little warmer and less threatening). Yellow and purple streamers snapped in the wind, and the fifteen-foot plywood Easter Bunny thumped against its supports. Children gathered by the start ribbon; a group of older children elbowed each other for the best position, and there was a crowd of about two hundred adults standing in front of the platform, waiting for Miss Wiggins's address, bundled in their coats and drinking coffee and hot chocolate from thermoses.