And what about the house? Was it fair that Lucy and her dad were knee-deep in boxes marked "studio"? Her dad even bought a storage shed to accommodate the extras. There was no more Ping-Pong in the basement, or easy access to the washer and dryer, because of all the studio boxes packed floor to ceiling. Then there were all the stray boxes that had somehow wheedled their way into the upstairs portion of the house, like in the hallway by the bathroom. Lucy was sure the boxes were reproducing, like amoebas, breaking bits of themselves off and then the bits swelling into bigger boxes. They needed an eco-friendly spray—a box-icide—to fend them off.

  Clouds, clouds, clouds—ever changing, puffing, pulling, stretching, fuming, steaming clouds. Lucy pictured her mom in the light-blue compact car driving across the country. "There's one," she'd say, turning to drive down a country road. There's another, she'd think, and make a quick detour. She'd chase clouds in loops of road, like a flycatcher snatching insects out of the air. Or maybe her mom was more like a red-tailed hawk; she'd find her spot and spend hours waiting for that singular cloud to be birthed above a half-collapsed barn. Who knew? Anyway, the clouds kept coming. Clouds scuttling over the plains, clouds puffed above a weathered house, clouds speared by a mountain, clouds stretched like cotton. Clouds, clouds, clouds—promises of clouds—only a little more time; only a drive around that bend; only, only, only.

  Lucy's heartbeat raced a little.

  She calmed herself by reciting the types of clouds: cirrus, cumulus, stratus, nimbus. There were only four kinds. Realistically, how much longer could this go on?

  If only Lucy could go sledding on Wiggins Hill!

  Lucy shook herself a little. It was this dress that had set her off—and her dad forcing her, dragging her, to go to this gallery opening. Well, Lucy hoped no one would see her in this dress—prickly pink lace over even pinker cotton, little prissy collar and puffy sleeves. Obviously, Lucy could not remove her mom's long winter parka, which covered every last, lacy inch of pink. People would see Lucy's green-and-yellow hat, her mom's parka, and her hiking boots—that's it.

  Lucy put her hand in her pocket and felt her walkie-talkie. If it got bad, she could call Zoë. Gustafson's Wild Nature Gallery was only two miles from the Rossignol's house—well within the walkie-talkie's three-mile radius.

  Lucy glanced over at her dad, whose profile stood out against the light from passing streetlamps. Everything about her dad was long and formidable, and from the side, Lucy thought he looked like a rocky precipice: wisps of hair, furrowed forehead, bushy eyebrows, long bent nose, jut of chin, and the line of jawbone.

  But her dad wasn't as unyielding as he looked. Last week, he took Lucy and Zoë to a movie, and made them a tofu-loaf with mashed sweet potatoes on the side. Recently, he'd decided that Lucy needed a salad and a multivitamin every day. (Lucy tried to tell him that she didn't need the children's chewable in "barnyard" shapes, but this went over his head. "You don't like the taste?" he said, concerned, tapping one into his palm and then popping it into his mouth.) And now, Lucy's frozen dinner came served up with three questions: "What did you do in school today?" "Anything new at the bakery?" and finally, "How's Zoë?" Lucy sometimes answered the questions before he'd even asked. Once, Lucy made her dad laugh at her imitation of a bakery customer with one too many dinner rolls. His laugh rolled out of his chest, making every molecule resonate, and Lucy felt warm, as if she were sitting in front of a fire.

  Now Lucy pressed her face against the car window and found the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, and the North Star. Lucy's dad told her to "be nice" at the gallery. Please. What did he think she was going to do?

  Then they were there, parking the station wagon on Main Street, Turtle Rock. A big banner spanned the entire top half of Gustafson's Wild Nature Gallery: SNOWY WILDERNESS: PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE WILD, DECEMBER 5-JANUARY 11. Little white lights ran around the big windows in front. A tiny sign was posted in a corner of the window: "See local photographer Josephine Able Moon's photograph inside!"

  As if that makes up for it, thought Lucy.

  "Come on," said her dad, glancing at her.

  Sandblasted, sanitized, scrubbed—those were the words that came to mind when Lucy stepped into the Moose Call Gallery (what Josephine Moon's ex-studio was officially named). This was despite the fact that people packed the space. It was a forest of bodies in church clothes. Glasses clinked, adults talked and laughed loudly while eating thumbnail-sized food. The stereo piped in music of a lone guitar, and the air smelled fresh, like mint leaves at the supermarket. And not one, single, identifying thing remained of Josephine Able Moon—no clutter, no color, no rag rugs, no wooden toys, and no plants. Moose Call Gallery was a vast room with white walls and two or three starved-looking metal chairs. (A person would only sit on those, thought Lucy, if they were desperate.) In a way, it made the whole thing easier for Lucy.

  Lucy pushed past the adults, two of whom were Mr. and Mrs. Sovil. Lucy noted happily that they had come without their daughter, Eugenie, aka the Genie, of The Big Six. (Lucy didn't need to be reminded of Eugenie's perfection while wearing this stupid dress.) Then she began viewing the photographs. A wolf showing its belly to another wolf... A sunset on a frozen lake ... A pine martin hanging off a branch . . . Two ravens in the snow. Soon the whole show felt like the same photograph lined up into infinity. Sweat beaded on Lucy's forehead, but if she unzipped the coat, she would expose the lace collar. She wished she could find her mom's photograph!

  Lucy grasped her walkie-talkie deep in her coat pocket.

  But just then, two women stepped away from the line of photographs, and Lucy saw Sam Shipman standing by a picture of tracks in the snow. Lucy ran over and took a leap. "Mountain lion!" she said as she landed right next to him.

  Sam screamed a little, which made Lucy laugh.

  "Can't you ever be normal, Lucy?" he said.

  "Nope," said Lucy, smiling at him. "I'm glad you're here. I'm dying of boredom."

  Then Lucy peered at the little card next to the photograph. "I was right! That is a mountain lion! Ha!" She flashed a self-satisfied grin.

  "Big points for you," said Sam.

  "I bet you didn't know it was a mountain lion."

  Sam didn't say anything. Instead he fingered her coat. "Aren't you hot? It's got to be a hundred degrees in here."

  Lucy stepped over to the next photograph and pretended to look at it intelligently. "I'm nude underneath," she said.

  "What did you say?" Sam tried to snatch the edge of the coat.

  Lucy whacked his hand away. "Stop that!"

  "Did you say you were nude?"

  "I'm not saying anything to you anymore." She stepped between two adults. Sam followed and tried to catch the coat's edge again.

  Lucy sidestepped him. "Don't touch my mom's coat!" Lucy said. "I mean it."

  "Why? It won’t bite.” Sam strolled a few steps closer.

  Lucy dodged two adults talking, and then darted around a group of three, and between another clumping of two. Sam followed. Lucy started laughing, and they chased each other, zigzagging this way and that. Lucy avoided Sam by inches. A few adults protested, and then finally Sam made a big grab, succeeded in flipping up the edge of the coat, and stopped.

  "That was a dress," he said. He panted a little. "Lucy Moon is wearing a pink dress." He shook his head. "Pink!" he said, laughing.

  Lucy turned on him. "You can't tell anyone," she whispered. "I'm serious."

  "About the pink or the dress or the fact that you told me you were nude?"

  "Well, the nude part is okay, but not about the dress. My grandmother gave it to me because she wants me to be more ladylike. But all it does is make me sweat because I've got to wear a coat over it." Lucy paused, aggravated by how amused Sam looked. "Shouldn't you be wearing a suit or something?"

  "I only have to wear suits to funerals and weddings."

  "Well, I couldn't help it with the dress—my dad made me."

  "I thought no one made Lucy Moon do anything."

  "You don't know my dad," said Lucy. People were so dumb sometimes. Lucy thought about getting out of there. She was boiling, and Sam was annoying.

  Maybe Sam could tell Lucy was about to leave, because he pulled out a ball of fabric from his pocket and let it unroll in front of her eyes. It was a tie covered with wild-eyed smallmouth bass.

  "That is the world's ugliest—" said Lucy.

  "It's my only clip-on," Sam said, interrupting her. His eyes darted around the room. "I'm supposed to be wearing a tie. Tell me if you see my mom coming."

  There was a pause. Lucy stuck a finger down the collar of her coat to get some air in without unzipping it. "Hey, have you seen my mom's photo? I can't find it anywhere."

  Sam stared. "Are you kidding?"

  Then without saying a word, he grabbed Lucy and pulled her through the crowd. Lucy felt Sam's hand on hers—the joints of his fingers, the smooth surface of his palm, the pad of his thumb. Lucy's face got hot, and everything around her grew sluggish and still. When Sam let go of her hand on the other side of the room, Lucy felt dizzy and knew one thing: she could not look at Sam. Lucy was sure her emotions scrolled ticker tape, letter-by-letter, across her forehead in Day-Glo green: "I like you! I like you! I like you!" It was too humiliating, because it was not true. She did not like Sam!

  So Lucy looked up at the gigantic photograph in front of her.

  Oh. My. Gosh.

  "Found," as her mom titled it, hung four feet by six feet from the ceiling. It was the largest photograph in the room. The title of the show "Snowy Wilderness" hung above the photograph.

  This was why her mom wanted to be part of the show. Lucy had never seen one of her mom's photographs featured like this—never. A mountain goat peered downward, appraising the photographer (and not in a friendly way, thought Lucy). After looking closely, Lucy saw a tiny cloud—like the dot over the letter i—drifting above a distant mountain peak.

  It was good, as in, better than anyone else's, and there was a small part of Lucy that felt validated by it. See, she wanted to yell out, my mom is a real photographer. She's not just driving around the United States doing nothing. She's making art!

  And then Lucy's thoughts switched direction: Another monster photo? (This is what Lucy called the photographs where her mom risked her life to take a photograph.) In this case, the mountain goat clearly wanted to trample or head butt the photographer. Lucy had thought that the clouds trip meant an end to all this crazy, life-risking photography. But now, Lucy saw that her mom had been able to risk her life and include the clouds.

  "You don't like it, do you?" Sam interrupted Lucy's thoughts.

  "No, it's amazing," Lucy said flatly, removing her eyes from the photograph and smiling at Sam. "But what I want to know is how I missed it. It's humongous!"

  "You're too short," said Sam. He imitated Lucy walking right by the photograph without seeing it, making her seem like Dopey of the Seven Dwarfs.

  "I'm telling about the clip-on," said Lucy. She did an imitation of a wild-eyed smallmouth bass caught on a line.

  Sam waved his pinkie in the air. "I'll tell about the pink."

  "Okay, truce!"

  "Truce."

  Then Lucy realized with great relief that she had just spoken to Sam without going all goofy. Good.Things were back to normal. She was probably overheated. She needed to get outside and cool off.

  That's when Lucy saw Miss Wiggins standing in the middle of a group on one side of the room. She nudged Sam and pointed. Up close, Miss Wiggins reminded Lucy of a falcon, a small bird of prey with a tendency to watch every movement closely.

  "Let's ask her about Wiggins Hill!" said Lucy. She walked toward Miss Wiggins, and was halfway there before she realized that Sam was not with her. Well, so be it, she thought. She was the one in charge of the postcards, so she should be the one to talk to Miss Wiggins.

  It took some serious wiggling to penetrate the circle of adults, and when she finally got to the center, Lucy found her elementary-school gym teacher describing the ice-hockey arena in Burnham to Miss Wiggins.

  "Excuse me," Lucy said loudly, as soon as the gym teacher paused. "Excuse me, Miss Wiggins. I've got a question."

  Slowly, Miss Wiggins turned.

  As Miss Wiggins's gaze landed on Lucy, the heat in her mom's parka rose by about a hundred degrees, and Lucy felt like a French fry under a heat lamp. Still, she would not be stopped. "Me and my friends want to sled on Wiggins Hill. Would that be okay?"

  "My friends and I," Miss Wiggins corrected. Then she sighed. "What's your name?"

  "Lucy Moon," she said. "So will you let us?"

  Miss Wiggins didn't answer her at first. "And how old are you?" she finally asked.

  "Twelve," said Lucy. "It's just sledding!"

  "So you should have no trouble reading the signs." Miss Wiggins looked at her dismissively. "Your age surprises me. I would have guessed eight."

  Lucy frowned. Read the signs? That's all she had to say about the sledding? And that Lucy looked like she was eight, a third grader?

  Then Miss Wiggins looked at someone behind Lucy, and Lucy felt hands on her shoulders.

  "Excuse us, Miss Wiggins," Lucy's dad said. He started to guide Lucy away.

  Miss Wiggins gestured for her dad to stop.

  "Have you heard from the photographer?" said Miss Wiggins.

  "Two days ago," said her dad.

  "She's fond of risks, isn't she?" said Miss Wiggins. She nodded in the direction of "Found." Lucy felt something tighten in her chest. She didn't like it when an adult spoke her private thoughts like that, least of all Miss Wiggins.

  "Well, she is a professional," said her dad, taking Lucy's hand in his. He gently tugged Lucy away from the group. Lucy felt Miss Wiggins pat the top of her hat. She clutched the hat defensively.

  On the way out, Lucy twisted around and saw Sam standing by his mom. His clip-on tie hung at an odd angle from his collar. Sam waved and jerked his head at a huge fur coat piled on top of one of the emaciated metal chairs. Miss Wiggins's pillbox hat sat on top of the coat. And on top of the pillbox hat sat a "Free Wiggins Hill!" postcard.

  Lucy grinned.

  Then it occurred to her that Miss Wiggins would now associate those postcards with her. It made her pause.

  But that's the way it should be, Lucy told herself as she got into the station wagon. She was the one in charge, after all.

  Once her dad had buckled his seat belt, he said, "I asked you to be nice. I expect you to respect your elders."

  "I was nice," said Lucy. "It was a question."

  "I think you understand what I mean," said her dad. "Tell me you won't do it again."

  Lucy stared out the window without responding. How could she tell him that she wouldn't do this again? Lucy didn't even understand what he meant by "respecting her elders." Did he mean she couldn't talk to older people? Okay, Lucy knew it was cheeky to talk to Miss Wiggins the way she did. She knew it. But why couldn't she ask? She could hear what her dad would say if she tried to explain this: "Do as I say, Lucy." So now he was forcing her to promise something that she wasn't sure she even understood. Lucy wished her mom would hurry up and come home! If Lucy agreed to this, she would be lying in some way, because she was sure to break it. And Lucy didn't lie to her parents. If they asked, she answered truthfully.

  Lucy watched people leaving the gallery opening and mumbled: "Okay, I won't do it again."

  "I need to hear you, Lucy."

  "I won't do it again."

  Then her dad started the car. Lucy stared out the station wagon window, her fists clenched in her lap like two stones, all the way home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was a Monday morning—-a full week after the "Snowy Wilderness" opening at Gustafson's Wild Nature Gallery—when Lucy Moon was called to the principal's office. Principal Adams wanted to see her. So now Lucy found herself sitting on a stiff couch watching a secretary page through an office-supply catalog. The door to the principal's office was closed. Lucy thought maybe her dad had left a message for her, or maybe she'd forgotten something from home. Lucy had asked the secretary several times why she was here, but the secretary wouldn't say. She just repeated the same two sentences over and over: "When Principal Adams is ready for you, he'll ask for you. Sit down, Lucy Moon."

  Lucy didn't particularly want to be face-to-face with Principal Adams. Between classes, during what Lucy heard him call "the running of the students," Principal Adams tended to stand in the hallway outside his office, surveying the rushing students while twisting an end of his red mustache into a curl. He wore cowboy boots, a bolo tie, and a pearl-buttoned shirt so tight, Lucy swore she could count the striations of his biceps and pectorals at fifty yards. If a boy attracted his attention by smirking, running, or jarring another kid so his books spilled, Principal Adams grabbed that boy out of the hallway, clamped him in his arms, whispered a word or two in the boy's ear, and let him go with a head nuggie. Even though Principal Adams didn't seem to do these things to girls, Lucy didn't trust him.

  Finally, after the minute hand on the wall clock jerked its way through forty-two minutes, Principal Adams called her into his office.

  "Ah, Lucy Moon," Principal Adams said when Lucy entered. He did not smile. He stacked some papers, put them into a tray, and gestured for Lucy to sit in one of the puffy chairs in front of his wooden desk, which was roughly the size of an SUV. A large print of a cowboy warming his dinner by the fire hung on the wall behind him. Lucy also noticed a closet, which she assumed was the legendary "Confiscation Closet," where squirt guns, whoopee cushions, banned super-strong glues, electric shockers, and clown noses found their final resting place.

  Lucy sat down on the nearest puffy chair and sank lower and lower, giving her the distinct feeling that she was being digested. She scooted to the chair's edge.

  "I've heard about you," he said, tugging on the tips of his mustache.