Lucy furrowed her brow. She opened her mouth to ask what—

  "Ah-ah-ah," he said, shaking his finger at her. "I don't want to hear it."

  Then Principal Adams opened up a folder with her name on it and held up his finger. She was not to speak. It was a long five minutes while Lucy watched him flip slowly through each piece of paper in her file. He'd sigh at some bit, tap his finger there, write on another piece of paper, erase something else. Lucy decided that Principal Adams was faking it. She couldn't have that much material in her file—she'd only been in junior high a couple of months. Everybody started out with a blank file at a new school, right?

  Finally Principal Adams closed the folder, leaned back in his chair, and put a cowboy-booted foot on his desk.

  He stared at her for a second.

  Lucy smiled encouragingly.

  He opened his top drawer and held up a "Free Wiggins Hill!" postcard. "Does this look familiar?" he asked.

  "Yeah," said Lucy.

  Principal Adams watched her, and Lucy gazed back. He held the postcard in one hand and batted at it with the thumb of his other hand. As it flicked up and down, Lucy swore she saw a stamp.

  Principal Adams continued: "According to this file, your teachers like you fine. The teachers I've asked all say you're smart and interested, and they like having you in class. But you've just started here, and frankly, I don't know what to make of you. . . . Of course you bring your reputation with you. But this isn't elementary school anymore, is it, Lucy Moon? You will not—and I repeat, will not—get away with the same behavior at Turtle Rock Junior High School. I let The Turtle Rock Times Shuts Its Eyes go by, but I can't let this postcard campaign continue. I don't want any more of these schemes of yours to take place on school property. Do I make myself clear?"

  He gestured for Lucy to speak, and in the process, turned the postcard over.

  "Oh wow," said Lucy audibly. There was a postmark as well as a stamp on the postcard. This meant the postcard had been through the mail, arrived at its destination, and now, somehow, this postcard had ended up here in the principal's office. This meant . . . Lucy felt a tickle of joy. It meant that Miss Wiggins had complained about the postcards. She complained about the postcards!

  "Not 'Oh wow.' Yes,” he said, correcting her.

  "Yes," Lucy said. She met his eyes and realized that she was smiling. Smiling wasn't appropriate. Somberness— think somberness, grief, Dutch elm disease, she thought, while trying to suck the smile in. But the ends of the smile kept escaping. The postcard campaign was working!

  "Yes, sir,” he said. He gestured for Lucy to say it.

  "Yes, sir!" she said. She felt like kissing him.

  "You may go," he said.

  "Thank you, sir!" she said. Lucy hopped off the chair.

  As she opened the door, Principal Adams raised his voice again: "Lucy?"

  She stopped and turned around.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Starting Tuesday you have detention until winter break. Report to Study Hall Room 103 with your homework ten minutes after the last school bell. If you are even thirty seconds late, you will add another day of detention. I'll call your parents to notify them. I hope you choose to learn from this experience."

  "Yes, sir!" she said. "Yes, sir!"

  Lucy practically ran out of the office, slammed the door, and yelped in the hallway. Free Wiggins Hill! Free Wiggins Hill! Miss Wiggins complained to Principal Adams about the postcards! Yes!

  That lunch period, Lucy sat at the end of the oddball table in the cafeteria with Zoë, Edna, Quote, and the rest of them, when an announcement came over the loudspeaker: "Attention, all students—a quick announcement. Anyone found with 'Free Wiggins Hill!' postcards on Tuesday will find himself—or herself—in detention. I will not put up with students from this school harassing citizens of our community. I am giving you this one warning. So I suggest you remove any such items from the school today, and do not bring them back. I repeat: anyone found with postcards tomorrow will receive detention. Thank you for your attention."

  "It's official," Lucy yelled. "Miss Wiggins knows!" Lucy threw her green-and-yellow hat in the air. Zoë and Edna whooped, and Lucy heard Sam whistle from a table near the back.

  A few people clapped and cheered; others pointed, shaking their heads; and some outright laughed at them. The Big Six glanced casually in their direction and shrugged. But Lucy didn't care.

  "'O world, I cannot hold thee close enough,'" mumbled Quote.

  Lucy agreed. "Yes! That's it!"

  Quote nodded. "Edna St. Vincent Millay."

  Needless to say, Lucy's dad didn't find the news as exciting. Normally, Lucy's mom took calls from school. But Lucy's mom wasn't home, was she? When Lucy got home that afternoon, her dad let loose a stream of verbiage so steady and strong, it felt like water from a hose. He paced as he talked. The intensity of it all seemed to swell her dad's monument-like height (all chest and legs), until Lucy felt like she had been squashed into the corner of the couch, unable to move. She held on to the armrest.

  The lecture started this way: "Didn't I tell you to respect your elders, Lucy? And with Miss Wiggins again! I thought I made myself perfectly clear the night of the gallery opening. I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing." Lucy's dad didn't want her "bothering adults." This was because: "Adults have their ways, and you're too young to know what you're getting into." Then there was the bigger issue: it was time for Lucy to "grow up and learn to get along with others." "Getting along" seemed to be a major theme.

  Finally, after all the words, the walking back and forth, and on and on and on, her dad said he'd decided not to ground her.

  That was surprising. Lucy started to ask why, but then her dad started talking again: "I want you to write a letter of apology to Miss Wiggins."

  "No, Dad," Lucy said. The words rushed from her lips.

  "Do you have any idea what it must have been like for Miss Wiggins to receive all those postcards, Lucy?"

  "She fenced Wiggins Hill!"

  "She owns the hill, Lucy! She can do whatever she wants, including flattening it with bulldozers. Take some paper and pencil and sit at the kitchen table and think about it. If I ground you for this, it will be for a very long time."

  Lucy sat at the kitchen table for two hours. Finally, she managed to put this on the piece of notebook paper:

  Dear Miss Wiggins,

  I understand that you didn't like getting all those Free Wiggins Hill postcards. I wish you would let us sled, because there are a lot of people who miss sledding, and it's hard looking at the best sledding hill through a fence. But I didn't mean to harass you, which is what adults keep saying I did. I only meant to ask A LOT. My dad says I have not treated you with respect, and if this is true, I am sorry I didn't mean to do that. I won't send you any more postcards asking to sled.

  Lucy Moon

  Lucy read it over and thought at least it's not a lie. She handed the letter to her dad, who was sitting in his lounger, went into her room, and slammed the door.

  Her mom would have been proud of her. Lucy's mom believed in "standing up to the fray," "fighting the good fight," and "speaking for the voiceless." Her mom never told her to "get along"! What kind of mind-melding, turn-your-daughter-into-a-zombie talk was that? Her dad got along so well with Mr. Gustafson that now her mom didn't have a photography studio in town. Not that her mom wanted it, but still. Anyway, her mom wouldn't have messed with Lucy's affairs, like her dad did. She would have let Lucy fight it out! When was she coming home?

  Lucy threw herself across the bed and lay there, waiting and listening. If her dad came up the stairs, the letter was a failure (not sorry enough), and she'd get punished forever, starting now. And if he stayed downstairs, he'd send the letter.

  So this was the way the postcard campaign ended— with no sledding, and a fence around Wiggins Hill?

  As hard as Lucy found the end of the postcard campaign, detention turned out to be not too bad. Lucy decided to wear her punishment like a badge of honor. After all, she'd earned it. She had engaged in civil disobedience and got arrested for the cause (well, it wasn't quite getting arrested, but close enough). In addition, it was only a couple of weeks to winter break. Lucy got her homework done, and she now had something to do after school, like the rest of her friends. Zoë had started taking Tuesday and Thursday afternoons off from the bakery to make bowls and candlesticks with the art club. Sam Shipman played scales on his trombone in the band room every day. And Lucy attended detention—an after-school club for the activist!

  Since Lucy's detention began, Sam waited for her at her locker every afternoon. He admitted he felt guilty about Lucy getting detention and having to write that letter to Miss Wiggins. Lucy figured this was why Sam appeared.

  But frankly, Lucy didn't care why. She just felt happy about it. She packed her backpack, put on her coat, and then together they walked down the big hill, turned left on Main Street, and continued on toward the Rossignol Bakery.

  During their walks they talked about everything: Wiggins Hill, random animal facts (one male mountain lion needs 175 miles of space), and Sam's latest description of a jazz riff by an "amazing trombonist." Lucy gave Sam updates on her mom's cloud adventures (now in California). And Sam told Lucy about how his mom secretly wanted to start a theater troupe in Turtle Rock, but knew Miss Wiggins and the Turtle Rock Arts Committee would never approve. They also did impressions. Sam did impressions of Lucy's dad as the postmaster (reading a magazine while sorting the mail), and Lucy pretended to be Sam's mom acting out the parts in Macbeth. They talked about what they would do during winter break. They both moaned about no sledding on Wiggins Hill. And they always ended their walk with Sam's favorite argument about one of the world's great to-the-death battles: who won more often—the mongoose or the cobra?

  This had developed into a silly game. As soon as they reached the bakery, they ran to the big red couch to ask Zoë the question: "Cobra or mongoose?"

  Then Zoë chose one randomly (in theory, anyway). "Mongoose," she said.

  Sam raised his hands in exultation.

  "No," said Lucy, whining a little, "you can't always pick the mongoose, Zoë. In real life, the cobra has to win sometimes."

  "Not today," said Zoë.

  "Yeah, I am so good," said Sam. He stretched out on the couch with his hands up behind his head.

  Lucy moaned and sat down limply.

  "Poor Lucy," said Zoë to Sam. "She didn't win today." Zoë grabbed one of Lucy's knees right where she was ticklish.

  "Stop it!" Lucy said, laughing. "Stop it!"

  "Settle down," said Mrs. Rossignol, "or the hot apple ciders go down the drain." They sat up, and Mrs. Rossignol set the three hot apple ciders on the coffee table in front of them. They said thank you, and then they talked. If it weren't for the fence around Wiggins Hill, all of them would've agreed it was a nearly perfect time. Despite everything, thinking about the three of them together made Lucy smile.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In December, winter had begun in earnest. The lake froze and refroze with wailing moans and cracks that sounded like shotguns gone off unexpectedly. Temperatures dropped, dropped, and then dropped further still. Night came on strong, like a second shift, the moon rising as soon as business owners hung CLOSED signs on doors at five o'clock.

  And expectation of the holidays shimmered in the air like the snowflake-shaped lights strung up and down Main Street. Every night another Christmas tree sparkled in a front bay window; every night more lights flickered in yards, or outlined houses. And, like every Christmas before, Mr. and Mrs. Lundgren's house was lit up like an airport landing strip, complete with singing bells; thirty-six light-up creches; twenty-two of Snow White's dwarfs, and ninety-eight waving, belly-laughing Santas. The Turtle Rock Police Department had to send a police officer out to Spruce Street just to keep the traffic moving.

  Some of the churches tried to get their yearly Nativity pageants together. But several found unforeseen obstacles with their choice of Mary, as reported by Jessica Ar'dour in her "Ear to the Door" column in the Turtle Rock Times:

  Who will play Mary at the Lutheran, Presbyterian, and Catholic Nativity plays this year? That is the question. Three Turtle Rock churches have asked the same girl to play the part: eighth grader Eugenie Sovil (known as "the Genie" to her nearest and dearest). With Miss Sovil’s long black tresses, her lavender eyes, and bow-shaped lips, it's no wonder. You couldn't want for a prettier Mary.

  For the past few years, Miss Sovil has played Mary at two or three churches during the holiday season. But this year, she says she is unable to combine her social schedule with the dates of all those Nativity plays. Miss Sovil says she is forced to choose one church, and is making the churches bid for her services. "I'm an experienced Mary—that's worth something," she says. "But, I've promised the churches I'll consider all offers equally."

  So far, the offers being considered include her own dressing room at the Presbyterian Church, a hand-tailored peasant costume at the Catholic Church, and a donkey processional at the Lutheran Church. Miss Sovil has also read all three scripts. ("They're basically the same plot," says Miss Sovil.) Miss Sovil seems most excited about the donkey.

  "Riding on a donkey—that's authentic," she says. "I think I might be persuaded by the Lutheran Church, if they'd allow me to leave by donkey too. The angels could hold up my train." As an afterthought, Miss Sovil added: "Trumpets would be nice."

  Miss Sovil plans to give her final answer over the weekend.

  ... Always listening in, Jessica Ar'dour.

  Everyone kept busy with holiday preparations, except the Moons. Lucy Moon didn't think much about holiday decorations. She liked to look at them on her walks down to the Rossignol Bakery after detention, and she and Sam always tried to outdo each other by finding the tackiest decoration, but Lucy didn't decorate. Decorating was something that happened to a person. One night, Lucy's mom would make an announcement, and then suddenly the whole house was turned inside out, upside down with activity. The next thing Lucy knew, a fake Christmas tree stood in the living room (Lucy had never liked cutting down trees), a wreath was hung on the front door, and someone was warming eggnog in a pan. Okay, Lucy helped with the decorations, but she wouldn't have started them. Lucy did do the one thing that was required of her: her Christmas shopping. For her dad, who always complained that by the time he learned a particular warbler's song, the warbler had moved on, she bought a CD of warbler warbles so he could study up before spring. And for her mom, who always seemed to be warming her hands under her armpits, Lucy bought a pair of fingerless gloves so she'd keep her hands warm and still be able to turn camera lenses. (She got them at the Lutheran Church Christmas Bazaar, and they were so cheap that she'd bought a pair for Zoë, too.)

  But then one day, Lucy gazed out at the backyard through the picture window in the living room and realized that it looked too perfect, with the snow covering the ground and the boughs of the small pine.

  The bird tree! Every year after Thanksgiving, Lucy and her mom decorated that small pine. By now, the small pine tree should have been packed with bird food ornaments. Chickadees, redpolls, and juncos should be hopping in and out of the branches. Woodpeckers should be hanging off the suet ornaments. Lucy should hear birds chirping from the roof of their house. There should be a pair of binoculars, a bird guide, and a notebook on her dad's little table by the lounger. And Lucy should be checking it to see if a McKay's bunting showed up. Years ago, Lucy swore she saw one, but no one had believed her. Her dad had said it probably was a snow bunting.

  But instead, the small pine sat green and white, without even a footprint in the snow around it.

  Lucy couldn't decide what to do. Her mom always announced decorating the bird tree, and then they worked on it together. The bird tree started off the whole sequence of Christmas events: the bird tree led to snapping together the Christmas tree; the Christmas tree led to making braided bread; the braided bread led to the Winter Parade in downtown Turtle Rock; the Winter Parade led to the Hallelujah Chorus sing-along; the sing-along led to the candlelight service; and the candlelight service led to chocolate-chip cinnamon buns, hot apple cider, and presents on Christmas morning. Every year, it happened this way. Every year, it was a tradition between the two of them. It didn't seem right to start anything, not without her mom here.

  Wherever she was in California, her mom probably felt the tug of that bird tree, too, especially since they were already a few weeks behind schedule. Lucy imagined the light-blue compact car driving across the country. Her mom rubbed her eyes and reached for a giant travel mug of coffee while she drove, drove, drove. Drove all night long, barely slept. Oh, yeah, maybe she was going to surprise them and come home without telling them! Well, whenever she arrived, Lucy planned to help her unpack, and then the two of them would get started on that bird tree, and then Christmas events would overtake them like a snowball pushed down a hill, until it collapsed happily on Christmas Day.Yay!

  One night, the phone rang during dinner. Lucy scooted back her chair and ran up the stairs for the phone. It was her mom!

  "Mom, where are you?"

  "Sacramento," said her mom. "And I have news!"

  "Why are you still in California?" Lucy sat down on the chair in the hallway. It would take at least three days to drive from California to Minnesota—she should get started now.

  "I'm getting to that," said her mom, "if you'd let me finish." She sounded like she was happy.

  "Okay," said Lucy. She waited.

  "I think we should be able to talk every single day on the phone now until Christmas! Isn't that fun? I've decided to spend Christmas with Grandma and Grandpa in Nevada. I'm leaving tomorrow morning, and I should arrive tomorrow night. I've missed hearing about your day, Lucy. I know I'm missing out on all sorts of stories."