Free Spirits Read online

  Now we’re standing in line to file into the cafeteria, and Adam is telling me about how he’s started watching all these horror movies made in England in the Sixties. He is totally obsessed with horror. “Mom and Dad don’t usually like me to watch movies with blood and gore, but the blood in the Hammer films is so obviously fake they don’t mind it. Mom says getting upset about me seeing that fake blood would be like getting upset about me seeing red nail polish.”

  As usual when Adam is going on about one of his obsessions, I just listen and nod, but then I see something that makes me cry out in a little yelp.

  “What is it?” Adam says.

  “Look.” I point at the dry-erase board where the day’s lunch menu has been written. It says,

  Tacos

  Tater tots

  Fruit cup

  Milk

  But next to the word tacos somebody has written, “This ain’t Mexico, spics go home.”

  Adam rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously this isn’t Mexico, or they wouldn’t be serving tater tots with the tacos.”

  I can barely hear him because when I read the words on the board I’m inside the head of the person who wrote them, and while I don’t know exactly whose head I’m inside, I know it’s the last place I want to be. I feel fear and hate and spite, but there’s laughter, too, the terrible kind of laughter that comes from laughing at somebody else’s pain.

  “Miranda!”A hand is squeezing my shoulder.It takes a couple of seconds for me to register that the hand and the voice belong to Adam.

  “Sorry,” I say. “For a second there, I was someplace I really didn’t want to be.”

  “You’re okay, right?” Adam has gotten used to my tendency to fall into other people’s thoughts and accepts it just like any other personality quirk, as if it’s something as simple as being left-handed or good with numbers.

  “Yeah.” When we file past Mrs. Lawson, the bleached-blond cafeteria monitor, I say, “You might want to take a look at the menu board.”

  When she does, she just mutters “Kids” and erases it like it’s no big deal.

  The tables in the cafeteria have always been divided between the popular kids and the country kids. Now that there’s more than a table’s worth of Mexican kids, though, sometimes they run out of room, and a couple of them end up sitting at the table that’s usually empty except for Adam and me. Today Isabella and Jorge, a stout, pleasant-looking boy who doesn’t speak much English, sit at our table, looking suspiciously at their cafeteria trays.

  For a second, I’m in Isabella’s mind, watching as an old lady pats out a tortilla by hand, sets it in a cast-iron skillet, flips it, and then takes it out and fills it with fragrant shredded meat. There’s no comparison between this remembered taco and the greasy, soggy mess on Isabella’s tray.

  The smell of lunchroom food takes me out of Isabella’s mind and back into the moment. “From eating at your parents’ restaurant,” I say, “I know you’re used to better tacos than that.”

  “Yes,” Isabella says, poking at the taco shell stained orange with grease. “And we’d have even better tacos if we’d ‘go back to Mexico.’”

  I wince. I had hoped none of the Mexican kids saw the menu board.

  “You know what’s really stupid?” Adam says. “We had tacos in the cafeteria at least every couple of weeks before there were any Mexican kids here. It’s not like you guys showed up and started demanding tacos until the cafeteria people caved.” Adam takes a bite of the peanut butter and banana sandwich he brought from home. Like me, he won’t touch the cafeteria food.

  “If I was going to demand tacos, I’d ask for better ones than these,” Isabella sniffs.

  Jorge takes a bite of his taco, makes a face, and lets loose a stream of Spanish.

  Whatever he says makes Isabella laugh so hard she can’t catch her breath. When she finally gets control of herself, she says, “I would translate for you, but if anybody heard me say what Jorge just said in English, I would get thrown out of school.”

  “Hmm,” I say, nibbling my egg salad sandwich. “That’s an advantage I’d never thought of to speaking a language the people around you don’t know. You can say pretty much whatever you want.”

  “And we do,” Isabella says, smiling.

  “My mom and dad do, too,” Adam says. “You should hear them talking in Korean in the Wal-Mart. They say some awful stuff.”

  “Maybe that’s why so many people don’t like foreigners,” Isabella says. “They’re afraid of what we might say about them.”

  “Well, whatever you say can’t be worse than what was written on the board out there,” I say.

  Isabella shrugs. “But what do you do? There are stupid people everywhere.” She turns to Jorge, and they talk in Spanish for a minute. Isabella laughs. “Jorge says if we really want to force people to eat Mexican food in the cafeteria, we should make them serve menudo.”

  “What’s menudo?” Adam asks.

  “It’s a soup,” Isabella says, “very popular in Mexico. I won’t eat it, but my grandparents love it. It’s made of the foot and stomach of a cow.”

  “I wouldn’t eat that either,” Adam says. “It sounds even worse than the kimchee my parents can’t get enough of.”

  “I probably wouldn’t eat it either,” I say. “But I bet there are a lot of Americans who wouldn’t eat menudo but who are more than happy to scarf down those nasty lunch meats Masters’ meat processing plant makes. You know that stuff has got to have stomachs and hooves and worse in it.”

  “Snouts and tails,” Adam says.

  “Eyeballs,” Isabella adds, laughing.

  And then Jorge says something that makes Isabella scream with laughter and play slap him. I don’t speak Spanish, but I’m pretty sure I know what body parts he was talking about.

  If we’d been having a gross-out contest, Jorge had jumped right over the language barrier to win.

  Chapter 3

  Adam and I take turns going over to each other’s houses most days after school. When I visit him, we have chips or popcorn and soda and play video games or watch a movie. When he visits me, it’s much more low-tech. We play with the goats or with Granny’s ancient African gray parrot Methuseleh, who knows all kinds of weird sayings and squawks them at random. One time when Adam was holding the bird, it squawked, “Don’t tell your grandmother how to milk mice!” and Adam said, “Well, I was going to tell her, but if you don’t want me to, I guess I won’t.” Or we play some game that’s been lying around the house since Mom was a girl, like checkers or dominoes or Scrabble.

  If Adam can stay around till evening when Abigail can come out, he visits her, too, even though he can hear her but not see her. The only thing he can see is a cloud of gray mist where Abigail should be.

  Even though I don’t have any high-tech gadgets, Adam loves visiting my house. How could a horror movie fan not love our old, dark house with its antique furniture, creepy pictures of intense-eyed Jasper ancestors, a parrot that squawks dire warnings and a real ghost?

  The only thing Adam likes better about being in his own house is the snacks. He definitely prefers Cheetos to the rock-hard, molasses-sweetened oatmeal cookies Granny bakes. She uses molasses to sweeten them because she thinks it’s less bad for your teeth than white sugar. But I think biting into a cookie that’s as hard as granite is probably not so good for your teeth either.

  This afternoon Adam and I are sprawled out on the living room floor, playing Scrabble. Having the Sight makes me a terrible person to play games with. I have to try very hard not to peek into Adam’s mind to see what letters he’s drawn and what words he’s thinking about making. I want to play fair, but the Sight gives me an unfair advantage that’s tempting to use. It’s like a professional baseball player trying to adapt his skills to play in the Little League.

  Granny, who’s boiling up some nasty-smelling concoction in the kitchen, yells, “In eight minutes the doorbell’s gonna ring. It’s gonna be that woman who was driving down from Lexing
ton to see me.”

  “I’ll let her in when she comes,” I say.

  Adam just grins and shakes his head.

  When the TV reporter from Lexington came to do a story on Adam and me, she became fascinated by Granny and decided to do a separate story on her psychic powers and knowledge of herbs and potions and healing. Ever since the story on Granny aired, a small but steady stream of city folks have come to Wilder in hopes that she’ll give them a potion, a prediction, or some advice. For a small donation, whatever the person feels is reasonable, she’s happy to help. But after they leave she always shakes her head and laughs at city folk and their silly problems.

  The city person standing before me when I open the door might be the most unusual-looking one so far. She looks like she’s my mom’s age or a little older, and she’s wearing thick, wire-rimmed glasses which are sliding down her beaky little nose. Her long hair is the color Granny calls dishwater blond, and it’s divided into two long braids held into place with buckskin thongs. The halter top she’s wearing is made of buckskin, and so are the tall, lace-up moccasins that come up to the hem of her denim skirt. A whole mine’s worth of silver and turquoise drips from her ears, neck, wrists and fingers.

  “Hi. Can I help you?” I say.

  “My name is Dagmar Moonfeather,” she says in a voice that reminds me of how spooky old gypsies talk in the movies I watch with Adam. “I seek the healer Irene Chandler.”

  “She’s in the kitchen. Down the hall, last door on the right.”

  Once she’s out of earshot, Adam whispers, “What a get-up. Do you think she’s a movie extra or something?”

  “That’s probably just how she likes to dress.”

  “I wonder what she wants from your granny.”

  I smile. “Well…we could see.” I know it’s bad, but with Adam here, the temptation to spy is just too great.

  We tiptoe up the fancy front stairs, then through the upstairs hallway and down the narrow back stairs that lead to the kitchen. I’ve learned from experience there’s a step you can sit on right before the stairs curve where you can eavesdrop without being seen. You can even peek around the corner without anybody catching a glimpse of you.

  Of course, Granny’s Sight is so strong, there’s no fooling her. She’ll know we’re here. But as long as Dagmar Moonfeather doesn’t catch on, Granny won’t mind.

  Right now Ms. Moonfeather is sitting at the kitchen table while Granny pours them both rosehip tea.

  Granny sits at the table. Methuseleh is perched pirate-style on her shoulder. He looks at Granny’s visitor with his sharp, beady eyes, then walks down Granny’s arm and stretches a clawed foot toward Ms. Moonfeather.

  “Well, look at that,” Granny says. “He wants to sit with you. You must be a real nice lady. Methuseleh won’t sit with just anybody.”

  Ms. Moonfeather reaches out her turquoise and silver-covered arm, and Methuseleh steps onto her hand and perches there. “Look at how noble you are,” Ms. Moonfeather coos at him. “You have the spirit of an eagle.”

  “Don’t give him the big head now,” Granny says. “He’s so contrary most days I threaten to stew him up with some dumplins.”

  Adam and I grin at each other. We know that Granny loves Methuseleh and vice versa, even if they give each other a hard time. Sometimes they seem less like a pet and owner than an old married couple who love each other but also get on each other’s nerves.

  Ms. Moonfeather strokes Methuseleh’s head. “I know you wouldn’t do that, Mrs. Chandler. I could see your aura, even when you were on TV. You’re a healer, not a harmer.” She keeps on stroking Methuseleh’s head. His eyes close with pleasure. “And that’s why I’ve come to you for help. I don’t know what you charge for your services, but I’m willing to pay any amount you request.”

  Methuseleh’s eyes snap open, and he squawks, “A fool and his money are soon parted.”

  Granny scowls at him. “Some parrot and dumplins is sounding pretty good about right now.” Then she looks at Ms. Moonfeather a lot more kindly. “Honey, I don’t do what I do to take folks’ money. I do it ’cause it’s a gift God gave me. If you’d like to give a little donation for my services, you can. But even if you couldn’t I’d still try to help you.”

  Ms. Moonfeather reaches into her pocket and sets a few bills on the table. I can’t tell what kind of bills they are, but I can tell it’s a lot of money from the way Granny’s eyebrows go up.

  “Thank you, honey,” Granny says.

  Methuseleh is now making his way up Ms. Moonfeather’s arm, staring straight at her face.

  “Look at him!” Ms. Moonfeather exclaims. “He’s trying to communicate with me. I’ve always used birds as my totem animals. And you,” she says to Methuseleh, “are a very spiritual bird.”

  Methuseleh lets out a loud, high-pitched screech, lunges at Ms. Moonfeather, and yanks out one of her huge turquoise and silver hoop earrings. She screams.

  With the hoop in his beak, Methuseleh flies to his perch, then drops the earring in his seed bowl. When Mom is missing an earring from her jewelry box, the seed bowl is always the first place she looks.

  “Lord, that bird!” Granny says. “Are you all right?”

  “Just startled,” she says.

  “He’s crazy about shiny things,” Granny says. She gets up and takes the earring out of the bowl and says to Methuseleh, “That’s enough from you, mister.” She sits back down and smiles at Ms. Moonfeather. “Now what can I help you with, honey?”

  Ms. Moonfeather stares down at her teacup. “Mrs. Chandler, my heart is breaking because the nation will not accept me.”

  “This nation?” Granny says. “How come? You’re American, ain’t you?”

  “I mean the Cherokee Nation, Mrs. Chandler. I am a Native American, a Cherokee. I feel it in my soul. But to be accepted as a member of the tribe, you must be able to prove your ancestry, and the tribal council says I have insufficient proof.”

  “Well, I’m real sorry for your troubles, honey, but I don’t know what I could do to help you.”

  Ms. Moonfeather is close to tears. “Mrs. Chandler, I know I’m a Cherokee. In a previous life I was a medicine woman and a tribal elder. I want you to see into my past lives so I can prove who I am.”

  I can tell Granny is trying not to look at her like she’s crazy. “Honey, I don’t know nothing about past lives. The only life I know is the one we’re living right now. And somehow I don’t think the Cherokees would be too interested in what you have to say about your past life. I ain’t saying you’re a nut, but they might.” She pulls her chair up closer to Ms. Moonfeather. “Now what I can do sometimes is see back into somebody’s family history.”

  “Yes! Do that! And if you can find my Native American ancestor…”

  “All right, then,” Granny says. “I’m gonna need to hold your hands.”

  Granny takes Ms. Moonfeather’s hands in hers and closes her eyes. I know her mind is far away, traveling through generations. After about a minute, she opens them and says, “I hate to break it to you, honey, but you’re white. I just traced your family plumb back to Scotland on one side and Ireland on the other. Red hair on the Scottish side, blond hair on the Irish, white skin all around.”

  Ms. Moonfeather snatches her hands out of Granny’s. “You must have made a mistake.”

  Granny shakes her head and takes a sip of tea. “Listen, honey, I know white folks have done a lot of bad stuff over the years—so bad that it’s easy to wish you wasn’t one of them. And there’s a lot of folks of all kinds of different colors that you can learn a lot from. My first teacher was a little Cherokee boy. But just ’cause you can learn a lot from Indians, that don’t make you an Indian. Seems to me you need to stop pretending to be somebody else and learn how to be yourself.”

  Ms. Moonfeather is up on her moccasined feet. “I thought you’d be different,” she says, with a break in her voice. “I really did. But you’re just one more face of the white man.”

  Ms. Moonfea
ther stomps across the kitchen floor and is halfway out the back door when Granny says, “You forgot your earring.”

  Ms. Moonfeather either doesn’t hear her or doesn’t care. Granny shrugs, picks up the earring, and drops it back in Methuseleh’s seed bowl.

  Adam looks at me and grins as we get up from our hidden perch on the stairs. “Sometimes I wonder how you survive without high-tech entertainment,” he whispers. “But I’ve got to admit, that whole scene was better than anything I’ve ever seen on cable!”

  Chapter 4

  Adam and I are walking out of the school. We’ve just made it to the sidewalk when Isabella runs to catch up with us. “Hey, can I talk to you guys for a minute?” she asks. Isabella is usually all smiles, but her face looks serious and her eyes are puffy. I wonder if she’s been crying.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Something bad happened at the restaurant last night,” she half-whispers as she walks alongside us. “I wanted to tell you just in case you heard anything.”

  “Nobody was hurt, I hope,” I say.

  “No,” Isabella says, then she shrugs. “Just hurt feelings.” She takes a deep breath, the way I do sometimes when I’m trying not to cry. “Sometime after we closed last night, somebody did bad things to the restaurant. They painted words on it. Bad words.”

  “Oh, Isabella, I’m so sorry,” I offer.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says. “You didn’t do it.”

  “Sometimes people say they’re sorry just to mean they’re sorry something happened,” I say.

  Isabella nods.“The reason I wanted to tell you two was I heard that last year you figured out some murder case that happened a long time ago. I know this is a much smaller thing, but I thought maybe you could help figure out who did it.”

  “We could try,” Adam says. “But it’s not like we’re riding around in the Mystery Machine or anything.”