Not-Just-Anybody Family by Betsy Byars Page A

a smile, he shrugged and went on down the street.
    Again Maggie got ready to pass the board up to Vern. “Here,” she said. When she felt him take the board, she put her hands on the bottom and boosted it the rest of the way.
    “I got it,” Vern said. “Let go.”
    Maggie moved back into the shadows by the jail and watched. The only sound was the rustling of elm leaves as Vern and the board made their way up the tree. The rustling stopped across from the open vent of the jail.
    Slowly the board appeared from the side of the tree. Slowly it extended across the sidewalk. Slowly it waved up and down like one end of a seesaw.
    “You’re too low,” Maggie called. “You’re going to miss it by a mile.”
    The end of the board scraped against the side of the jail. It was about five feet below the vent. It rose shakily in the air. Then it wavered, trembled, turned sideways, and clattered down to the sidewalk.
    “Verrrrn,” Maggie said.
    “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he snapped from inside the tree.
    “Well, that could have hit me.”
    The only answer was the rustling of leaves as Vern made his way down.
    Maggie got the board and dragged it back to the tree trunk. She waited for Vern’s “Hand it up.”
    “Here.”
    “I got it.”
    “Be careful this time.”
    Maggie was glad she had gotten in the last word. She went back and stood in the shadows, this time far out of the way of the elm tree.
    Again she heard the rustling of leaves, again she saw the board coming out like a gangplank.
    “Too high,” Maggie called.
    Vern groaned and heaved and shoved, and by a miracle—that was how it seemed to Maggie—the board swept across the gap and landed on the ledge. It snapped into place as neatly as something from a Lego building set.
    “Now,” Maggie called, “all you have to do is walk across.”
    “That’s all,” Vern echoed.
    Up in the tree he eyed the narrow board, and his heart sank. Vern had never admitted it, but he had always been aware that he did not have the daring his brother and sister had. Junior wanted to be a stuntman, Maggie wanted to be a trick rider, and he wanted to do something no one in the family had ever done—work in an office.
    He dreamed of sharp pencils and unlimited stacks of paper and paper clips and rulers. His happiest moments in school came when the teacher asked them to fill out forms. That, he felt, was the closest he had ever come to office work. He handed in the neatest forms of anyone in his class.
    That’s why it was such a miracle that he had not only conceived this brilliant, ingenious plan but was putting it into effect.
    He stepped on the board. He jiggled to make sure it was steady.
    Maggie saw the shaking leaves and called, “Be careful. Don’t fall, whatever you do.”
    Vern did not answer. He put his right foot in front of his left, heel to toe, then took one more step. He was holding on to the overhead branches, working on balance. He took another step. Another.
    Then the branches stopped. Vern stood for a moment, holding the last two leaves, one in each hand. Then, with a sigh, he let go.
    He held his arms out to the side. No circus tightrope walker had ever concentrated harder.
    Vern kept his eyes on the vent. Heel to toe, toe to heel, he made his way across the board. His arms seesawed gently in the cool night air. He did not look down once.
    Below, Maggie stood with her hands clasped. She appeared to be, and was, praying.
    “We need Junior for this,” she said.
    “Thanks,” Vern said through tight lips.
    The board was beginning to sag. With every step it bent lower, buckling under his weight. Ahead he could see that the board was slipping closer to the end of the ledge. He took another heel-to-toe step.
    The board sagged lower.
    “Vern,” Maggie called. “Did you notice that the board’s starting to bend?”
    Vern did not answer. He figured that one more step was all the board could take. One more step, and he and the board would crash to the