The Accidental Siren by Jake Vander Ark Page A

grabbed his wheels and jerked back. “What?
What happened?”
    I turned over and pressed my face in my
pillow.
    “James?” he said. “What the heck
happened?”
    “Last night,” I said. “I wet the stinkin’
bed.”
     
    * * *
     
    Saturday.
    Dad caught me on the way to the mailbox and
informed me that the USPS never ships on weekends. Crap! Our
film was probably sittin’ on a warehouse shelf like the Ark at the
end of Raiders . He assured me it would arrive on Monday,
then drove me to Whit’s house and dropped me off.
    We wasted no time devising an excuse to “go
for a stroll,” then took that stroll directly to the big blue
mailbox across the street from Ms. Grisham’s house.
    “I don’t see Mara,” Whit said.
    “Shh.”
    “Think she’s inside? It doesn’t look that
scary. Maybe you should ring the bell. Were all those cars here
before?”
    “Calm down. No, the driveway was empty.”
    “Who are all those people? Looks like
old-folks cars. Ring the bell. Lemme see if this girl’s as hot as
you say.”
    “I never said ‘hot.’”
    “Prettyyy, then.”
    “Beautiful.”
    Whit pulled two candy bars from his backpack.
“Here,” he said. “For takin’ me with.”
    I considered the chocolate, then held up my
hand. “No thanks.”
    “Wouldja look at that? James Parker...
turnin’ down food! I do declare!”
    “ Shh! Shut up!”
    For a split second I thought the music was
another realistic echo of “Amazing Grace,” but it was a different
song and it was coming from the house.
    My soul was complete.
     
    “O God of loveliness,
    O Lord of Heaven above
    How worthy to possess
    My hearts devoted love.”
     
    CRASH!
    I looked left. Whit was belly down. His chair
was on its side.
    I abandoned my cover, flipped the chair to
its wheels, then darted to Whit. I slipped my arms beneath his pits
and pulled him back to his seat. “Are you okay?”
    “Listen!” he said.
     
    “So sweet Thy Countenance,
    So gracious to behold
    That one, one only glance
    To me were bliss untold.”
     
    The song finished and the house expelled a
round of muffled applause that reminded me of locust wings. I
pulled Whit back behind the mailbox and peeked over the hump.
    “ You were right,” he said.
    “About what?”
    “ Her.”
    I raised my hand to shield the sun. A minute
later the front door clicked three times, opened, and spewed a
dandy parade of canes, walkers, floral print, society hats with
sagging brims, and uniform bibles with purple leather covers. The
women filtered onto the grass and dabbed their eyes with hankies.
Leading the gaggle was Ms. Grisham, less curmudgeonly than the
night we met, basking in hugs and handshakes and nods of approval
from her blubbering flock of groupies.
    “I don’t see Mara!” Whit said.
    “She’ll prolly stay inside. What do those
pins say?”
    “Pins?”
    “On their lapels.”
    “I can’t read ‘em from here.”
    “Go check.”
    “You go check!”
    “Ms. Grisham doesn’t know you. Just roll down
the sidewalk and find out where those ladies are from.”
    Whit accepted the challenge. He wheeled away
toward the dead end of the cul-de-sac, followed the curve by the
woods, then slid past the house as the women worked their keys into
the locks of their cars. No one paid the boy any attention except
Ms. Grisham; she watched the rolling rodent like an owl with yellow
eyes and a detached neck.
    Whit didn’t look back, but scooted along with
surprising self-control.
    When the women were gone and Ms. Grisham was
back inside, I left the mailbox and ran to catch up. “Well?” I
asked.
    “The pins were all the same,” he replied.
“’The Holy Trinity Cathedral of the Dunes, League of Catholic
Women.’”
    “Geez o’ peets!” I said. “How’d you remember
all that?”
    Whit grabbed my wrist.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “I wanna meet her, James.” He pulled me
closer. “I wanna meet that girl.”
     
    * * *
     
    Sunday.
    Political correctness didn’t exist in