but he stood at the end of his walkway for a moment. Something was not quite right. The Broom and Mump houses were the last on Prosperity Street. Beyond them lay a field of grass and thistle, where Boom and Mertyle used to play hide-and-seek in the pre-twister days. At the edge of the field a narrow trail wound to an ivy-covered forest, then crisscrossed down a rocky slope to the beach where Mr. Broom used to take the children on shell-seeking expeditions.
But as Boom stood at the end of his walkway and stared at the field, he realized that something strange had happened to it.
Chapter Ten:
A Secret Revealed
T he field grasses stood as tall as a grown man. Boom walked to the end of the sidewalk and into the field, looking around in amazement. They were stalks of corn. Six-foot-tall stalks of corn — in March. Boom pulled off one of the ears and peeled back the layers of husk. Inside he found a yellow ear. He took a bite. The corn’s juices sprayed into the back of his mouth. The kernels tasted sweet. How in the world did the corn get there when it had not been there the day before? Corn couldn’t grow in a day. Corn didn’t grow in winter. He took another bite.
“Boom!” Mertyle cried from the bedroom window in her bossiest voice. “It loved the raw fish. Get some more raw fish. Hurry up.” Sometimes she forgot that she was the
little
sister and he was the
big
brother and she had no business bossing him around. He held up the ear of corn, but she had already slammed the window shut. The corn mystery would have to wait. He ran from the field all the way to Winger’s house.
Winger stood in his own front yard, scooping dog poop. Not the usual thing to do at 7:50 on a Saturday morning. But Mr. Wingingham was a real stickler about getting chores done. Scooping was one of Winger’s many chores and by far the worst because Winger’s dog was the biggest mutt on the planet — a 185-pound drooling menace who squeezed out poop the size of cucumbers.
Boom leaned on a fence post, catching his breath. “I’ve got something to tell you. Something big!”
“As big as this?” Winger turned his shovel upside down, dumping its contents into a wheelbarrow.
“Bigger.”
“Is it Mertyle?” Winger asked worriedly. “Are her spots worse?”
“Huh?” Boom unzipped his jacket. Despite the cold air, he had worked up a sweat. “Mertyle’s fine. It’s something else.” He looked around. One of the neighbors was collecting a newspaper. Another was taking out the garbage. “But we can’t talk here. Ask your mom if you can come to the fish dock with me.” He moved upwind of the wheelbarrow.
“Okay. I gotta go wash my hands.” Winger pushed the wheelbarrow into the backyard.
Boom waited impatiently on the sidewalk. He kicked a rock against a tree trunk. A light frost outlined the tree and made the grass crunchy. He ate the rest of the ear of corn, then kicked the cob into some shrubs at the far end of the street. Winger’s mutt waddled into the front yard and left another deposit.
Winger emerged from his house with his mother pulling up the zipper of his goose-down coat, all the way to his chin so he looked like a geek. “Mom,” Winger complained, trying to squirm away.
“Listen to me, young man. You keep that coat zipped up. It’s cold this morning.”
“Did you finish scooping?” his dad hollered from a distant room.
“Yes.”
“Did you make your bed?”
“Yes.”
“Did you put those drops in your goldfish tank? If Fergus the Fish dies, I’m not buying you another one.”
“Yes. I gave him his Ick drops.”
When Mrs. Wingingham finished zipping, she looked up. “Hello, Boom.”
“Hello, Mrs. Wingingham,” Boom said, trying to pick a kernel from his teeth with his tongue. Envy clutched his stomach as he watched Mrs. Wingingham plant a kiss on Winger’s forehead. Sometimes she gave Boom a kiss too. Sometimes she asked Boom how he was doing. He ate dinner as often as he could at the
But as Boom stood at the end of his walkway and stared at the field, he realized that something strange had happened to it.
Chapter Ten:
A Secret Revealed
T he field grasses stood as tall as a grown man. Boom walked to the end of the sidewalk and into the field, looking around in amazement. They were stalks of corn. Six-foot-tall stalks of corn — in March. Boom pulled off one of the ears and peeled back the layers of husk. Inside he found a yellow ear. He took a bite. The corn’s juices sprayed into the back of his mouth. The kernels tasted sweet. How in the world did the corn get there when it had not been there the day before? Corn couldn’t grow in a day. Corn didn’t grow in winter. He took another bite.
“Boom!” Mertyle cried from the bedroom window in her bossiest voice. “It loved the raw fish. Get some more raw fish. Hurry up.” Sometimes she forgot that she was the
little
sister and he was the
big
brother and she had no business bossing him around. He held up the ear of corn, but she had already slammed the window shut. The corn mystery would have to wait. He ran from the field all the way to Winger’s house.
Winger stood in his own front yard, scooping dog poop. Not the usual thing to do at 7:50 on a Saturday morning. But Mr. Wingingham was a real stickler about getting chores done. Scooping was one of Winger’s many chores and by far the worst because Winger’s dog was the biggest mutt on the planet — a 185-pound drooling menace who squeezed out poop the size of cucumbers.
Boom leaned on a fence post, catching his breath. “I’ve got something to tell you. Something big!”
“As big as this?” Winger turned his shovel upside down, dumping its contents into a wheelbarrow.
“Bigger.”
“Is it Mertyle?” Winger asked worriedly. “Are her spots worse?”
“Huh?” Boom unzipped his jacket. Despite the cold air, he had worked up a sweat. “Mertyle’s fine. It’s something else.” He looked around. One of the neighbors was collecting a newspaper. Another was taking out the garbage. “But we can’t talk here. Ask your mom if you can come to the fish dock with me.” He moved upwind of the wheelbarrow.
“Okay. I gotta go wash my hands.” Winger pushed the wheelbarrow into the backyard.
Boom waited impatiently on the sidewalk. He kicked a rock against a tree trunk. A light frost outlined the tree and made the grass crunchy. He ate the rest of the ear of corn, then kicked the cob into some shrubs at the far end of the street. Winger’s mutt waddled into the front yard and left another deposit.
Winger emerged from his house with his mother pulling up the zipper of his goose-down coat, all the way to his chin so he looked like a geek. “Mom,” Winger complained, trying to squirm away.
“Listen to me, young man. You keep that coat zipped up. It’s cold this morning.”
“Did you finish scooping?” his dad hollered from a distant room.
“Yes.”
“Did you make your bed?”
“Yes.”
“Did you put those drops in your goldfish tank? If Fergus the Fish dies, I’m not buying you another one.”
“Yes. I gave him his Ick drops.”
When Mrs. Wingingham finished zipping, she looked up. “Hello, Boom.”
“Hello, Mrs. Wingingham,” Boom said, trying to pick a kernel from his teeth with his tongue. Envy clutched his stomach as he watched Mrs. Wingingham plant a kiss on Winger’s forehead. Sometimes she gave Boom a kiss too. Sometimes she asked Boom how he was doing. He ate dinner as often as he could at the
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