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Chocolate-Covered BaloneyConfessions of April Grace
By K.D. McCrite
Thomas NelsonCopyright © 2012 Kathaleen McCrite
All right reserved.
Chapter OneWhen the Preacher Says Things Are Gonna Change, He Knows What He's Talking About
Our preacher scared me out of a year's growth.
He stood right up there in the pulpit on that first Sunday morning of 1987, looked at us all, and calmly announced, "Things are gonna change."
Well, let me tell you, I have had enough change for any sixth-grade girl, and when Pastor Ross said that, I opened up a hymnbook and started reading the words to all those familiar songs just so I wouldn't have to listen.
Melissa Kay Carlyle, my best friend, was sitting on my left in the pew where we always sat. As long as we were quiet during church, our folks allowed us to sit together away from them. She passed me her church bulletin.
"Why are you reading songs?" she had written in the margin of the back page.
"B-cuz," I wrote back.
"???" And she had underlined it three times.
"I do not want to listen to the sermon," I wrote.
She read that, and her hazel eyes got big. She twisted her mouth and gave me a measuring stare. I shrugged and went back to reading the words of "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms."
You see, in the past few months, my home has been disrupted, my life has been interrupted, a place on my face has erupted, and I just want things to calm down and be the way they were this time last year. This time last year I was in elementary school, not junior high. My fourteen-year-old sister, Myra Sue, who is the biggest Blond-Haired, Blue-Eyed Drip you will ever meet, had not totally lost what tiny scrap of good sense she had. My grandma had still been a cookie-baking, old-fashioned lady with gray hair and ugly shoes who liked to sit in the rocking chair a lot, instead of getting her hair cut and dyed and going through a Total Makeover until she hardly looked like herself. Last winter at this time, we had never heard of the citified Ian and Isabel St. James, and there had only been two kids instead of three in our household.
Boy, oh boy, if there was gonna be more change in my life, I'd rather it were the kind I could spend on chocolate bars.
Chapter TwoMyra Sue Reilly, the Sneak of Rough Creek Road
* * *
That afternoon, after the family finished Sunday dinner, I washed the dishes and straightened the kitchen. This has become my Permanent Job, and let me tell you, it is not something I wish to make a career of.
When I finished rinsing out the sink, I looked out the kitchen window at Grandma's little red-roofed house across the hay field. Her white Corolla was still not there.
You want to know where she was? I'll tell you. She was at the Methodist church where she'd been invited by the minister, Reverend Trask Jordan, to come for the service and to stay for a New Year's potluck celebration afterward. We Reillys attend Cedar Ridge Community Church and have done so since time began.
Reverend Jordan likes my grandma. Likes, as in he'd like to be her boyfriend. He's been inviting her over and over again to visit his church. (Just visit, mind you. Not become a member or anything because he "doesn't want to take folks away from their own churches.") The other day, he drove his bright-red Mustang to her house while Daddy and I were there, and he invited her right in front of us.
Grandma's face got all red, and her mouth opened and shut a couple of times.
Daddy said, "I think you should go, Mom. You'll enjoy it."
She gave him a funny look and blurted out, "Yes, okay, thank you," like she was afraid she'd forget the words if she didn't say 'em loud and fast. Then Daddy laughed, and Reverend Jordan chuckled. I just sat there thinking about the whole thing.
I wish that preacher had invited me to go, too. If I'd gone to the Methodist church that day, I wouldn't have had to hear all that mess Pastor Ross said about changes. I like Pastor Ross, but I'll tell you something: he'd have done a lot better job if he'd just preached about the Sermon on the Mount or Jonah and the Big Fish.
Of course, if I'd gone with Grandma, I would've had to ride with her, and Grandma's driving is so scary it will make your toenails curl. Likely as not, she'd drive just as well if she sat upside down and drove with her feet.
I sighed, wiped my hands on a towel, and went into the living room. Mama was there, rocking my brand-new baby brother, Eli, and singing softly to him. Let me tell you something about that kid. He was born too early and had to stay in the hospital for a while. He's only been home with us a few days, but here's the thing: just because he's a newcomer doesn't mean he hasn't got things figured out around here. Every single time we sit down to eat, he starts crying to be fed at the same time, even when he was sound asleep two seconds earlier. I suppose he wants bacon and eggs or meat loaf or whatever we're having. Poor Mama hasn't had an entire hot meal with the family for a while.
Not that any of us are complaining. We're happy Eli is healthy and doing well. He's so cute and soft and sweet, it seems someone is smooching his little cheeks all the time. Poor kid. He'll probably grow up with permanent lip prints all over his face.
"I'm finished in the kitchen, Mama," I said softly, so as not to startle Eli, who was cuddled in her arms.
Mama looked up and smiled. Her red hair was all fluffy and soft around her face, and her green eyes shone bright and pretty. She has freckles on her face, and I reckon I inherited my freckles from her. For that matter, I got my red hair from her, too. I hope that when I'm a grown-up lady, I'm as pretty as my mom.
She'd been mighty sick for several months before Eli was born, and I was sure glad to see her feeling healthy again. And I admit I was kinda upset last year when I found out she was going to have a baby. It seemed like one more unnecessary event that turned our lives upside down. But once I got hold of Eli with his soft skin, tiny little hands, blue eyes, and bit of fuzzy red hair on his head, I knew I wouldn't exchange him, not for a million-gazillion dollars, so don't even offer.
"Thanks for cleaning up, honey," Mama said, holding the baby on her shoulder to burp him. "Did you remember to wipe off the stove and rinse out the sink?"
"Then you may go play or read or whatever you want to do," she said, getting up. She laid Eli down in his little white bassinet in the living room.
"Okay, Mama. Thank you."
* * *
I went upstairs to read Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. The school librarian—who looks and smells like a rotten lemon and does not like kids—said it would be over my head, but she does not know April Grace Reilly. I bet I have read more books than she has.
After I got to my room, I heard something out in the hallway and opened the door a crack to peer out. There stood ole Myra Sue. She was so close to my door that if I'd opened it all of a sudden, she'd have fallen inside like a big load of dirty laundry.
"What're you doing?" I asked, surprised as all get-out.
She glared at me. "Just mind your own business!" she snapped.
"Excuse me, but you were the one snooping around my door."
"Don't be dumb! I was just walking past."
"Yeah, I'm so sure! You were standing there, listening to see if I was doing anything."
"Leave me alone, you brat. I don't know why everyone in this family thinks they have to know all my private business when some things are nobody's business but mine!"
"Things like what?" I asked.
"None of your beeswax," she said. Then she gave me a little shove and closed my door, hard. By the time I opened it again, she was heading downstairs.
I stood there and thought about it for a minute. Why would that girl have any private business? She sure was acting funny, even for goofy Myra Sue. I wondered for a minute what could be up. Maybe she was thinking about dyeing her hair again, but the last time she did that, she got in Big Trouble. Did she start smoking? Some of her friends had been caught recently ... Boy, oh boy. Not only would she barbeque her own personal lungs, but Mama and Daddy would hit the ceiling.
I walked over to the shelf by the window where I keep my library books, and what do you think I saw outside? I saw my sister sneaking down the driveway. When she got as far as the mailbox, she stopped and looked around like she was a bank robber casing the joint. I squinted so hard to see what she was doing that my eyelids hurt, and of course, my breath fogged up that cold glass at the very worst time. I cleared a circle with my sleeve just in time to see her pull something out of her coat pocket and shove whatever it was in the mailbox. Then she jumped away like the mailbox was gonna grab her or burst into flames.
"What's that girl up to? What'd she put in there, anyway?" I asked out loud. I leaned closer to the window and watched ole Myra come slinking back up the driveway. Then, just as if she'd felt my eyes on her, she looked up and saw me.
You shoulda seen her. She stopped hard, like she had run into a brick wall. She just stood there, staring at me. It was cold outside, but believe me, it wasn't cold enough to freeze her in place like that. That girl had to have been up to no good, otherwise she wouldn't be out there in that cold.
"What are you doing out there like a big dummy?" I hollered through the window glass at her.
All of a sudden, like my voice had spooked her—or maybe her brain had finally unfroze—she turned around and galloped back to the mailbox. She yanked out whatever she'd stuck in there and stuffed it into her coat pocket. She looked at me, then at the mailbox, then around the woods and up and down the road like the whole entire FBI was watching her, and then she tore off down Rough Creek Road like someone was chasing her. Myra Sue runs like a chicken chasing a June bug, her head leading the way and her arms out, bent in at the elbows like wings. I could see the world pretty good from my window upstairs, and I didn't see a blessed thing—not a grizzly bear or an ax murderer or even a three-legged wood rat on a crutch. What was that silly girl running from?
I watched her run off in the direction of Ian and Isabel St. James's house. My sister loves and adores Ian and Isabel, especially Isabel. That woman thinks my sister is a golden child, a pure angel, and a gift from heaven. Let me assure you, Myra Sue Reilly is no gift. In fact, she's more like the coal that Santa delivers to rotten kids at Christmas. I figured whatever secret that girl had been trying to hide was now gonna find its way into the hands of Isabel. In which case, the Big Secret she was hiding probably involved makeup or nail polish, and I didn't care what it was. But if you know me at all, you know my curiosity itches me worse than poison ivy and mosquito bites put together.
Now, here's the thing: it was cold outside. I mean, January in the Ozarks is not the balmy, sunny weather you might think. As Grandma would say, it was colder than a wedge outside. The sky hung above us like an ugly, gray curtain that needed to be washed, and the wind blew hard enough to force your teeth down your gullet.
What I wanted to do was stay in our nice, warm house, crawl up on my bed, wrap myself in the raggedy old blanket I'd had since I was little, and read that book that was supposed to be over my head. That's what I wanted to do, but something inside me said, "April Grace Reilly, something is Going On, and you need to find out what."
Chapter ThreeThe April Grace Detective Agency Is Now in Business
* * *
I could've gone straight to my folks like a big, fat tattletale, but that's more Myra Sue's style than mine. I'd rather get the goods, sort out the facts, and then inform those who need to know—if there is anything they need to know. So instead of snuggling down and reading, I yanked on my heavy tan coat and thick, green-and-tan wool hat, ran downstairs, and called out to Mama as I headed to the front door, "I'm gonna go outside for a little while."
"Button up your coat," she said from the kitchen, "and come back in before you get too cold."
Boy, oh boy, some moms really do have eyes and ears in the backs of their heads. I buttoned my coat even though I hate being bundled up that way. It makes me feel like a burrito.
I would've taken along good ole Daisy, our huge, white Great Pyrenees dog, but she's old and the cold weather isn't good for her bones. She was sound asleep on her very own dog blanket on the service porch. Daisy likes to sleep back there near the little wall heater.
Outside, that cold wind sucked the breath right out of my mouth, and I wondered how in the world my wimpy big sister was able to buck up long enough to step off the porch, let alone walk to the mailbox and take off down Rough Creek Road.
I had almost reached the end of the driveway when Daddy pulled in, driving his nice, almost brand-new, bronze-colored pickup. He stopped next to me and rolled down his window. Mama says my daddy is the best-looking man in all of Arkansas, and I agree with her. He has dark hair and real blue eyes, and when he smiles, you feel warm and cozy right down to your very toes.
"What are you doing out here in this cold, little girl of mine?" he said. His breath came out in a mist.
"I'm getting some air," I said, making my own misty cloud.
He frowned a little.
"Mighty cold air, punkin'. Don't stay out too long. The temperature's dropping fast."
"Okay, Daddy. I'll go back in soon."
I watched him drive around to the back of the house. Then I nipped over to the mailbox and opened it. Of course there was not a single, solitary clue inside because that rotten Myra Sue had taken out her secret. I don't know why I even looked.
Arms akimbo, I stared at that dumb mailbox, wishing it could talk. Had Myra been writing love letters to Johnny Brittain, who lives up the road? Maybe she wrote a story and was sending it off to a magazine, but that idea was so all-fired crazy, I laughed right out loud and nearly froze my tongue.
Then I heard galloping footsteps pounding against the frozen brown dirt of our old road, and before I could say,
"What's going on here?" I was yanked around hard. Myra Sue stood there, panting like an army mule, glaring at me like she wanted to knock me upside my head. "What are you doing, you little brat?" she barked.
"I could ask you the same thing, Miss Smarty-Sneaky Pants. First you skulk around my bedroom door, and then I see you hide something in the mailbox. What was it?" I peered down the road, looking for anything strange, but it looked like the same old dirt road to me.
"I didn't hide anything in the mailbox! And besides, it's none of your business!"
"Aha!" I hollered.
"If you weren't hiding anything, then how could it be none of my business?"
I watched her try to figure out what I just said. Boy, watching that girl go through a thought process was like watching a snail run away with a turtle. I like to have grown a long, gray beard before she caught on.
"Oh!" she finally snarled, and she stomped her foot, which had to have hurt pretty good, seeing as how the ground was frozen hard as a rock. "I was not hiding anything. I was looking to see if we got any mail."
I crimped my mouth. "That's so dumb I shouldn't even reply, but I will: The mail does not run on Sunday."
She blinked a few times, taking in this late-breaking news flash. Then she said, "So what?"
"Myra Sue Reilly, I saw you sneak something into that mailbox, and when you saw me see you, you went and got it out and took off with it. So it must be something sneaky and rotten that you don't want anyone to know about."
She waggled her mouth open and shut about 674 times and then said, with all the intelligence you can imagine, "Nuh-uh!"
She stomped her foot again and grabbed my arm. She shook me hard and said, with her eyes all squinted, "You just keep your big, fat mouth shut and don't go blabbing to anyone, or I will tell about that box of chocolates you aren't supposed to have that you hid under your bed, and that math test you nearly failed right before the end of last semester, and how you tore your brand-new good church coat under the arm and stapled it back together so Mama wouldn't know."
Excerpted from Chocolate-Covered Baloney by K.D. McCrite Copyright © 2012 by Kathaleen McCrite. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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