BSC in the USA Read online

  I quietly began taking out silverware to set the table. I tried to piece together the thoughts tumbling in my mind.

  I decided Grandma was right about another thing. Racism is like a disease. Even if you don’t have it, it’s still around in the air. And sometimes it affects the way you see things.

  Whether you want it to or not.

  Right about then, I started to feel nervous about what I’d find in Dalton….

  “ ‘The last Indian to win the Cy Young Award for pitching,’ ” read Kristy from a pamphlet, “ ‘was Gaylord Perry, in 1972.’ ”

  “Gaylord Perry doesn’t sound like an Indian name,” I remarked.

  Kristy rolled her eyes. “Cleveland Indian.”

  “I knew that,” I lied.

  As we walked closer to Jacobs Field, a huge cheer rang out.

  “Touchdown! The crowd goes wild!” Claudia called out.

  Jeff groaned. “There are no touchdowns in baseball.”

  I gave Claudia a Look. So did Mary Anne and Dawn. We all cracked up.

  Claudia’s my best friend. She and Mary Anne may be the only people in the world who care less about baseball than I do.

  Kristy insists it’s a fun sport. Maybe she means playing it. But sitting around in the hot sun and watching grown men in ugly jumpsuits chase a little white ball? Not my idea of a good time.

  Now, basketball I don’t mind. It’s faster, for one thing. And the players look great in those shorts.

  Okay, maybe I’m still a little biased. I used to go out with a guy named Robert Brewster, who was on the Stoneybrook Middle School basketball team. In fact, he was my boyfriend when I met Ethan Carroll.

  Nowadays I don’t think much about basketball. (No, Ethan didn’t break us up. Robert and I were already on the rocks.)

  My mom says Ethan and I have an epistolary romance. I thought that had something to do with guns. But she explained it means a romance carried on through letters.

  I don’t know if I’d use the word romance. Yet.

  Ethan and I have met only once, in New York City. He lives there. He’s fifteen and absolutely, totally gorgeous — almost-black hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, and cheekbones for days. Talented, too. His big goal in life is to become an artist. In fact, for the month of July, he was touring West Coast art galleries with his parents. (Mr. and Mrs. Carroll must be pretty cool, too.)

  Which is why I was going to meet him in Seattle at the Corner Coffee Shop. Why that particular spot? Ethan is staying nearby, in his relatives’ apartment. Besides, we New Yorkers love coffee shops. (“Coffee shop” is New Yorkese for “diner.” Don’t ask me why.)

  Since we’d met, Ethan and I had been calling and writing. Mostly writing. I couldn’t wait to see him in person again.

  I was scared, too, to be honest. I mean, we were still newlymets. What if I’d been wrong about him? What if he had some secret terrible quality, like picking his nose in public or a passion for baseball?

  I guess I’d just have to take my chances.

  “Get your Indians souvenirs here!” shouted a potbellied guy from a stand near the ballpark.

  Kristy was already making a beeline.

  WHONNK-WHONNK-WHONNK-WHONNK! whonked an organ from inside the ballpark.

  “Can’t we go in?” Jeff asked his dad excitedly. “Please please please please?”

  Puh-leeze.

  “You can’t just walk in, right in the middle of the game!” I exclaimed.

  Mr. Schafer laughed. “Sure you can.”

  “Maybe I’m thinking of the theater,” I murmured.

  Kristy was walking back toward us, an Indians cap on her head and a huge smile on her face. “Got one!”

  “We’re going to the game!” Jeff announced.

  “Whaat?” Claudia, Mary Anne, Dawn, and I said together.

  “Yyyyyesss!” Kristy sprinted toward the ticket booth.

  “But — but?—” I sputtered.

  “It’s four against three, Dad,” Dawn jumped in.

  Then Mr. Schafer said the words I dreaded to hear. “I think it would be fun.”

  Off we trudged. Like prisoners to the dungeon.

  What was the game like? Well, we stood up and cheered one home run, but we booed another. We participated in two waves. We ate hot dogs that tasted as if they’d been cooking since February. A foul ball whizzed into the stands nearby. Afterward, Claudia ducked each time she heard the crack of a bat. I managed to read an entire Cleveland travel guide, ads included, by the time the game ended.

  That, as it turned out, saved the whole day. I showed Mr. Schafer the travel guide, and he went nuts over one particular place.

  We were going to have our first official side trip …

  “I want to go to the ice-cream shop!” Andrew cried out.

  “Me, too!” Abby exclaimed.

  “Maybe it won’t be so boring, after all,” David Michael murmured.

  “Seeing wild ponies on the beach is not boring!” Jessi remarked.

  “Where are they?” Karen asked.

  David Michael made a face. “There are no ponies here. No beach, either.”

  I was looking out the RV window. We were driving along Main Street of Chincoteague Island. Slowly. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. I saw souvenir shops, restaurants, clothing stores, motels, boating supply stores, and jewelry shops. Tourists crowded the sidewalks. A storefront advertised a display of the original Misty, preserved.

  “Misty is stuffed?” Jessi murmured.

  The idea made me sick.

  “Well … this is a nice place,” Watson remarked.

  “Quaint,” Mrs. Brewer added.

  Honk! Honk! blared a bus in front of us, spewing exhaust.

  This wasn’t at all what I was expecting. This wasn’t the Chincoteague Island I’d read about. Chincoteague was a little village where kids ran around barefoot in the streets and old folks swapped stories on the front porch. At least it was in all the Marguerite Henry books.

  Have you read them? You should, even if you’re not a horse fan like me. The stories are great — especially the legend of the wild ponies.

  You see, back in the 1500s, a cargo of stallions escaped from a shipwrecked Spanish galleon, swam to a nearby island, and made it their home. You can still see their descendants today, running wild and free. (Historians say there’s no proof of this, but I believe it.)

  The ponies are actually on nearby Assateague Island, which is almost forty miles long. Chincoteague is tucked snugly between it and the mainland. Every year in late July, the wild ponies are rounded up and made to swim the inlet to Chincoteague. They’re auctioned to the public. The ones who aren’t bought are allowed to swim home.

  We were arriving too early for the roundup. Still, I had been dying to see the ponies for myself.

  Now, seeing Chincoteague, I was just dying.

  I opened my copy of Misty of Chincoteague and checked the copyright date.

  It read 1947.

  “Wow,” I murmured. “These books are old.”

  Jessi nodded. “I guess places change.”

  Before I could answer, I heard a sudden, loud thud. We all lurched forward.

  “What was that?” Abby asked.

  Andrew burst into tears. “Did we crash?”

  “We were hit,” Watson said. He glanced impatiently into the rearview mirror. “Hang on, I’m going to pull over and check the damage.”

  He steered into a nearby parking lot and edged into a space. The car that had hit us parked in the next space. An older couple and a girl about my age climbed out.

  “I am so sorry,” the man said to Watson. “Completely my fault.”

  “My granddad is an excellent driver,” the girl announced. “You stopped very abruptly.”

  “We did not!” Karen protested.

  “Now, now,” Watson said with a chuckle. “This is a matter for the drivers to settle.”

  “I’m Saville Hoyer,” the man said, extending his hand to Watson. “This is my wife, Judy,
and our granddaughter, Felicitas.”

  Felicitas made a sour face. “Nobody calls me that. It’s Liz.”

  “We are taking her on a trip to the West Coast,” Mrs. Hoyer said. “We are so happy her parents agreed to let her go….”

  The grown-ups started walking around to look at the damage, and all us kids followed. The RV’s bumper was dented pretty deeply in the middle.

  “Uh-oh,” Abby muttered. “What is Watson going to tell the rental place?”

  “You could say a wild pony kicked it,” Liz suggested. “Wild ponies can be unpredictable.”

  All the grown-ups laughed, as if that were the cutest thing ever said. Then they started yakking about insurance.

  “What have you seen so far?” Liz abruptly asked. “On Chincoteague.”

  “Well, we just drove in?—” I began.

  “So far we’ve seen a snowy egret, a glossy ibis, an osprey, and a Northern bobwhite,” Liz barreled on. “You must have seen one of those.”

  “Uh …” said Abby.

  “Nahhh, just a bunch of birds and stuff,” David Michael piped up.

  Liz rolled her eyes. “Those are birds. Actually, I came here to see the wild ponies. They’re not on Chincoteague Island, you know.”

  I nodded. “I know. They’re on?—”

  “Assateague,” Liz said. “Isn’t that the funniest name? Anyway, Marguerite Henry? She’s the writer of the Misty books? Well, she’s wrong about the way the ponies arrived. It wasn’t a shipwreck.”

  “Well, no one knows for sure?—” I began.

  “The early American settlers? They didn’t have time to build fences, so they used Assateague as a natural pen. You know why? Because it’s an island and the horses couldn’t escape. Anyway, that’s where the wild ponies came from. Actually, they’re feral ponies. That means their ancestors were domesticated but became wild. And do you know why they look fatter than regular ponies? Because they drink salt water, and that retains moisture in their bodies?—”

  “All right, Liz! Time to go!” (Saved by the grandmother.)

  “‘Bye!” Liz said, skipping away. “And don’t feed the ponies! It can destroy their natural eating habits.”

  I looked at Jessi. Her face was twisted into a I’m-trying-not-to-show-how-annoyed-I-really-am expression.

  “She’s either a genius or a robot,” David Michael announced.

  I cracked up. So did Jessi and Abby. We all climbed back into the RV.

  “What a pest!” Jessi said.

  “We could hire her as a travel guide,” Abby suggested.

  I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to talk about Liz behind her back.

  But I could think whatever I wanted. And I sure was glad we didn’t have to travel with her.

  When we finally started off again, the traffic was moving a little faster. Soon the tourist shops and motels thinned out and disappeared. We were driving over a causeway toward Assateague.

  Now this was more like it. Assateague was foggy, covered with low pine trees, scrubby plants and grasses, and distant ponds. I reached into my backpack and took out a pair of binoculars I’d brought along. Jessi was already looking through hers. “Do you see anything yet?”

  “Just a glossy ibis,” Jessi replied. “Or maybe it’s a snowy bobwhite.”

  I raised my binoculars and gazed through them.

  A half hour later I was still gazing. My eyes were dry and tired. I’d seen nothing but plants, birds, and water.

  “Where did all the horsies go?” Andrew asked.

  Abby shrugged. “On a hayride?”

  Watson sighed. “We’ve been twice around the Wildlife Loop. They’re supposed to be near here.”

  “Can’t we drive farther out on the island?” I asked.

  Watson shook his head. “You need a special permit.”

  My heart was sinking.

  “I’m hungry!” Andrew whined.

  “Shall we find a place for a picnic?” Mrs. Brewer asked.

  “Yeeeaaa!” shouted David Michael, Andrew, and Karen.

  Ahead of us was a sign that read WOODLAND TRAIL/HIKERS AND BIKERS ONLY. Watson maneuvered the RV into a small parking area nearby.

  “This is a hiking trail, Watson,” Mrs. Brewer said. “The Visitor Center up ahead has picnic facilities.”

  “It’ll be crowded,” Watson replied. “Here we can find a nice, open area of our own.”

  The Brewers had packed us several hampers full of sandwiches and drinks. I threw my binoculars into my pack and slung it over my shoulders. Then I grabbed a hamper and climbed out.

  “Bummer, huh?” Jessi said.

  “They must have all swum back to Spain,” I grumbled.

  The trail was more crowded than I expected. And buggy. I must have swatted a hundred mosquitoes. We walked and walked until Andrew started whining. Fortunately we were near a clearing that overlooked a marshy area.

  “Well, it’s not exactly beachfront,” Mrs. Brewer said with a sigh, pulling out a big blanket.

  We settled in and began eating. For a moment, I forgot about the ponies. My stomach was growling with hunger. My chicken salad sandwich tasted great. Even if I did have to share it with ants and yellow jackets.

  That was when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a distant movement.

  Beyond the marsh. Over a sand dune.

  I grabbed my binoculars.

  It was a brown mare nudging along a tiny colt. They stood there a moment, as if they were talking.

  Then they were joined by the most beautiful, barrel-chested chestnut I have ever seen.

  And another. And another.

  “Oh my lord …” Abby said.

  All at once, the ponies began to run down the dune, kicking up sand.

  I dropped my sandwich and stood up.

  “Go, Misty!” Jessi cried.

  “Horsies!” Andrew screamed.

  Mrs. Brewer had tears in her eyes. “They’re stunning!”

  I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t.

  The sand sprayed up behind them in golden arcs. Their manes were like silky flags, their legs strong and lean.

  Exactly the way I’d pictured them.

  I just watched until they were out of sight. Until my binoculars were blurry with my own tears.

  If the RV were to fall apart, if we had to travel home on a bus, if it rained the rest of the time, it wouldn’t matter.

  As far as I was concerned, the trip had already been worth it.

  Knock-knock-knock-knock!

  “Hurry up! Hurry up! I have to go!”

  Jeff’s face was red. He twisted the doorknob of the bathroom in the RV.

  “I just got in here!” shouted Dawn’s voice from inside. “Wait!”

  “I can’t!”

  How many times had I heard this conversation during the ride? About a million.

  Let me tell you, a cross-country trip is not for the impatient. Or the claustrophobic.

  When we began our trip, the RV seemed like a house on wheels. Beds, a table and chairs, big windows — cool or what? Plus, we had all that free time.

  Somewhere outside of Connecticut the house seemed to start shrinking.

  I don’t know about you, but I can take just so much of sitting still and doing nothing. At first we played cards, but everyone kept beating me. Then we played twenty questions, but I always needed about fifty. I tried sketching the scenery, but it went by too fast and I started feeling sick to my stomach. I listened to the radio, but Mr. Schafer likes to play all this awful old-fashioned music. So I ate an entire bag of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish to console myself. Then I took a long nap.

  And that was all in the first two hours.

  Three days later, after stops in Cleveland and Detroit, our house on wheels felt like a rolling shoe box. (Smelled like one, too, except you didn’t really notice that until you left it and came back.)

  During the trip, I discovered a lot of unexpected things about my friends. For instance, I had no idea that Kristy likes to wash
her hair with soap to “save time” (I nearly fainted). Or that Jeff eats peanut-butter-and-tuna-fish sandwiches. Or that Dawn’s organic apples sometimes have worms, which I found out the hard way. Or that the sound of Mary Anne’s knitting could drive me absolutely crazy after about two hours.

  Tickety-tick-ticka-tickety-tick, went her plastic needles, as Jeff paced the narrow area in front of the bathroom.

  When Mary Anne first started knitting, the sound reminded me of soft rain on a cozy night. After awhile, it was like mice skittering on a tile floor.

  Now I was thinking about skeleton bones rattling in a grave.

  “Uh, Mary Anne?” I began.

  Click. The bathroom door swung open.

  Jeff dived in practically before Dawn had a chance to escape. He slammed the door behind him.

  “He always waits until the last minute,” Dawn grumbled.

  “What’s the difference?” Jeff’s voice shouted from inside. “No matter when I want to go, you’re always in there!”

  “Chicago, fifty-seven miles!” Mr. Schafer announced.

  “Oh, groan,” I groaned. “Another hour.”

  “Patience, Claudia,” said Stacey, who was sitting in the seat behind Mr. Schafer, gazing listlessly out the window.

  Mary Anne looked up from her knitting. “My dad goes to Chicago a lot for his law firm. He loves it there.”

  “Ah, wining and dining away from home on an expense account, eh?” Mr. Schafer said with a chuckle. “Must be nice.”

  “He works very hard,” Mary Anne replied. “It’s not really a vacation?—”

  “My lawyer friends are all workaholics,” Mr. Schafer said. “They never see their families. That’s one thing I like about my job. Evenings and weekends are mine.”

  Tickety-tickticktickticktick! Mary Anne was going double time now. “Actually, my dad spends lots of time with us,” she mumbled.

  “I’m sure he does?—”

  “Hey, Chicago has a beach!” cried Kristy, looking up from a travel guide. “It’s right in the city!”

  “Surf’s up!” Dawn yelled.

  Jeff burst out of the bathroom. “Can we go there? I mean, after the ball game?”

  “The Cubs are away today,” Kristy informed him. “We’re just going to look at the stadium and buy a cap.”