The Secret of Ferrell Savage (14 page)

But Littledood kept going. “Ferrell Savage came this close to cannibalizing Mary Vittles today.”

I jumped off the couch and grabbed the sides of the television. “Nooo! That's a lie!” I exclaimed. “How does he know that?”

And as if he'd heard me, Littledood held up his cell phone. “I have it recorded right here, and I can play back their whole conversation.”

Littledood was pulled away from the camera while Steven Stowick tried to regain control of his newscast.

“And now let's switch to our segment on how to get brighter, more vivid colors for your Easter egg dyeing. . . .”

Littledood disappeared. Maybe Security carried him away or maybe it was one of the cameramen. Either way, it was too late. The damage was done.

I LAY IN BED, STARING
at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to come up. What's an acceptable hour to go to the home of the girl you love and whose life you've just ruined? I wanted to beg her forgiveness, but it was a stupid idea at any hour. I rolled over onto my stomach and buried my head under my pillow. She'd never forgive me. I should just move away. No, I couldn't abandon her. I needed to help her get through this. She hated me and would probably never speak to me again, but still, I had to convince her she wasn't a loser.

“Because she's not!” I yelled into my mattress.

I replayed the conversation Mary and I had had
in the skating pond's shelter; I tried to recall when I might have bumped my phone, causing it to call Littledood. If only I could remember exactly how it had happened, I could go back in time and undo it.

I pulled my pillow off my head and looked at the clock. Six o'clock. I reasoned with myself. How about I wait two hours and then go knock on Mary's door? Eight o'clock for Mary on a Sunday morning was reasonable. Besides, if she'd seen the news last night, she probably wasn't sleeping either. If she hadn't seen it, then I'd have to be the one to tell her.

I rolled out of bed, went to the bathroom, got a glass of water, listened to some music, drank the water, closed my eyes for a while, went to the bathroom again. . . . Finally. It was eight o'clock. I stood up, but my feet wouldn't move toward the door. I fell backward onto my bed.

I couldn't do it.

But I had to.

I took a deep breath and tried again. I jumped out of bed, slipped my bare feet into my Converse, and grabbed my jacket. Just as I was about to head out the door, I realized Mary was likely to become upset and start using big words. So I grabbed my pocket dictionary off the living room shelf.

I rang Mary's bell, and she answered almost immediately. She was dressed in a soft, blue sweater and unfaded jeans; and her hair was slightly damp from showering. She looked at me and smiled. Ugh, she must not have seen the news.

“You have penguins on your pajamas!” she said. She burst out laughing.

I looked down at my flannel legs and smacked myself on the forehead. Oh, well. It was too late to save my own face. At least she got a good laugh to start the rest of her downhill day.

“Are you sleepwalking, Ferrell? You look like a zombie.” Mary was still laughing when she closed the door behind me. I stood in the middle of her small living room and tried to think of how I was going to tell her. Littledood's mapped-out speeches were actually a pretty smart idea. I sat down on the love seat.

“Seriously, are you okay?” she asked. She sat down next to me.

“I am. Yes. But I'm afraid you're going to be really mad at me, and I'm willing to sacrifice the life of my cell phone if you want to smash it and bury it deep underground . . . and me along with it.”

“It's okay, Ferrell. I know what this is about. I saw the news.”

“Littledood? You heard what he said?”

“He's a twerp, but you gotta give him some credit. He didn't exactly go back on his deal and tell our secret. He didn't mention Alferd Packer or Shannon Bell.”

“No, I guess he didn't,” I said. I hadn't thought of that. “But he told them our conversation about how I was afraid I'd turn into a werewolf, and he made it sound like you were almost my first victim.”

“He kind of twisted our words,” she said. Then she shrugged. “It's not as big a deal to me as I thought it would be. But what about you? Are you embarrassed he told the world your biggest fear?”

“Huh. I never thought of it as something I didn't want people to know. And especially now that I'm pretty sure—almost certain—I'm not part monster, I feel okay about it.”

“Right. See? That's what I've been thinking about a lot lately.”

“That I'm not a monster?”

“Well, no, not that exactly.” She slid back into the couch and curled her bare feet up under her. “I was thinking about how you deal with circumstances. And how you don't let other people's judgments affect you. Like your big survivor moment on Golden
Hill and how you became the local modern-day living legend.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, not sure where this was going.

“And everywhere you went, everyone practically bowed down to you, kissing your toes, acting like you were a king or something.”

“No one ever kissed my toes,” I corrected her.

“And in all of that, you never got bigheaded. You never acted like you expected to be treated differently and you never got conceited and all show-offy about it.”

“But what does that have to do with Littledood being on TV and nearly exposing your family of losers? Uh, and remember, ‘losers' is your word, not mine.”

“Because . . .” She thought for a minute. “Remember that day I first told you about my ancestors?”

She was referring to the day of the hug that wasn't a hug, but I still think it was.

“Kind of.” I tried to sound cool.

“Well, you said my dad was stupid because he left us. And you know what? You're right. That is what makes him a loser. My dad's family made stupid decisions. And now I've finally figured out why: They thought with their brains, not their hearts.”

I nodded. I kind of got what she was saying. “Your great-great-grandfather thought with his brain until my great-great-great-uncle ate it.”

“Your way of thinking is better, at least most of the time. And as long as I have you around, I'll remember not to be ruled by my brain. You're a role model, Ferrell.”

My stomach growled loudly. “Sorry. It was the word ‘role.' It makes me think of a roll with . . . mmm . . . with cinnamon and a sugary glaze. I haven't eaten breakfast yet.”

Mary jumped up and grabbed her shoes and socks by the front door. “Go home and eat breakfast, then meet me at Spinelli's. We're scheduled for an exclusive interview with the
Golden Hill Times
. I'm going to tell them about our family history. Yours and mine, if that's okay with you.”

“You mean everything?”

“Everything,” she said. “I think it's cool our families have made it into history books. It makes an interesting story, don't you think?”

I had an idea, but Mary was going to hate it. I stood up and walked slowly to the door, wondering if I should even suggest it. “Hey, Mary, what if we ask Bruce Littledood to do the interview with us? He
knows the history even better than we do, and, well, because of us, he has kind of been cheated of his fame.”

Mary's shoulders dropped, and then she was quiet for a few seconds. “Okay,” she finally said. “He's obnoxious and insufferable, but you're right.”

“I'll call him. Then we'll meet at Spinelli's in half an hour,” I said.

“Oh, and Ferrell?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't forget to put on clothes, okay?”

I looked down at my flannel jammies. “You got something against penguins?” I asked. I pushed my toes out, flattened my arms to my sides, and waddled out the door.

I loved the sound of Mary's laugh.

I WAS THE LAST ONE
to get to Spinelli's. Ronny Meddle from the
Golden Hill Times
sat at the counter with a cup of coffee. He fiddled with his beard while reading from a piece of paper, and Littledood stood in front of him, bouncing on his tiptoes, getting ready to explode like a soda that's been shaken in its bottle. Mary read over Mr. Meddle's shoulder.

“What's going on?” I asked.

Littledood pushed back his shoulders. “It's a report I wrote after my dad and I did the research on Alferd Packer.”

“It's good,” Mr. Meddle said. “With just a few minor
changes, I'll be able to print it. It will be a nice historical piece to go along with the sled race article. How would you like to have your own byline in the newspaper?”

“Awesome!” Littledood practically squealed.

Mary looked at me with a serious expression on her face. “It's our whole story, Ferrell. Bruce Littledood wrote up the entire account of our sordid history and ends it with a commentary about you and me.”

“He tells about how you and I are related to Bell and Packer?” I asked.

She nodded and then turned to Littledood. “It's a well-written article, Bruce. You did a good job.”

“I know. I'm pretty much an expert on—” Littledood stopped himself. “I mean, thank you.” And then to me he said, “Thanks to you, too, Ferrell, for giving me this chance. I'm really sorry for telling the whole world about how you're afraid you'll eat everyone in Golden Hill. But I explain in the article, right here”—he pointed to the typed pages—“that while Alferd Packer did suffer from terrible indigestion for the rest of his life, cannibalism has no effect on the health or sanity of future relatives.”

“Cool!” I said. I was already starting to feel less monstery. “But what about clearing Mary's reputation? Is there any way you can tell our history without making
her family look like a bunch of losers? Maybe work it into the article that even really intelligent people sometimes get eaten and that it's not a sign of stupidity?”

“He does better than that,” Mary said. She picked the typed article up off the counter. “Listen to what he says:

“ ‘Let the record show that yesterday, Bruce Littledood defeated Ferrell Savage and Mary Vittles once again in a great downhill race, because clearly he built a stronger, sleeker, and higher-performing sled. But here's something that won't show on the records. Ferrell and Mary each wiped out on the Pollypry in dramatic fashion. Splattered on the hillside, they should have been embarrassed, humiliated, and broken in spirit. But instead they defined their games. Like real heroes, they played by their own rules. If we learn one thing by studying history, it's that heroes like Ferrell and Mary define themselves.' ”

“Wow,” I said. “So you think we're heroes?”

“That's what I said,” Littledood answered. “But,
remember, my name will still be on the trophy.”

“As it should be. You won fair and square,” I said.

“No hard feelings, then?” He looked first at me, then at Mary.

“It's all good,” Mary said.

Mr. Meddle had some questions for Mary about yesterday's race and her near-death experience. Afterward, the photographer took a photo of Mary and me with the Pollypry, and one of Littledood with his trophy.

As they said their good-byes and thanks, Littledood followed the newspaper men out the door, saying, “If you want to take more pictures, I can show you the way to the site of the Packer massacre. In fact, I know where all the historical sites in Colorado are.”

“Well, now, I could sure use a guy like you on my paper staff,” Mr. Meddle answered.

When they were gone, Mr. Spinelli announced to his customers, “The
Golden Hill Times
special edition will be on sale next to the cash register by four o'clock this afternoon.”

And to Mary and me he said, “How about a couple of free root beers for my favorite indestructible patrons?”

“Yeah! Free root beers!” I shouted.