The Secret of Ferrell Savage (2 page)

That night, after she called me lazy, something weird happened. I walked Mary home, because Mom makes me do that if it's after dark, even though it's only half a block away. When we got to her house, I said “Bye” and turned around to leave.

But she said, “Wait, I have something for you. Hold out your hand,” and I did. She put a round yellow gumball into the palm of my hand. It was warm and sweaty from her own hand, which probably should have been kind of gross, but I thought it was cool. I held up the gumball to the light and saw that it had a face. Two eyes and heart-shaped lips, like a little kiss. I said “Thanks” and watched her walk up the steps to her front door.

I thought,
Wow, a gumball with a kissy face from Mary Vittles
, and then I popped it into my mouth. Only it wasn't a gumball; it was a marble. I'm lucky I didn't break a tooth, but I accidentally swallowed it. It hurt going down, and I felt it lodge itself in that space right between my heart and my stomach. As far as I know, it never came out, so it's probably caught there forever.

That night I watched
It's a Wonderful Life
with my parents, but I didn't hear a word Jimmy Stewart said. I thought about the marble, and for the first time ever, I was bothered that Mary had called me lazy.

MOM AND DAD DROPPED ME
off on the road at the top of the hill where all the other kids were making last-minute repairs on their sleds—or whatever you wanted to call them. Dad helped me pull mine out of the back of the station wagon.

“It's different,” he said, looking it over. “I've never seen anything like it. Looks solid, like it'll give a smooth ride.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, hoping he was right. I'd never actually tried it out.

The night before, after rattling my brain to find an explanation as to why I was suddenly bothered by
Mary, I decided explanations were stupid and I didn't need one. I simply knew I had to do what I had to do.

So I went to the garage to scope out materials that would get me to the bottom of Golden Hill.

Quick and easy to slap together was what I was aiming for. First, I thought of the wheelbarrow. If I took the wheel, the legs, and the handles off, it could work. But that would be too much like Mary's sink, and she wouldn't like that. Besides, I didn't have the abs to keep it from tipping over.

I could empty out a cardboard box and decorate it with Sharpie markers, but that's what a lot of kids do, and Mary would not be impressed. As I continued to dig around, I found an inner tube, a couple of mismatched skis with the bindings broken off, a shovel, a plastic garbage can, a pair of sawhorses, and a purple recycle bin. All had possibilities, except for maybe the sawhorses. And then I spotted it—the perfect sled. An old lawn chair, the kind you lie down on—a lounge. I was going to lounge down the hill!

I pulled it off the nail it was hanging on and unfolded it. The frame was lightweight, and the part you lie on was made of these wide straps that were woven together. Whenever someone sat on it for too long on a hot summer day, the big gaps in the weave
left checkerboard indents on their back. Once, when we had left it out, a big gust of wind carried it over the fence and into the neighbors' yard and into their dogwood tree, where it hung for weeks before another gust of wind finally blew it down and onto their lawn. The lounge had been through a lot.

I looked at its legs. There was no way they would slide across the snow without a little engineering. The mismatched skis! I could attach them to the legs with . . . not nails; they'd stick out and grab the snow and slow me down. And not rope, for the same reason. Superglue. We had a pack of three tubes on the workbench. I couldn't believe my luck. Everything was falling perfectly into place.

And so, there it was, sitting in the snow and winning the admiration of my dad. My lounge-sled, ready for its first run.

“Have fun, Ferrell. Don't worry about winning. Just go enjoy yourself,” Dad said. He patted me on the back. “See you at the bottom of the hill.”

“Good luck, honey. Don't forget to pull your hat down over your ears to keep them warm,” Mom called to me from the front seat of the car.

I waved to my parents as they drove off, and then I dragged my sled toward the registration line. Something sharp poked me in my leg, and then I
remembered the most important part of my racing apparatus. The decoration. I pulled a long, white feather from my pants pocket, smoothed it out, and stuck it in one of the small grommets on the lounge's frame. I had found the feather in a box in the garage, wrapped up in paper.

I remembered finding this same feather in a desk drawer in the living room when I was in first grade, and I had asked my dad if I could have it. I vaguely remembered him explaining that the feather had come from something called a pollypry, which had saved my mother's great-great-uncle from being killed. I hadn't cared much about the story behind it; I'd just wanted to jump off the couch and try one-wing flying. But Dad had pulled it out of my hand and said, “I better take that out to the garage before your mother sees it.” The feather had thick, black crud at the bottom, where it had been attached to the bird; Mom had probably been worried about germs and diseases.

I stroked my hand across the top of the feather and thought about how cool it would look fluttering behind me on the hill. If it ever had carried diseases, surely those germs were dried up by now.

Next to the registration line, a crowd of kids had
gathered around some short guy. At first I thought they were making fun of him for wearing a blue-and-green plaid snowsuit, but as I got closer and heard the oohs and aaahs, I saw they were admiring his sled. I squeezed into the crowd to get a better look.

The sled had shiny, sleek, metal rudders; a polished wooden seat; and shock absorbers underneath.

“Suh-weet,” I said.

“I know,” the kid said. “I built it myself.” His bigheadedness was a little surprising, but, hey, there was no denying that this sled could be used in the army if we ever go to war in the North Pole.

“I call it the Titanium Blade Runner,” he said.

More oohs and aaahs came from the crowd, including me.

“What about you?” he asked, looking at me. “What have you got?”

I had forgotten I needed to give my sled a name. I thought for a minute, and then it was obvious.

“Mine's called the Pollypry,” I said.

The plaid-clad boy's jaw dropped, and his eyes got big. “Polly? Pry?” he sputtered, leaning toward me. “Why are you calling it that?”

I backed up, wondering what in the world had
made this kid so excited that he was about to jump out of his snowsuit.

I pointed to the feather, thinking that would make it obvious. “A pollypry saved my mom's great-great-uncle's life.”

“No way! Are you a Packer?”

My head was starting to spin. First, we're talking about sleds, then we're talking about birds, and now he's asking me if I'm a Green Bay Packers fan?

“Gosh, no! I'm a Broncos fan all the way!” I said.

“Go, Broncos!” a couple of people shouted.

“Hey, I need to talk to you,” the plaid kid said. But the crowd was getting thicker around his Titanium Blade Runner, and I got shoved out of the way.

I pulled off my hat and scratched my head. Wow, and people say I have an attention deficit disorder. That poor kid couldn't stay on one topic for more than half a sentence.

I put my hat back on, pulling it down over my ears like my mom had asked me to, and dragged the Pollypry toward the registration line.

“Hey, Savage!” My two best buddies, Coby and Eilio, called to me from the line.

“Whoa, that's cool,” Coby said, checking out my lounge. “You'll be like a tropical Santa Claus sitting on
that thing. Look, you've even got a drink holder!” He threw down his garbage can lid to get a better look.

Eilio ran his hand across the feather. “Is this supposed to catch the wind and make you go faster?”

Coby laughed. “How're you gonna control the thing?” he asked.

I hadn't thought of that. I lay down on it, and the feather towered over my head. I put my hands behind my head. “I'll lean side to side, like this,” I said, and showed them.

“Unless you fall asleep,” Eilio said.

I shut my eyes and pretended to snore, and they howled with laughter.

“Not too bad.” That was Mary's voice. I opened my eyes, and there she was, hovering over me with her metal sink. “It suits you somehow.”

I hoped that was a good thing. “Thanks,” I said, just in case.

“The feather is a nice touch,” she added.

Oh yeah, I definitely scored there!

“Dang, Mary. Yours is so shiny, it's blinding me,” Eilio said. “How'd you get it like that?”

“Months of rubbing and polishing. Mine lacks aerodynamics, but it makes up for it in resistance. Feel.” She held out her sink, and we all took off
our mittens to stroke the bottom of it. “No friction between me and the snow.”

“Where's yours, Eilio?” she asked. I was wondering the same thing.

“Aw, I'm just here for the swag,” he said.

“Well, I'm here to win,” Mary declared.

“You will,” I said.

We all wished one another luck, and after I watched her walk away, I lay back down and let the warm sun heat up my down jacket. That's one of the things I love about Colorado—even when the ground's covered with snow, the air can feel like springtime.

I guess I lay there for too long, because by the time I got up and registered, I was number fifty-nine out of sixty contestants. Mary was fourth, and I watched her go. She curled her legs up tight and sailed down, smooth and sleek.

“Go, Mary,” I whispered, making fists inside my mittens. But just before she got to the bottom, there was a loud pop, and her rubber plug went flying in the air. She came to a dead stop.

“Awwww!” the audience shouted, feeling her pain.

“Call a plumber!” a big kid yelled. Some folks laughed, but Mary shot the big kid a look that I'm
sure made him feel like he'd just been flicked in the forehead. I've gotten many of those looks from Mary, and believe me, they sting.

She walked off the hill with her head hanging low, dragging her sink on its rope behind her.

Coby was number forty, and he zinged by on his lid. But he went off course and into the crowd, taking a couple of grown men down, like bowling pins. Jerry Dunderhead tried out his new and improved ski-ike, and this time he made it almost halfway down the hill before he hit a snow mound and was tossed into the air. He landed hard on his bike seat and then fell over, grabbing himself on the you-know-what. Every guy watching crossed their legs tight and said, “Aw, oh, oww!” Jerry was carried off with the help of his mom and his little sister.

Lots of kids had made their marks on this hill—some of those marks not so pleasant—and now it was my turn. I looked at the finish line, way down below. My hands were sweating inside my mittens. It was rare that I ever had butterflies, but there they were, flying around in that space between my stomach and my heart, where the kissy-face marble was lodged. But I also had this other weird feeling. Something I'd never felt before.

I wanted to win.

I wanted to shred that hill and get the big trophy. And when I got the big trophy, I knew exactly what I'd do with it. I would give it to Mary.

I sat up on the lawn chair at the gate, which wasn't really a gate at all (it was just two stakes stuck into the ground). I leaned forward, waiting for Mr. Spinelli to pop the cap gun. I spotted Mary below in her teal-blue hat.

Then
bam
! Mr. Spinelli's gun went off.

I pushed against the stakes with my hands and then reclined all the way back, stretching my neck just enough to catch a glimpse of the pollypry feather bending backward, like a palm tree in a hurricane. I kept my legs straight, my arms at my sides, and my toes as pointed as possible inside my boots. Then I tucked my chin down and closed my eyes tight. The sun was shining in my face so bright that I couldn't have opened my eyes if I'd wanted to. Then I heard a rip. Then a bigger
riiiip
, and the next thing I knew, the Pollypry had sucked me in and swallowed me whole. I was caught in the bowels of the lounge, digested by the straps and metal frame.

What happened next is all a blur to me, and everyone in town seems to have a different version of the
same story. But when I put them all together and average them out, the gist seems to come down to this: At about fifty feet from the top, I was still building up speed when suddenly I vanished—just disappeared—and no one knew where I'd gone. The sled was airborne, flying off without me. But when the crowd finally spotted me on the hill, I was rolling, spinning, cartwheeling, and even did a backflip. All I know for sure is that I was twisted and mangled, and at one point I felt my knees hit the back of my neck. I rolled, and rolled some more, the world spinning—turning snow white, then sky blue, then back again—until I reached the bottom of the hill. Some people say the whole episode seemed to take hours; others say it happened in less than two Mississippis. Poor Mr. Spinelli forgot to look at his watch, so we'll never know.