A Mango-Shaped Space

Little Brown and Company

Chapter One

"B is for Basil, assaulted by bears," I reply, continuing the morbidrhyme we memorized off the poster on my bedroom wall. Each letter ofthe alphabet has a rhyme about a little kid meeting some bizarreend. I like the poster because it is in black and white to everyoneelse, but inside my head, it's in color. "Could it be any hotterout?" Jenna asks, panting with the effort to keep her footing on theslippery slope.

The sweat dripping down my face is enough of an answer. August hasrolled around too soon, and we only have a few more weeks beforeeighth grade starts. If we lived a little farther south, a tumbleweedwould tumble by. As we stumble down the familiar path of tall,sun-bleached grass and dry earth, I can feel the air thickening,preparing for a storm.

At thirteen, Jenna and I are much too old for day camp. We alreadylive out in the country, with all the fresh air we could want.

We entertain ourselves by pretending there is still some square inchof countryside that we haven't discovered yet. Every day we explorethe hills, the valley in between, the ravine, the woods. Last summer wefound an arrowhead half buried under a bush. My father said it mighthave been from the Blackhawk War, the one that Abe Lincoln fought inwhen he was young. This year all we've found is the same oldcrabgrass, same old bugs, same old us. But still, exploring passesthe time. The absence of wind today means we're spared the smell ofmanure from the Roth's farm across the valley. That's something tobe thankful for.

When we were younger, we used to pretend that the ravine, always drylike this during the summer months, would lead us someplaceelse-somewhere magical, with adventures and swords and talkinganimals like in the Narnia books. Sometimes I still catch Jennapeeking behind bushes for hidden doorways. She's trying to find away to reach her mother, who died three years ago from some kind ofcancer that only women get. Mrs. Davis was so sweet and pretty, withred hair and freckles just like Jenna. Except Jenna is short likeme, and Mrs. Davis was really tall. Before she died, Jenna's mombought us the rope friendship bracelets that we have never takenoff. She said that as long as we kept them on, nothing could comebetween us. I explain this to my own mother every time she begs meto cut off the bracelet, which is now too tight to slip over my hand.Who cares if it's gray and fraying and maybe even a little smelly?

The wind starts up slightly, and a big green leaf sticks to the sweaton my leg. I hold still and count to twelve before it flutters andfalls to the ground. The color of the leaf is exactly the same coloras Jenna's name-a bright, shimmering shade of green with some yellowhighlights. I think part of why I liked Jenna right away is that Ilike the color of her name. But I'd never tell her that, nor would Itell my older sister, Beth, that her name is the murky brown ofswamp water. Beth is sixteen and in the process of wearing down ourparents' patience. She changes her hair color the way normal peoplechange their underwear. We used to be a lot closer, before she wentto high school and dropped me like a piping-hot bag of microwavepopcorn. Before she left for the summer, she told me the boys wouldpay more attention to me if I colored my hair blond. I told her I'dstick with my boring brown, thank you very much. The only naturalblond in the family is Zack. He just turned eleven, and his name isthe light blue of a robin's egg. Zack has a lot of strange ideas. Hecan tell you exactly how many McDonald's hamburgers he's eaten inhis lifetime. He has a detailed chart on his wall. The local paperran a story about it once.

Jenna stops walking and points at my feet. "Your sneakers areuntied," she says. "For a change."

I kick my sneakers off, tie the laces together, and drape them overmy shoulder. I prefer to be barefoot anyway. Every night, the waterin the bottom of my shower turns brown for a minute as the dirt runsfrom between my toes. Beth refuses to shower after me. Jenna startsto say something, but her words get drowned out by a helicopterflying overhead. The roaring sound instantly fills my vision withbrown streaks and slashes, and I look up to see the familiarmarkings of my father's chopper. He sells and repairs small farmequipment and uses the helicopter to get to out-of-the-way places.Jenna and I wave, long hair whipping around our faces, but I don'tthink he sees us. When Zack was little, he was scared Dad wouldn't beable to find his way home. Zack cried and cried every time thehelicopter took off. Finally Dad took me and Beth and Zack up in thechopper with him to show us how easy it is to spot the landing site.Beth threw up the entire time and hasn't gone for a ride since.

"Are you ever scared to fly with him?" Jenna asks when we can heareach other again. "That thing looks like it's ready to fall apart."

"It's fun," I tell her, tucking my hair back in its ponytail. "Itfeels like you 're a bird up there. Everything looks different.You're always welcome to come with us, you know."

A look of horror flits across Jenna's face. "No thanks." In all theseyears, Jenna has never accepted my offer. "So have you gone up tothe cemetery yet?" she asks as we continue walking along the bottomof the ravine.

"No, not yet. I still have to finish the painting." It was Jenna'sidea that I bring my grandfather a present on the one-yearanniversary of his death. She brings her mother something each year,and her mother gives her gifts from the grave. Well, sort of. WhenMrs. Davis knew she wasn't going to live much longer, she stocked upon presents and wrote long letters about her life. She gave them tomy mother to keep, and each year on Jenna's birthday, my mothersends her one of the packages in the mail. One of these years, thegifts are going to run out and that will be a very sad birthdayindeed.

"Can I see the painting?" Jenna asks, even though she knows better.

"You know it's bad luck to show it before it's done." "Why are youso superstitious?" she asks, wiping her sweaty brow and leaving astreak of dirt. "I thought your brother's superstitions drove youcrazy."

"They do," I insist. "I'm not half as bad as him. If a black catcrosses his path, he locks himself in his room for the rest of theday. And forget walking under ladders. If he sees our father do it,he makes him walk around the house backward. Twice. Zack says thatif Dad really wanted to make sure he undid the bad luck, he wouldcross his fingers until he saw a dog." "But you don't have a dog."

"I know." "And what's with the ladder thing anyway?" I shrug. "I haveno idea. But you definitely don't want to walk under one." "There'sa lot of weirdness in your family," Jenna says, picking at a scab onher elbow.

She doesn't even know about my own personal brand of weirdness. Likeeverybody else, she seems to have forgotten about my third-gradeincident. Which is just fine with me. "You know," Jenna says,stepping carefully over a gnarled branch, "my father told me itcould take a soul a whole year to reach heaven. Maybe that's why ittook you a year to finish the painting of your grandfather."

I have my own theory on my grandfather's soul, but I haven't toldanyone. After all, I am good at keeping secrets. "That could be it," Irespond. "C'mon, let's get back so it doesn't take me any longer. Iwant to bring the painting to the cemetery before dinner."

"Do we have time for a quick PIC mission?" Jenna asks as we climbback up the slope.

I hated to skip out on the best part of the day, our PIC mission.Partners in Crime. The term was another gift from Jenna's mom. Shemade it up after she caught me standing guard while Jenna stolequarters from the cow-shaped cookie jar in their kitchen. After thatwe learned to be more careful. In fifth grade, we hid in Beth'scloset when she had a slumber party. We heard lots of juicy gossip,as well as some stuff about how babies are made that cleared up afew lingering questions. To this day, Jenna and I count that as ourmost successful mission.

"I really can't today," I tell her. "Oh, it's okay. I can't think ofanything good anyway. This town is just too boring." She kicks up apile of dirt with the toe of her sneaker and sighs loudly.

It takes longer than it should to get home because we have to walkall the way around the Davises' fields. Jenna's father actuallyfarms his land; he grows soybeans and the sweetest corn for milesaround. My father plowed under our fields to make the landing spacefor his helicopter. Jenna's father thinks my father is lazy since heonly flies three times a week and is back by dinnertime. My fatherthinks Jenna's father should mind his own business. "Is your dadever going to stop working on your house?" Jenna asks as we comeinto view of it. Everyone in town, including the rest of myfamily, wants to know the answer to that question. The helicopter isnow parked out back, and my father is already halfway up the ladderon his way to the roof.

"I don't think so," I reply honestly. My sprawling house is famousin these parts and never fails to get a reaction. First, peoplestare. They look up; they look down. Sometimes they even do thattwice. The house is almost like a living creature that keepsexpanding and contracting and remaking itself. Every inch of it wasbuilt by my father and grandfather from all different kinds ofwood-whatever they could borrow, barter, or beg for. They could neveragree on how the house should be laid out, so they each did theirown thing and eventually met up in the middle.

This technique resulted in a number of doors that lead nowhere andstairs that go inside walls like secret passageways. That is howJenna and I managed to wind up in the back of Beth's closet, so Iguess the spider web filled tunnels are good for something. My fatheris usually on a ladder hammering away at the roof when he's nottinkering with the chopper. I call him Casper because we hardly eversee him at ground level. He calls me Wild Child because I'm alwaysrunning around barefoot feeling the earth under my feet andpredicting rain.

"Hi, Mr. Winchell," Jenna shouts. My father waves at us with hishammer, his mouth full of nails. "Bye, Mr. Winchell," Jenna shoutsagain as she heads toward her own smaller and much more normalhouse. He tries to wave again, slips slightly, then quickly regainshis balance.

"How long will you be up there?" I call out. "Till your mother makesme come down." "Great," I mutter. That means at least a few morehours of hammering until Mom brings Beth back from the airport. Beth's been gone for six whole weeks at a summer college-prep program inCalifornia. She won a full scholarship by writing an essay on thepressure of writing an essay. It was Zack 's idea. Her return is alltoo soon if you ask me. It was nice not having anyone boss me around.

The hammering begins and the familiar mottled gray bursts of colorappear about a foot away from my face. The color and shape of ahammer hitting a nail has become such a part of my existence that Ibarely notice it. I can see right through the color-bursts, but theystill distract me from whatever I 'm doing. If it was a nicer color, Imight not mind as much.

I slip into my sneakers as I approach the back kitchen door,stepping cautiously around wooden planks, hammers, nails, and one veryscary-looking chain saw. As always, the smell of sawdust is in the airand on my clothes and in my throat. It is inescapable around here, andit has long since mingled with the taste of multicolored chalk dustthat still haunts me from third grade.

I go up to my room and look for Mango, whose official name is Mangothe Magnificant. He usually sleeps at the foot of my bed on my oldWinnie-the-Pooh baby blanket, completely covering the faded Pooh andPiglet walking into the sunset. He's not there now, but he left behindhis favorite toy-a stuffed Tweety Bird that he likes to carry aroundin his mouth. I call out his name and hear afaraway, orange-soda-colored meow in response. I trace the sound toBeth's room and find the little gray-and-white traitor curled up onBeth's pillow. I swoop him up in my arms and glance at Beth's nighttable. By some huge oversight on her part, Beth left her diary rightout in plain sight when she went to California. When I first noticedit, I thought maybe she wanted me to read it. Then I decided that shehad probably booby-trapped it somehow and she'd know if I peeked.

I deposit Mango on my blanket, where he belongs. I start to shut thedoor behind me, when Zack sticks his foot in the way. "Just asec, Mia," Zack says, pushing the door back open. "I need to dosomething."

"You need to do something in my room?" I ask, instantlysuspicious. Zack has only recently gotten over his destructive phase.For years, nothing in the house was safe. He was very good at takingthings apart but much less skilled at the art of putting them backtogether.

"Don't worry," he insists. "It will only take a second." "On onecondition," I say, trapping him in the doorway. "You have to tell mewhy it's bad luck to walk under a ladder." He rolls his eyes. "That'seasy. It's because you're disrupting the sacred triangle of lifeformed by the ladder, the ground, and the wall."

"Huh?" I let my guard down,, and he takes this opportunity to brushpast me into my room. He heads directly over to my clock collectionon the far wall. I follow him and notice he's clutching severalwatches in his small hands. Two belong to my father, one is mymother's, and one is Beth's.

"What are you doing with all those wa-" "Shh," he says, cutting meoff. "I have to get this exactly right." He stares at the faces of myclocks as if they have a message for him. "Get what exactly ri-"

"Shh!" His eyes dart from the wooden cuckoo clock to the fluorescentstar-shaped one, over to the big digital one, down to the clock in theshape of a train, and across to the electronic one that speaks thetime out loud. I've collected clocks since first grade.

Every Christmas, I get to pick out another one. "I have to set thesewatches exactly right," Zack explains, busily twisting the watchdials to match the time on my synchronized clocks. "Otherwise, some ofus will be living in the past and some in the future. In the verysame house! Can't have that. Very bad." "What difference could aminute or two make?" "It has to do with folds in the space-timecontinuum, obviously," he replies, as though I should clearly haveknown that.



Continues...
Excerpted from A Mango-Shaped Spaceby Wendy Mass Copyright ©2005 by Wendy Mass. Excerpted by permission.
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