Yours Truly Read online

  For my maple buddy, Jonatha

  PROLOGUE

  It takes roughly forty gallons of sap to make a gallon of maple syrup.

  How do I know this? Welcome to life in the sticks.

  I never expected to become an expert on maple syrup, that’s for sure. Then again, I never expected to become a middle school private eye, either, or to spend Spring Break hunting for Bigfoot and wind up tangled in cobwebs in a long-forgotten tunnel. A whole lot of unexpected things have happened to me ever since my family left Texas and moved to Pumpkin Falls, New Hampshire.

  This isn’t a story about maple syrup, though. Not really. It’s the story of how I stumbled onto a secret in my grandparents’ house and unraveled a mystery dating back to the Civil War. And it all started the week I finally spotted an owl and celebrated the worst birthday of my life.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Knock it off, Lauren!” I stuffed my pillow over my head, trying to block out the noise on the other side of my bedroom door.

  Sunday was just about my only day to sleep in, thanks to swim team. I was usually up and in the pool by zero dark thirty. Which was fine—no complaints. The pool had always been my happy place. But ever since my younger sister discovered a box of our aunt’s old Nancy Drew books up in the attic and started reading The Hidden Staircase, she’d been wandering around the house at odd hours tapping hopefully on the walls.

  It was driving us all crazy.

  “Lauren!” I hollered again, and this time the racket finally stopped.

  Burrowing down under the covers, I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself to go back to sleep. It seemed like I was tired all the time these days. My mother said it was a symptom of impending teenage-hood. Maybe she was right, because my older brothers would sleep all day if she and my father let them. And I was turning thirteen soon.

  Soon?

  My eyes flew open. I sat bolt upright, flinging my pillow aside. How could I have forgotten? My birthday was today, not soon!

  I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, toes scrabbling for the slippers that waited on the hardwood floor. Reaching for my bathrobe, I slipped it on and sniffed the air expectantly. Lovejoy family birthdays always started with one of Dad’s special breakfasts: scrambled eggs, bacon, and homemade sourdough waffles with real maple syrup. I’d been looking forward to it all week.

  I shuffled across the room and out into the hall. There was no sign of Lauren, except for the fact that Miss Marple was sitting by my door, wearing a University of Texas T-shirt. Miss Marple is my grandparents’ golden retriever. We were taking care of her while my grandparents were in Africa.

  “Hey, girl,” I said, and leaned down to give her a pat. She looked up at me and whined. Lauren loved dressing her up, but Miss Marple was not a fan.

  I extricated her from the T-shirt, and she wagged her tail gratefully and followed me across the hall into my bathroom.

  I still wasn’t used to having one of my very own. It was pretty sweet, especially after having to share one with my brothers and sisters for so many years. Two older brothers—Hatcher and Danny—and two younger sisters—Lauren and Pippa, to be exact, putting me smack-dab in the middle. My dad was retired military, and for as long as I could remember we’d lived in base housing—Alabama, Colorado, Germany, Texas. Now, though, we were living in my grandparents’ house, the one my dad grew up in. How we ended up here was kind of complicated, but the short version was, my father lost an arm in the war in Afghanistan, and because of that he lost his chance to be a commercial airline pilot, and partly because of that and partly because they wanted to, Gramps and Lola joined the Peace Corps and moved to Namibia so my dad could have a job running the family bookstore with his sister, and we traded our home in Austin for living here in their house. Complicated, right?

  As Miss Marple settled happily onto the rug by the radiator, I got in the shower, humming the “Happy Birthday” song to myself and wondering if my parents had gotten me any presents. My cousin and best friend, Mackenzie, was my main gift—she was flying in from Texas tonight to spend Spring Break with me—but I’d spotted my mother sneaking a big bag inside the house yesterday, and I was pretty sure there was something for me inside.

  Hopefully, it was the new feeder I’d been eyeing in one of my grandfather’s birding catalogs. I’d placed the catalog strategically on the kitchen table a couple of weeks ago, open to the page in question. There was no way my parents could have missed it.

  I was planning to put it outside one of the windows in my room. I figured it would be almost like having pet birds.

  A person couldn’t have enough bird feeders. Especially when that person was as crazy about birds as I was.

  The house was still quiet when Miss Marple and I emerged from the bathroom.

  “They’re probably in the kitchen already, waiting to surprise me,” I whispered to the dog as I got dressed and then tiptoed downstairs. Correction: I tiptoed; Miss Marple galumphed. She wasn’t exactly the daintiest of dogs.

  The only surprise waiting for me, though, was an empty kitchen. There was no sign of my family, no sign of any presents, and, tragically, no sign of waffles.

  Disappointed, I glanced out the window. The driveway was empty too. Was there a wrestling tournament today that my parents and sisters had taken my brothers to? I’d almost forgotten my own birthday; maybe I’d forgotten about one of Hatcher’s and Danny’s wrestling matches as well.

  Just then I heard the door to the garage open, and a moment later my father walked in.

  Finally, I thought happily. Waffles.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” He eyed me, frowning.

  “Um . . . ,” I replied, looking down at my clothes. I’d made an effort for once—I was always getting scolded for not dressing up enough for church—and picked out what I thought was a pretty nice outfit.

  “Go get changed, Truly!” My father sounded impatient. “We haven’t got all day.”

  I looked at him, bewildered. “Aren’t we going to church?”

  “Not this morning. We’re needed at Freeman Farm.”

  My mother came into the kitchen behind him. “They have a syrup emergency,” she said, like that explained everything. “We just dropped your brothers and Lauren off to help, and Pippa is waiting in the car. You were in the shower when we left—didn’t you get our note?”

  I turned around and looked to where she was pointing. Sure enough, right there in plain sight leaning against the salt and pepper shakers was a tented piece of paper with TRULY written on it.

  “Don’t worry, honey, we haven’t forgotten you,” my mother promised. “We’ll have your special birthday breakfast tomorrow, after Mackenzie gets here.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. We weren’t going to celebrate my birthday until tomorrow?

  Seeing the expression on my face, my mother bit her lip. “It’s the right thing to do, Truly. The Freemans are swamped, what with the Maple Madness rush.”

  Maple Madness! I was sick of hearing about stupid Maple Madness. Our whole town had gone maple syrup crazy. The minute the weather conditions cooperated, all the farms and small backyard operations around town had begun scrambling to harvest the sap from the trees and turn it into liquid gold. And now, with April just around the corner, all anyone could talk about was Maple Madness.

  Every autumn New Hampshire flung its doors open wide for the leaf peepers—tourists obsessed with fall foliage—and every spring they did the same for the maple maniacs. All over the state there were special events and tours and other celebrations during “sugaring off” season, including Pumpkin Falls’ own week-long Maple Madness.

  And this year my birthday had the misfortune of falling right in the middle of the kickoff weekend.

  “But Mom, it’s m
y birthday,” I said, trying not to whine. An extra-special one, I wanted to add. The one I’d been waiting for forever, because today I was finally a teenager, which was practically a grown-up.

  “Truly.” My father’s voice had the warning note in it that meant business.

  I sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  My mother stretched up on her tiptoes and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. At six feet tall, I towered over her. In fact, I pretty much towered over everybody in my family, except for my aunt.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” my mother said. “And don’t worry—we’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

  Fat lot of good that does me today, I thought bitterly, and went upstairs to change my clothes.

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time we arrived at Freeman Farm, the line of cars waiting for the parking lot to open stretched halfway down Lovejoy Mountain.

  I still got a kick out of the fact that everybody around here called it a mountain. It was more of a molehill, really—and the ski run was a joke, compared to the ones we used to live near in Colorado.

  “Good thing we took the back way,” said my father, scowling at the traffic. “It’s practically at a standstill over by Maynard’s Maple Barn.”

  The farm next door to the Freemans was what’s called a “hobby farm.” It belonged to my swim coach. Like many people across New England, Coach Maynard and his wife had a small-time maple operation that they cranked up this time of year for fun and a little extra income. For the Freemans, though, maple syrup was their main business.

  My father tooted the horn to announce our arrival, and Mr. Freeman trotted over to move one of the sawhorses blocking the entrance to the lot.

  “I can’t thank you enough for coming,” he called, directing us into a parking spot. We all piled out of the minivan. A crowd of volunteers in orange aprons milled around nearby, including my brothers and two of my classmates from seventh-grade homeroom, Scooter Sanchez and Romeo Calhoun, who just went by “Calhoun” because he hated the name Romeo. I couldn’t blame him. Truly was bad enough—I was named for one of my ancestors—but Romeo? He and Scooter and I waved at one another.

  “Happy to help, Frank,” said my mother with one of her sunny smiles. “Where do y’all want us?”

  “Grace is hoping you’ll join her in the Snack Shack.” Mr. Freeman pointed toward a small shed at the far end of the puddle-strewn parking lot. “She’s been up since before dawn making donuts, and by the look of things she’s going to be busier than a one-eyed cat in a fish market today.”

  My mother laughed. “That busy, huh?” She took Pippa by the hand. “Come on, sweetheart, you can be my helper.”

  Mr. Freeman turned to my father. “J. T., how do you feel about taking over the parking detail? I need to prep the sugarhouse for the first tour.”

  “I’m on it,” said my father.

  Mr. Freeman frowned at the line of waiting cars. “I’m not sure how we’re going to squeeze everybody in. I can’t ever remember having a kickoff weekend this busy before.”

  “Good problem to have,” my father told him, and he brightened.

  “You’ve got a point.” Mr. Freeman started to go, then paused. “You’ll probably need to open the satellite lot in the field across the street soon. Franklin and I cleared the last of the snow away this morning, so it’s good to go. He and Annie know the ropes if you have any questions.”

  Annie Freeman detached herself from the gaggle of volunteers and came over to us as her father headed for the sugarhouse, a small wooden cabin beyond the barn and the Snack Shack.

  “These are for you,” Annie told my father and me, handing us each one of the bright orange aprons. On the front was the outline of a giant maple leaf with the words FREEMAN FARM printed inside. “My mother designed them—aren’t they cute? They’re for sale in the barn shop. Only you’ll probably get to keep yours for free, as a thank-you for volunteering. But act surprised when my mother tells you, okay? Volunteers have to wear them at all times,” she continued, without pausing to take a breath. “My father says it’s safer that way, and safety is our top P-R-I-O-R-I-T-Y during Maple Madness.”

  Annie Freeman was in the same fourth-grade class as my sister Lauren. She never stopped talking—or spelling. Annie was the reigning queen of the Grafton County Junior Spelling Championship, as she was quick to tell anyone who stood still long enough to listen.

  Lauren emerged from the barn just then, clutching a stack of orange flyers. Annie motioned her over and took a bunch. She thrust them into my hands. “One per car,” she told me.

  “Got it,” I replied, glancing down at the piece of paper on top of my pile.

  WELCOME TO MAPLE MADNESS!

  Tour the sugarhouse!

  Grab a treat at the Snack Shack!

  Stop by our barn store for more maple goodness

  and our special MAPLE MADNESS SALE!

  “Madness” is definitely the right word, I thought, wincing. Could this whole thing possibly be any more lame?

  My father checked his watch. “Okay, troops, it’s oh-nine hundred hours,” he announced crisply. “Time to get this show started!”

  Annie’s brother Franklin grabbed Scooter Sanchez and Calhoun and my brothers, and they all began moving the sawhorses that blocked the entrance to the parking lot. A moment later cars started streaming in.

  “Scooter and Calhoun, I’m stationing you two here with Franklin,” my father told my classmates. “Danny and Hatcher, you boys get the satellite parking lot across the street ready. By the looks of it, we’re going to need it for overflow soon.”

  He doled out a few more assignments, then turned to me. “Truly, you’re my floater. Look for anyone who needs extra help, cover for anyone who needs a break, take coffee to Mr. Freeman and any of the volunteers who look like they could use something hot to drink, that sort of thing.”

  I held up the orange flyers, and he nodded.

  “That too. Hand them out to the incoming—I mean the customers.”

  In thirty seconds flat, Lieutenant Colonel Jericho T. Lovejoy had slipped back into his element, barking orders at everyone in sight. As I headed off to do as he’d asked, I glanced back over my shoulder at him. With his leather flight jacket and glove covering his titanium arm and hand, my father looked like anybody else’s dad.

  He wasn’t, though. He was still adjusting to his “new normal,” as he and my mother called it. A new normal that for him meant no more military and no more flying helicopters and airplanes. Grounded by his injury, he’d traded that life for a new life in this teeny town where he’d grown up. I could tell he still missed the old life, though, even though he was doing a really good job running the family bookstore with his sister.

  “Where’s your aunt?” asked Annie, who apparently had a gift for mind reading as well as spelling.

  “Holding down the fort at the bookshop,” I told her. “It’s kind of a busy weekend, in case you haven’t heard.”

  Annie grinned. “Too bad Jasmine and Cha Cha aren’t here. They love Maple Madness.”

  Jasmine was Scooter Sanchez’s twin. She and Cha Cha Abramowitz were my closest friends in Pumpkin Falls. The two of them were in Florida for Spring Break, visiting Cha Cha’s grandparents. I’d been invited to go along, but I couldn’t because of Mackenzie.

  Who would be here in just a few more hours! There was one bright spot in this dud of a birthday, at least.

  “We’ll take that half of the parking lot; you take this half,” said Annie. She ran off to join my sister Lauren, her bouquet of dark braids bobbing.

  I made my way slowly toward the Snack Shack, passing out orange flyers as I went.

  “Need any help?” I asked when I reached my destination.

  “Thanks, Truly, but I think we’re okay for now.” Annie’s mother nodded toward Pippa, who was perched on a box behind the window counter, flirting with one of the customers as only a kindergartner can flirt. “This one’s quite the lucky charm.”

  I had to smile at
that. With her gap-toothed grin, pink sparkly glasses, and halo of strawberry blond curls, my baby sister had the world wrapped around her little finger.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many people turn out for Maple Madness kickoff weekend before,” Mrs. Freeman continued as she boxed up a dozen donuts for a waiting customer.

  “I think people are just grateful for a reason to celebrate spring, after the winter we’ve had,” my mother told her, adding hastily, “Not that they aren’t eager to sample your maple products too.”

  Pumpkin Falls and the rest of New England had just emerged from the coldest winter on record. It made the national news and everything. The snow in our town was epic—even the famous waterfall froze, which it hadn’t done for a hundred years. Spring was finally on its way now, though, and the ground, so recently blanketed in white, was a patchwork of brown as the remnants of the last snowstorm faded away.

  Of course, the beginning of spring also meant the beginning of what locals call “mud season.” We didn’t have that back in Texas, and it was just another in the long string of strikes against Pumpkin Falls, if you asked me, which nobody ever did.

  “Now that I think of it, we could use more paper plates and napkins,” Mrs. Freeman said. “Would you mind, Truly? They’re in the kitchen, on the bottom shelf in the pantry.”

  “No problem,” I told her, starting back across the parking lot. The sun felt good on my face, and my grumpy mood began to melt right along with the last of the snow. From all the weather reports I’d been hearing, conditions couldn’t be more perfect for a successful sap run—the weeks when the maple trees released their sugary liquid. “Cold nights plus warm days make for a busy season in the sugar bush,” one of the radio announcers had said just this morning on the drive over.

  I can’t believe I even pay attention to news like that, I thought in a rush of embarrassment. I’d have to watch my step once Mackenzie arrived. She’d never let me hear the end of it if I started spouting random facts about maple syrup.

  “Isn’t this a beautiful farm?” my mother asked me a few minutes later when I returned with the plates and napkins.