Mo Wren, Lost and Found Read online

  Mo Wren,

  Lost and Found

  Tricia Springstubb

  Dedication

  For that wild and wonderful little sister, Jessie

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Mo No Go

  Origami Life

  The Brave

  Inventions

  Travelers

  WILCUM!

  The Curse

  The Yellow Sweater

  Uh-Oh

  The Soap Opera

  The Pits

  Shelter

  Wishes

  Handsome

  Comfortable

  The Blue Sweatshirt

  The Curse, Part Two

  Don’t Worry

  The Return

  The Plum Tree

  The Red Sweatshirt

  Passengers

  The Curse, Part Three

  Swimming across the Ocean

  Free to a Good Home

  Mo Wren, Murderer

  No Turning Back

  Or Else

  The Truth about Corky

  Lost and Never Found

  The Curse, Part Four

  The You-Know-What, Part Five

  The Grand(?) Opening

  The Craziest Thing

  The Right People

  Stumpy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Tricia Springstubb

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Mo No Go

  4 SALE BY OWNER, said the sign.

  At first the words had shouted, but by now they just sort of muttered. Since last summer, the sign had gotten drenched by rain and beaten up by wind. For Halloween, one of the Baggott boys festooned it with toilet paper, and at Thanksgiving an early snowstorm topped it with a sparkly white cap. Around Christmas the weather warmed up, setting Fox Street melting and dripping. In the Wrens’ muddy front yard, the faded 4 SALE sign tilted sideways. You could almost hear it saying, “Really, I’ve tried my best, but I’m getting tired out here.”

  That New Year’s Day, Mo Wren was the first one up. She pulled on her jacket and stepped out into the bright morning. Not a soul in sight. Being a dead end, Fox Street was naturally more peaceful than most places. But this morning’s hush was different. Mo told herself everyone was worn out, after staying up late banging pots to chase the old year out and being serenaded by Baggott firecrackers, not to mention the whoop-whoop of the patrol car when old Mrs. Steinbott had called the police on them. Up on the corner, the Tip Top Club had celebrated big-time. Fox Street, Mo told herself, was just sleeping in, gathering its mojo for the new year to come.

  A sparrow flew down and perched above the 4. Cocking its brown head, it fixed Mo with a questioning eye.

  “Happy new year,” she said, and to her own surprise the words came out in a whisper, as if the morning were a sleeping dog she’d better not disturb.

  A car turned the corner onto the little street. For the most part, nobody came down Fox Street unless they lived here or had made a wrong turn. Since the 4 SALE sign had gone up, though, a number of prospective buyers had found their way to the Wrens’ door. They stood in the yard to peer up at the roof and trooped down to the basement to inspect the pipes. After a while they let loose with a low whistle, mumbled thanks a lot, climbed back into their cars, and took off without a backward glance.

  Each time, Mo’s breath whooshed out in a grateful sigh of relief.

  The car made its slow, clanky way down the street. In the front seat, two swiveling heads checked out the houses.

  “Uh-oh,” she whispered to the sparrow. “They’re looking for us.”

  Mo didn’t want anyone buying their house. She didn’t want to move away. Oh, what a measly sentence that was! Like saying a bird would rather not fall out of the nest, or a fish disliked the idea of getting hooked from the river.

  Since Fox Street was so short, only five houses on each side, and since the Wrens’ house stood right in the middle, the car didn’t have far to go. It stopped with an extra-loud clank, as if it had just made it. And then the hush returned, but not all the way. The morning had a hole poked in it now. Something was going to happen.

  The car doors opened. With an alarmed cheep, the sparrow took off.

  Mo watched a young man and woman climb out. The man shaded his eyes in the bright sun, gazing at the Wrens’ house, while the woman leaned into the backseat and brought out a baby. The baby had a pink hat and eyes like raisins. As her mother carried her toward the house, she pointed a chubby finger at Mo.

  “Go!” she commanded.

  “I live here,” said Mo.

  “Well, you’re a lucky one, then,” said the father. “This looks like the perfect street to grow up on!”

  “It is,” said Mo before she could think. “I mean, it’s all right.”

  The man’s name was Tim. His wife was Sarah, and the baby was Min.

  “I’m Mo.”

  “Go!” yelled the baby.

  “No, Mo. Mo no go.”

  The baby stared, and then a laugh popped out of her, like a cork from a bottle. Her parents both laughed too.

  “She likes it here already, don’t you, Min?” Sarah had dimples in both cheeks. “Have you lived here long?” she asked Mo.

  “Eleven years. My whole life. I was born here.”

  “My goodness,” said Sarah, but before she could add anything more, Mr. Wren hurried out the front door, stuffing his shirt tail into his pants.

  “Happy new year!” His curly hair was uncombed, and you could see the pillow crease in his cheek. He shook hands all around, even with Min.

  “I bet Mo’s been telling you what a great neighborhood this is. She and her little sister love it here. Love it! It’s kid heaven. A cul-de-sac with a Metropark at the end of the street? And you couldn’t ask for better neighbors. We hate to go, but things change. Come on, I’ll show you inside.”

  Cul-de-sac! Where’d he get that? The family followed Mr. Wren into the house. Min had pulled off her hat, and her black hair shone like a little helmet. Mo guessed she was adopted from China. Imagine traveling thousands and thousands of miles, across all those countries and continents, all the way to Fox Street. To this very house. It was amazing. Almost an honor.

  What was Mo thinking! Who said they’d buy the house? She pulled in a lungful of sun-warmed air. Fox Street was waking up. In his driveway Mr. Duong popped the hood of his car and peered at the engine. The Baggotts’ front door flew open, and Baby Baggott ran outside naked. Hands over head, he did a few laps around the yard but must have gotten cold, and he ran back in. Next door, Mrs. Steinbott swept her spotless porch, waved to Mo, and went back in.

  “Happy new year, Mo!” Pi Baggott rolled by on his skateboard. Glancing back to make sure Mo was watching, he flew across the pothole in the middle of the street. Mo’s heart skipped, as if she rode on the board too.

  Her whole life. More than a decade. Every person she truly cared about was from Fox Street.

  Including her mother. She was still here, even if she wasn’t.

  Mo resolved to ignore the morning’s strange foreboding. She was a thinker, after all. So, think. Why should Min’s family be any different from the others who’d looked at the house? Judging by their car, they weren’t exactly rolling in money. It was obvious—that 4 SALE sign wouldn’t be coming down anytime soon. In fact, it was time to straighten it up. Mo yanked it out of the ground and was preparing to set it squarely back when the front door opened again and her father jumped down the steps.

  “Whoa!” he cried. “Let’s not count our chickens. But I bet you’re right. I think
this is it.”

  “It?” Mo clutched the sign like a shield.

  “They’re up in your room—Sarah says it’s the perfect little-girl room.” He smiled. “They both keep saying everything’s perfect. Of all the people who’ve looked at the place, they give me the right feeling.”

  “But . . .”

  “They’re not just looking at a house, Mo. They’re already seeing a home.” Mr. Wren took the sign and leaned it against the porch rail. “Cross your fingers,” he said, and dashed back inside.

  Mo crossed her fingers. But she knew her wish and her father’s didn’t match.

  Origami Life

  For most of her life, Mo had understood next to nothing about adults. But one thing she was sure of: They were in charge.

  So if her teacher was mean and unfair, Mo assumed the woman chose to be like that. If a neighbor was grouchy, or a sales clerk scolded, “Hands off the merchandise, kid,” Mo figured they enjoyed pushing other people around. When her father grumbled over his job, or kicked the lawn mower instead of trying to fix it, or sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, Mo would think, He could be happy if he really wanted to.

  Grown-ups were in charge of everything else. They must be in charge of their feelings and their actions. Right?

  But the older you got, the more complicated life was. It began to resemble origami, where what you see is a crane or a rabbit, but not the dozens of folds and creases that went into creating it. Mr. Wren did want to be happy. He wanted them all to be happy—him and Mo and Dottie, the way they used to be years ago, before the accident. He wanted this with all his might, like a bodybuilder struggling to raise weights off the floor. But no matter how much he grunted and strained, he couldn’t do it. Not since she had died.

  For Mo’s mother, being happy had been as easy as flowing is for water. And like water, her happiness needed to spread, so anyone who came near her got swept up too. Mo remembered her father, who’d never met a job he liked, coming home from work. The minute he stepped through the door, his crabbiness vanished, like a bear’s pelt falling away to reveal a prince. One arm went around her mother and the other scooped up Mo. Sometimes the three of them put on a dance party right there in the kitchen. Other evenings they’d lie beneath the plum tree, counting the fruit like purple stars.

  Dottie came along later, for better or for worse. While Mo had dark hair like their father’s, Dottie’s head was covered with wild red curls like their mother’s. Mo could remember being out in the backyard, supervising her baby sister as she picked up fallen plums and plopped them in a bucket. All at once she’d hear her father singing. Having a terrible voice didn’t stop him. When he was happy, he belted out a tune. And when he was home, he was happy.

  It could have gone on like that forever! Happy and safe and simple. But three years ago, a furniture truck came speeding down Paradise Avenue just as Mrs. Wren stepped off the curb. Bystanders said the truck came out of nowhere, and that was where it left Mo, Dottie, and Mr. Wren.

  Since she’d died, Mr. Wren’s happiness had dwindled down to a sliver as thin and transparent as the last lick of a lollipop. The lines between his dark eyes just dug in deeper and deeper. Sometimes, when he and Mo strolled down the street, a woman passing by would give him a second glance. You could almost hear her wondering, “What would it take to cheer that broody man up?”

  As time went by, Mr. Wren hatched his own cheer-up plan. Sell their house on Fox Street and use the money to buy a new place. He’d always dreamed of being his own boss, and what could be better than a neighborhood sports bar? Mr. Wren knew how to grill a mean burger, and he loved to talk sports, especially baseball. It’d be a family place, where parents took their kids after the school concert and teenagers could crowd into a booth and eat cheese fries after the game. Breakfast—Mo’s favorite meal—would always be on the menu.

  Mo got uneasy hearing about it. For her, happiness was digging in, watering your roots. For her father, it was more along the lines of jumping off a cliff. But the daydream made her father happy, and who doesn’t want to see her father happy?

  Things had taken a turn last summer, when he’d found a tavern for sale across the river. It was in a neighborhood full of potential, Mr. Wren said. When Mo asked what that was supposed to mean, he said the new neighborhood was part of the future, not the past. Corky’s Tavern had been empty for months, and the price was right. A new coat of paint, some elbow grease—they’d turn that place right around. Upstairs was a nice cozy apartment—think of it. He could work and live in the same place. They’d always be together!

  He even had a name for the restaurant. The Wren House.

  If only he could scrape together the money for a down payment!

  Whack. The 4 SALE sign went into the ground.

  And then the months crept by. Months when the lines in his face made Mo think of origami creases that never smoothed out. Months when she wished with all her might for her father to be happy, and wished just as hard that they’d never have to leave Fox Street. Two opposite wishes that, maybe, canceled each other out. Because there the sign still stood. And here the Wrens still lived.

  Until the morning of New Year’s Day.

  The Brave

  “Give me strength,” said Mo’s neighbor, Da Walcott. Leaning on her cane, she ran her sharp eye over the piles of stuff on the Wrens’ tree lawn. “I wish I could help. This is a big job, Mo Wren.”

  Mo swallowed. Every time she turned around, the thought of something else she was going to miss hit her square in the chest.

  1) the plum tree

  2) Mrs. Steinbott’s roses

  3) the ravine (also known as the Green Kingdom)

  4) Pi Baggott (this being a secret)

  Now she’d have to add

  5) the funny way Da makes my name sound like Moron, not on purpose, of course

  “Our new apartment’s not that big,” Mo said. “And besides, a lot of this is just junk.”

  As if to prove her right, along came Leo Baggott and picked up a broken toaster.

  “Only one side works and you have to hold it down the whole time,” Mo told him. “Plus sometimes it gives you a shock.”

  “We’re used to eating our bread raw,” he said, tucking it under his arm with satisfaction.

  “One person’s trash is another person’s treasure.” Da wrapped her scarf tighter around her swanlike neck. The cold weather was back, a few snowflakes drifting down. “So who bought the house in the end?”

  “It was weird. These people with the baby and the clunker car? Sarah and Tim? They came to see it, and then the next day another couple did too. They both wanted to buy it. All of a sudden, our house turned popular.”

  “Those people with the fancy eyeglasses?” said Da. “Snazzy little red car?”

  “Umm-hmm. She’s an architect—it sounds like knocking down walls is her specialty. He wants to have his law office here.”

  Da, a retired schoolteacher, pressed her lips together as if waiting for a student to stop hemming and hawing and get to the answer.

  “So,” said Mo, “they had what you call a bidding war. But it was over pretty soon.”

  “Well, money talks.” Da frowned and fingered the edges of her scarf. “I bet that poor young couple was heartbroken.”

  “Oh, no. Daddy sold to them.”

  “He did!” Da looked astonished. “Well. Your father’s never been the predictable kind.”

  Mo nudged a broken-bottomed doll stroller with the toe of her shoe. It didn’t matter to her who bought their house. What mattered was that she had to leave it, and soon. Just that morning, her father had quit his job at the water department. One of the trash bags held his muddy uniform. It was like he couldn’t wait to put every last bit of their old life behind them.

  “It’s natural to feel upset.” Da possessed a teacher’s mind-reading ability. But it was more than that between the two of them. Da had known her all her life. Even before, she liked to say, since she and Mo�
��s mother had been fond friends. Not only that. Da was grandmother to Mo’s best friend, Mercedes, who came up from Cincinnati every summer to stay with her. In eleven years, Mo had spent nearly as much time in the Walcott house as she had in her own.

  “You love Fox Street better than anybody,” Da said. “This isn’t going to be easy for you, child.”

  Da gave a shiver. She had diabetes, and last winter she’d had four of her toes amputated, a polite way of saying “cut off leaving nothing but stumps.” She wasn’t supposed to be outside long, her circulation was so bad.

  “Have you talked to Mercey about moving?”

  “Not really,” said Mo. The truth was, she and Mercedes didn’t talk much when they were apart. For Mo, her friend’s school-year life had a hazy quality, like the view through a smudged window. And yet the minute Mercedes showed up, the very June morning they were reunited each year, it was as if they’d never been separated.

  Mo squinted through the thickening snow at Da’s house. She could almost see Mercedes and herself sitting on that front porch, drinking Da’s puckery lemonade, the long summer days stretching out before them. Da said she and Mo’s mother used to relax on that same porch, in those same chairs with the backs like seashells, listening to the ball game on the radio.

  Mo swallowed again. She wondered if she was going to have this lump in her throat for the rest of her life.

  “That’s probably because she’s still in shock,” said Da. She waved her cane at a black bird pecking one of the trash bags. “After a decade as an only child, I guess that’s natural.”