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  Conrad raises his eyebrows at Quentin and Quentin shrugs his shoulders and looks back at him. So Conrad shoves his chair back, making a tremendous scraping sound in the quiet of the room, which Quentin decides is the funniest thing he ever heard. “I can’t just go ask her that,” Conrad says.

  “Well, think of something,” I whisper.

  As a testament to Conrad’s intelligence, he goes over to the checkout desk and looks at Miss Ferguson and says, “I heard the book Tiny Bailey was reading was real good and I wanted to read it next. Can I get on the wait list for that book?”

  “Well,” says Miss Ferguson, pulling out Tiny Bailey’s library card, “Tiny Bailey hasn’t taken a book out of the library since he was in fifth grade some eight years ago. At that time he had a book out called Creeping Crawling Spiders by Harrison Gillis. There isn’t a wait list on it at all. Do you want me to get that book for you, Conrad?”

  “Uh, maybe,” says Conrad, and Quentin starts giggling and squirming and I kick Quentin under the table and he shouts out “Ouch.” And then Conrad starts laughing, and Moon n’ Stars looks up from her notebook, and Brice Buttonwood rolls through with his spiffy piccolo case. (All the popular kids play piccolos or flutes. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it’s because they just naturally gravitate toward that high-pitched stuck-up sound.) Finally the fourteen trombone players come trooping through, looking kind of gloomy.

  “Okay,” says Miss Ferguson, “time for the next group to go up to the reading room. Just follow me.”

  Conrad and I follow her. Quentin hangs to the back, staying clear of Miss Ferguson, and I know why. He has a library book about dinosaurs that is two years overdue under his bed somewhere in a box. And that book is so badly overdue that Quentin freezes up when he thinks about it and won’t even lean over and look to see if it really is under his bed, never mind bringing it in and paying up.

  Conrad and I and then Quentin follow Miss Ferguson up the creaky old back stairs. At the top of the stairs there’s a big glass cabinet full of all kinds of stuffed used-to-be-live animals looking at you like to break your heart. There’s a skunk and a raccoon and a little old red squirrel sitting up, looking at you and holding a nut. My mama says all those stuffed creatures were there when she was a little girl. That same little red squirrel’s been sitting up, looking at you, hoping to find a way out of that cabinet for going on fifty years.

  Miss Ferguson opens the big old creaking door to the upper reading room. First thing we see is Mr. Muzzle, our band teacher. He’s over by the chalkboard glaring at a group of French horn players.

  There’s a second grader lying on the floor reading a book, and there is a row of flute and piccolo players practicing their snooty scales. Tiny Bailey looks even bigger than usual tucked into one of the band chairs at the back of the room with his jumbo bass drum in front of him. He’s tapping his foot to the beat, and I look down through the aisles at his shoes and they are enormous. Quentin had told me earlier, “I heard Tiny Bailey’s feet are so big he has to mail away to Richmond for all his footwear.”

  Quentin squeezes between us and hurries in ahead to sit next to Tiny Bailey. He gives me and Conrad a big stupid-looking smile, arches his eyebrows way high, and does his usual thumbs-up.

  “Okay, people,” says Mr. Muzzle as soon as we get into the room and find a chair. “We’re a marching band now. What does that mean? It means we’re marching and we’re marching in step. It means no one lags behind. It means form is everything. It means counting one, two, three, four, keeping in step with the people on either side. No messing up.”

  About ten minutes into the class, Conrad gets up and leaves the band room with Mr. Muzzle calling out, “One, two, three, four. Pick up your feet!”

  I get up too and follow Conrad. He goes out into the hall and stands at the window and I stand next to him. From where we are, we can see the construction site at the edge of town clear as a bell and we can see Big Box Home and Hardware. It looks bigger and better than last time. It’s all bright and shiny and enticing, with that gray sea of parking lot wrapped around it soft as a blanket. I can just imagine all the locals in the area flocking to it like geese to a pond. I bet my old granddaddy and the Bailey brothers would crumple up and cry if they could see how good that shopping mall looks today.

  Conrad puts his face up close to the window. I know it’s the marching aspect to the band that has him feeling blue. I know he knows he can’t keep that pace with his leg brace. Conrad runs his fingers over his face.

  “Guess I’m quitting band for now,” says Conrad.

  “Me too, Conrad,” I say. “All-State is a bunch of bull.”

  This week started off pretty crazy ’cause Melinda and Mama went up to Newport News for two days to take Melinda to a special hair salon so they could get ideas on hairstyles for the contest. While they were up there, they went to a fashion show put on by the American Legion Auxiliary and Melinda got a free basket of bath soaps. On top of that, our teacher was out for a day and we had a substitute who kept saying to Quentin Duster, “Clifford, I do not abide by talking in class.”

  All this week every day Conrad and Quentin and I have been meeting up after school and we’ve been watching Tiny Bailey work, but except for getting a couple of blurry digital photos of him with a wrench in his hand, we’ve haven’t turned up much.

  Sometimes when we’re out there in the fields, I look around at the grass blowing and the clouds sailing along and I see myself sitting there next to Conrad Parker Smith and then again I have to explain to myself how this came to happen. I have to remind myself that Conrad isn’t popular anymore and then I think how glad I am that he isn’t popular anymore and how much I want him to stay unpopular. And then I feel terrible that I could have such a miserable outlook for somebody else.

  Today we’re walking through the field on the other side of the road from the old silvery house. “Why don’t we just go up to ‘The Engine’ and say, ‘Hi, Tiny, what are y’all doing down in that field anyway?’” says Quentin.

  “’Cause he wouldn’t tell us,” says Conrad. “We’ve walked into a full-blown secret. Let’s face the facts. We’re probably looking at at least an A on our report if we can find out what’s going on.” Conrad throws another one of his light-as-a-bird high-flying rocks. I just have to admire that perfect arc.

  I come up just ahead of him to match it and I throw a rock a hundred feet, my best ever, and hit another telephone pole bull’s-eye. I can’t believe I threw it that far. I’m jumping up and down, but when I turn around, Conrad and Quentin aren’t even looking my way. I’m staring at the backs of their heads. Conrad’s head is higher up, his light-colored hair feathery and soft and lying against his neck. Quentin’s head is much lower down. It’s a little head with sheared hair that his daddy cuts for him once a month. I’m looking at those two heads turned away and I’m saying, “You should have seen that rock I just threw, Conrad. It just about went around the moon and back.”

  But Conrad doesn’t answer. He’s staring over toward the trees. Finally he says, “Was it my imagination or did you just see Frank Bailey go down into those woods?”

  “No,” says Quentin, “I didn’t see Frank Bailey. I saw Fred Bailey.”

  “Whatever,” says Conrad. “One of those Bailey brothers went down there. Never seen them in these fields before.”

  Like I said, nothing ever happens around here. Biggest event last year was when the housekeeper for Reverend Morris put up a clothesline on the front porch of the house right on Main Street and hung out fourteen pairs of the reverend’s worn-out underwear, fourteen dingy white briefs swinging in the wind. People in this town went into an uproar about it. It turned out, Mama said, that the reverend’s housekeeper was bipolar and she’d forgotten to take her meds. Mama said it brought on a kind of mini nervous breakdown. Soon as she got back on her meds, she was all proper again, and so long as she stays on them, her job is secure. During that time, I heard some dumb kid told Quentin Duster bipolar had somethi
ng to do with bears. That was it. That was the biggest event of last year.

  I look back at Conrad and then I look over at Quentin and then Conrad makes a sign, a waving motion for us to follow him, and we do. Softly. Softly. And ever so swiftly, even with the leg brace. A small pack of antelope. Three loping silent coyotes. Yes, we follow. Oh lord, nothing could keep us away. Not anything, certainly not Mama saying, “Honey, all week I want you home tagging stuff to put in Jean Duster’s yard sale.”

  “It was too Fred Bailey,” whispers Quentin, “’cause he’s a little bit skinnier than Frank.”

  “Frank Bailey has that bump on his nose,” says Conrad, “and even from this far away, I’m sure I could see it.”

  “He’s got to be headed down to that field. Let’s take the shortcut. I’ll race you down there. Betcha I get there first,” says Quentin, looking at us, all revved up with his arms poised for action.

  “Go ahead,” says Conrad, throwing his head back and looking down at Quentin. “I’m not in any big hurry.”

  “Go on, Quentin,” I say, “it’s too hot to run. We’ll see you down there in a couple of minutes.” It’s hard for me to give up a race ’cause I love them so, but I hold myself back for Conrad’s sake, even though I know Conrad has kind of gotten used to not being first anymore. He can come in last and it doesn’t matter at all to him, because in his heart he knows first isn’t touching a doorknob or getting to sit in the front seat by the window or making it up to the road before everybody else. First is something deep down inside that you know and feel and nobody can take away from you.

  Quentin charges ahead along the shortcut and we make our way down there too. It doesn’t take long for us to get to the bottom of the logging trail, and soon we catch up with Quentin. From a short distance away we can see the back of one of the Bailey brothers working his way through the woods. Quentin makes a gurgling sound like a giggle being stepped on, and Conrad swats at the air. He rolls up his sleeves and turns around and puts a finger on his lips and goes, “Hush.”

  Frank or Fred Bailey is wearing green pants and a checkered shirt, and for someone in his early eighties, he’s moving pretty fast. Soon enough we see him break out into the field and head toward the metal object on wheels that is sitting smack in the center. Tiny’s there too wearing those greasy coveralls, and his big old hands are just pure grease up to his elbows.

  A lot of the machine is wrapped up in that big blue flapping tarp. Mr. Bailey gets down on his back and slides under the tarp. Then Tiny stands there for the longest time waiting for his great-uncle to come back out. After a while Tiny starts kind of looking for him, poking his head here and there. Finally Mr. Bailey emerges from another area altogether. Tiny looks kind of surprised. We can’t hear anything ’cause their words are carried away in the high wind that always seems to be down here in this field.

  Quentin Duster flops back into the ferns, slapping his forehead. “Oh, man,” he says, knocking off his glasses by mistake. Conrad rolls his sleeves up another notch and sits down next to Quentin. He picks up Quentin’s glasses and puts them on and makes a studious-looking face. Then Quentin grabs the glasses back, whispering, “Cut it out.”

  We can’t hear them out there, but they are still talking. Mr. Bailey gets up and walks around the machine, pointing out this and pointing out that. Then he pats Tiny on the back. Tiny smiles a great big smile, and we can see from here where Jimmy Leroy punched out Tiny’s front tooth the day Tiny Bailey beat him at the Junior Tractor Pull up at the fair last year.

  The wind blows and sings and whispers in the trees above. It’s like watching a silent movie. I keep wishing Granddaddy’s Zorro would drop down out of the trees in his black hat and black mask and draw a big Z with his sword on the side of Tiny’s mysterious machine and clear up all the questions that are hovering around our heads like mosquitoes.

  Now Mr. Bailey walks to the other side of the field, waves to Tiny, and then he disappears down the path.

  Quentin Duster looks over at us and he’s chewing on his lower lip. “There’s something cooking. It’s the Clark in me that knows. I can just feel it. The Clark in me says something’s steaming on the stove.”

  “Well, the Lewis in me says you’re stepping on my one good foot,” says Conrad. “Move over.”

  “Oops, sorry,” says Quentin. “Come on, Conrad, put two and two together. The whole Bailey family is in this up to their ears.”

  “Could be,” says Conrad, weighing things in his mind the way he does. “It’s true even though those Bailey brothers are old as the hills, they can be pretty wild at times. And one of them gets in trouble for speeding now and again. I see it in the local police column in the newspaper.”

  Yeah, I’m thinking as I hear that, I read that column too. It usually has stuff in it like July 12th police responded to a call from a resident on Pleasant Street who said someone was stomping on her irises. Or July 14th police received a call from a woman on Belcher Street who said her husband was intoxicated and was up on the roof and wouldn’t come down.

  “Something’s cooking,” says Quentin again. “Like I said, something’s steaming on the stove right smack in front of us.”

  Me, I start thinking again about my house up in the field and how I’ve seen stuff there like cards and soda cans and suddenly I realize the Bailey brothers and Tiny are the ones who have been up at that house. And there was a fourth can of soda up there too, and it was a Dr. Pepper.

  It’s the first cold spring day we’ve had. The sky is a miserable dark gray and everybody’s half freezing. Still the sidewalks are packed with people. There are forty-some All-State marching bands dressed up in golds and silvers with hats and batons all backed up behind the firehouse. You can see them up there, overflowing like a river pushing at the shore, waiting for the sound of the cymbals, waiting to start the parade.

  Conrad and I are sitting on the curb in front of Bailey’s Hardware to watch. Behind Conrad in the window of Bailey’s Hardware there’s a display of rakes and shovels and there’s a flowerpot with tulips growing in it and a little sign that says, THE YEAR IN TULIPS AT BAILEY’S HARDWARE. TULIPS IN FLOWERPOTS NOW! COMING THIS FALL … 5,000 TULIP BULBS ON SALE!!! The Bailey brothers have set two folding chairs up in the window and the two of them are sitting in there, smiling and waving from their warm spot. They do that for every parade we have in town except on Memorial Day, ’cause they both march in that parade wearing their old soldiers’ uniforms.

  I am looking up at those Bailey brothers sitting there with sack lunches and napkins on their laps and I’m hoping something they do will give me some kind of answer. Conrad too keeps his eyes right on them, watching one Bailey brother offer the other a nice big handful of potato chips.

  Now we hear the loud cymbals clashing. The All-State parade is starting and the bands are being released into the street from the firehouse parking lot. First off, the Orkney Springs Regional comes marching down Main Street with a big yellow banner. They’re wearing purple-and-yellow polyester pants and jackets with little gold flaps on the shoulders and they’re in perfect step. Rows and rows of instruments file by, kids tooting all kinds of horns and hitting all kinds of drums. They’re playing “Are You from Dixie?” and they sound pretty good. Conrad and I start tapping our feet and Conrad’s all smiles.

  Next a band comes through wearing fancy green velvet outfits with silver buttons and tassels on their hats. There’s a kid carrying a sign that says CULPEPPER COMMUNITY MIDDLE SCHOOL, HOME TO THE CULPEPPER COYOTES. Conrad looks at me and beams and then he looks away.

  Most of the bands are wearing uniforms in their school colors. Mama said to me last night, “Our library board doesn’t want to fix the library steps this year. Cheap old buzzards. Now when you see those marching bands tomorrow, you’ll be able to tell by the quality of uniform which school boards are tight as misers.”

  Conrad and I are sitting here whistling away even though it’s freezing cold out. Some of the bands as they march through are reall
y good, almost to take my breath away, and some are just squeaking by, getting all out of step and all out of tune and moaning and mooing like a herd of infected cattle. There are so many bands, they just keep pouring down the street. Just when I think it’s over and there can’t be more, I hear another trumpet, another trombone, and I see another spiffy group popping along.

  After a drum corps from Charlottesville thunders by, I look up and here comes the Cabanash County Elementary School Band, marching right past the Knights of Columbus Hall and heading toward us. Mr. Muzzle must have decided to go with a Blues Brothers theme ’cause everybody is wearing flashy sunglasses. Some kids have on crazy-looking wigs. Some are wearing bright-colored way-cool outfits like Billy Guffy, who is hitting a triangle and wearing a kind of fur-trimmed orange bathrobe and an orange curly wig. I look over at Conrad and his face has turned dark, like some kind of invisible baseball cap is throwing shadows over his eyes.

  Next the flute and piccolo players march through, moving like one unit. Then the fourteen trombone players come sliding by, sliding out of tune and looking guilty. Right behind them is the flaky fourth grader with braids, twirling a baton and wearing a black felt Blues Brothers hat and sunglasses too.

  The crowd goes wild not just ’cause they are the grade-school hometown band but because they have something going on that nobody else thought of, a kind of colorful flair that makes up for all the bad notes.

  It is Quentin Duster’s moment of glory. He is so small under that big old tuba you can barely see his little bobbing head. He’s wearing clip-on sunglasses and a big wide wacky necktie. Right next to him is Tiny Bailey, the biggest Blues Brother you ever saw boom boom booming along. I can’t help but notice his jumbo shoes keeping right in step.