Flower Power by Ann Walsh

Author:Ann Walsh [Walsh, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orca Book Publishers
Published: 2022-01-22T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Peter opened the kitchen door, and we stepped out onto the back porch.

The Grannies were singing away, my gran stood in front waving her arms around like a conductor. Flowers bounced happily on all of the Grannies’ hats, keeping time to the music. There were a lot of reporters in the lane. They were hanging over the back fence, shoving and pushing each other.

Everyone in the lane seemed to have cameras or microphones. When Peter and I appeared on the back porch, all the cameras started flashing and clicking and whirring, like a bunch of fireflies that don’t know they aren’t supposed to be around in the daylight.

“Why are all the reporters over in the lane?” I asked him. “Yesterday they were right in our yard.”

“I told them to stay off your property,” said Peter.

“You told them? Why would they do anything you told them to?”

“I sort of let them think I was family.”

“What kind of family?”

“Your family. Your uncle,” he admitted.

“You lied!”

“Not exactly.”

I sighed again. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and already I’d sighed twice. “Just what I need,” I said. “More family. So, Uncle Ken, are you going to climb the tree and join Mom or are you going to put on a flower hat and sing with Grandma?”

He looked indignant. “Neither. I made breakfast, didn’t I? That’s my contribution for the day. That and the coffee. You can also thank me for the fact that no reporters have been knocking on your door this morning.”

“No reporters except you,” I pointed out.

I went to the edge of the porch and peered around the side of the house. I could see the tree; I could see Mom perched in it. Sunlight filtered down through the branches and glinted off the chain around her ankle. She waved at me.

“Hi, Callie.”

“Hi, Mom. How was your breakfast?”

“It was great, thank your grandma for me.”

“Actually Uncle Ken made it.”

I don’t think she heard me, because she just smiled and waved again and didn’t ask who Uncle Ken was. She looked cheerful, which was good. Her blood sugar must have evened itself out.

From the porch, I could see into Harold Wilson’s backyard. The bikers, with Mr. Wilson in the middle, were staring up at Mom.

Mr. Wilson wasn’t wearing a leather vest like the rest of his friends. He wore jeans and a baseball cap that covered up the bald spot on the top of his head. He saw me and called out, “Callie! Can’t you talk some sense into your mother?”

I laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“This has gone on long enough. The tree removal people will be here any minute, and that tree is coming down even if your mom is still in it.”

“Not on your life, Harold,” yelled my mom. “This tree stays. Who are all those badly dressed men in your yard, anyway? Are they going to help you take me out of this tree?”

“They’re members of my bike club—my new friends,” he answered. “They’ve come to support me and, yes, I’m sure they’d love to pull you out of the tree.

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