The Fantastic Secret of Owen Jester Read Free

quiet.”
    Viola’s sandals made a slapping noise as she entered the barn and stopped at the bottom of the ladder.
    “I know y’all are in here.” That irritating voice slithered up the ladder and circled around Owen.
    Dang! That girl sure was annoying.
    “What are y’all doing?” The voice pounded Owen on the back of the head.
    The slapping sandals moved away from the ladder and shuffled over to the corner of the barn.
    “What’re y’all building?”
    Owen lifted his head the teeny tiniest bit and peered over the edge of the loft. Viola was rummaging through the stuff that he and Travis and Stumpy had spent all morning gathering. Rolls of chicken wire. Tomato stakes. Baling wire. Twine. Old door hinges.
    Viola poked at a roll of chicken wire. “I know what y’all are building,” she said.
    Travis pursed his lips and glared down at Viola.
    Stumpy’s eyes grew big and round as he looked at Owen in a
What now?
kind of way.
    Owen crawled to the rear of the loft until he got toa milk crate full of old tractor parts. He grabbed a greasy rubber fan belt, a handful of rusty nuts and bolts, and a broken gauge of some sort. Then he crawled back to the edge of the loft and began flinging the things down to the barn floor, trying to get as close to Viola as possible without actually hitting her.
    The bolts made pingy noises as they hit garden tools and engine parts and ricocheted off the wheelbarrow and the lawn mower. The gauge skidded over the dirt floor and hit the wall of the barn with a crash, followed by the tinkle of broken glass.
    The fan belt landed right on Viola’s sandal. She jerked her foot away and gazed coolly up at Owen.
    “Y’all are building something for that sad old frog,” she said, giving her glasses a nudge up the bridge of her nose with her thumb.
    “His name is Tooley and he’s not sad,” Owen called down from the loft.
    Viola picked up the fan belt and twirled it around her finger. “Frogs don’t have names.”
    “Says who?” Travis hollered down at Viola.
    Stumpy pushed some hay off the edge of the loft. “Yeah, says who?” he said.
    Viola brushed hay out of her hair and glared up atthe boys. “Says me and anyone else on the planet with half a brain.” She tossed the fan belt onto the pile of chicken wire. “Frogs don’t have names and don’t want names. Frogs want to be frogs and live where frogs are supposed to live.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Travis said.
    “Oh, yeah?” Stumpy said.
    “Your mother’s calling you,” Owen said.
    As soon as the words left his mouth, Owen’s stomach clenched up into a ball of angry. Why did he have to go and say that again?
    First of all, he said it all the time.
    Second of all, Viola never even blinked an eye when he said it, so what was the point?
    And third of all, Viola’s mother never called her. Viola’s mother never did anything but sit on the porch in her bathrobe looking at magazines. The only time Owen had ever seen Viola’s mother step one foot off her porch was the time she went to the flea market and came back with a bunch of tiki torches. Viola had told him the tiki torches were for a Hawaiian luau party. Owen had peeked through the hedge every day for nearly a week to see the Hawaiian luau party, but all he ever saw was a pile of tiki torches and a barbecue grill full of rainwater.
    Viola pushed aside the tomato stakes with the toe of her sandal. She inspected a tangled roll of baling wire. She squinted through her thick glasses at the rusty door hinges.
    “Y’all are building a cage,” she said.
    Owen hurried down the ladder and grabbed the door hinges from her. He jammed them into his pocket and said, “Go away.”
    “Yeah, go away.” Travis jumped off the last rung of the ladder and stood between Viola and the pile of stuff, his feet spread, his arms folded, his chin stuck out.
    Stumpy jumped from halfway down the ladder and landed on the barn floor with an
oomph
.
    “You don’t really need hinges, you know.” Viola