A Bone to Pick. Gina McMurchy-Barber

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      Hmm. I needed a few moments to think this through. I was practically Eddy’s sidekick — like Robin was to Batman or Tonto to the Lone Ranger. If Eddy was going to Newfoundland to teach a bunch of greenhorns how to excavate, there had to be something I could do to help.

      “I know what’s going through your head, Peggy. Believe me, if there was something I could do, I would. But these students are serious about having a career in archaeo-­logy and have paid a lot of money to attend this special summer course. I don’t think they’d be happy about having a thirteen-year-old girl — as experienced and knowledgeable as she may be — teach them about excavating.”

      “Okay, then, sign me up. I’ll go as a student.”

      “If, and I am saying if you could sign up as a student, just where would you get the $2,500 for tuition and living expenses, plus $1,000 for airfare?”

      My jaw fell, and I sighed. “Oh, right.” Even with all the money I had in my savings and the money I would get paid to paint the house, I’d have nowhere near enough.

      “I’m sorry. If something changes, you’ll be the first to know,” said Eddy.

      By the time I hung up, the overwhelming tiredness I’d felt at dinner had returned.

      That night, as I lay in bed disappointed and sleepy, Mom popped into my room to say good night.

      “It would have been wonderful if you could have gone, Peggy,” Mom said. “But if going to Newfoundland to excavate a Viking site isn’t in the cards, then something equally wonderful is right around the corner. You’ll see.”

      “Mom, I appreciate that you want to cheer me up, but I seriously doubt there’d be anything as cool as going with Eddy to see where the Vikings lived.” I pulled the blanket over my head.

      As unlikely as it was, I went to sleep that night hoping Eddy would find a way to take me. After all, miracles did happen, right?

      “Here’s a thought — how about I go out and get started on painting while you stay here and make the chili for dinner?” Aunt Margaret suggested cheerfully after Mom left for work the next morning.

      Now it was my turn to snort out a laugh. “Right, me make dinner? You know I have a hard time boiling water without burning it.”

      “Oh, come on, Peggy. Anyone can cook. You’ve done it before. You just have to follow the recipe.” I watched her load measuring cups, cans of tomatoes and beans, spices, and a bunch of other stuff onto the counter. “Here’s the recipe — just follow it exactly and you can’t fail.” She handed me the piece of paper, which read: BEST CHILI CON CARNE ON EARTH.

      I decided being left to make chili was probably better than standing in the heat slopping paint on the house and on myself. I skimmed through the recipe — it said something about browning meat and onions first. Now to me that just didn’t make sense. Why cook the meat and onions first when they were just going to have to go into another pot to cook again? Instead, I took a shortcut and threw all the ingredients into one big pot and turned up the stove good and high so it would cook faster. Why have chili for dinner when we could have it for lunch? Doing things my way saved not only time, but also meant one less frying pan to wash up. Satisfied that maybe I was better at cooking than I gave myself credit for, I strolled outside.

      “You’re finished already?”

      I shrugged. “Sure.”

      “You followed the recipe, right?” Aunt Margaret asked.

      “Don’t be so suspicious. I followed it more or less.”

      She narrowed her eyes. “More or less? That’s Great-Aunt Beatrix’s recipe, and if it’s done right, it really is the greatest chili on earth.”

      “Don’t worry, Aunt Margaret. You’ll see — it’ll be fine. And I’ll bet even GAB would be happy.”

      “GAB … what’s that?”

      “Really? GAB — Great-Aunt Beatrix, of course!”

      Aunt Margaret rolled her eyes at me.

      For the next hour I painted windowsills and doors with glossy white paint. I had to admit my mind wasn’t on the job and there was nearly as much paint on the grass and sidewalk as on the house. All I could think about was how much I wanted to go with Eddy to Newfoundland. It was nearly noon when the phone rang and Aunt Margaret ran to get it.

      A few minutes later I had a horrible thought. What if the caller was Eddy? What if she figured out a way for me to go? Would Aunt Margaret tell me about it? Or would she tell Eddy I was too busy to go because I had to stay and help her paint? I wasn’t going to take a chance on it and dashed into the kitchen. When I opened the door, a thick, hazy swirl seeped out of the kitchen and smelled like burnt tires. As I stepped inside, Aunt Margaret was throwing open the windows and fanning the air.

      “Who was on the phone?” I asked casually.

      “Are you kidding me? Who cares about the phone? Peggy, can’t you see what’s happened — the chili boiled over and was burning on the stove element! With the amount of fat on the surface we’re just lucky it didn’t start a fire.”

      That was when I noticed the stove and floor for the first time. It seemed as if a volcano had erupted. “Sorry about that. I guess I turned it on a little too high.” She handed me the paper towel and I started to wipe up the floor. “So, anyway, did you catch who was on the phone?” I asked again. Aunt Margaret growled, and I knew if I looked her in the eye I’d see she was giving me one of her one-eyed glares.

      “You not only turned it on too high but clearly you either didn’t cook the meat first or you failed to drain off the fat.” She threw me a wet washcloth. “And as for who was on the phone, I didn’t get a chance to answer, but I’m grateful he or she was calling. Otherwise we could be fighting a fire right now.” She dragged out the mop and bucket and began filling it with water. “Really, Peggy, were you just trying to prove you really are a bad cook so I’d never ask you again?”

      “Harsh, Aunt Margaret,” I shot back.

      “Well, you’re going to have to learn to cook better sooner or later unless you plan on eating toast and cereal your whole life,” she said.

      I didn’t respond. As far as I was concerned, living off toast and cereal didn’t sound too bad to me. Besides, learning to cook better wasn’t necessary when you could just open a package or hit the drive-through.

      For the rest of the day, every time the phone rang I nearly went berserk, hoping it was Eddy calling to give me some good news. But each time it wasn’t her I plunged deeper into despair, seeing days and weeks ahead of me, spent slapping paint onto my aunt’s old house. As far as I was concerned, there was only one good reason to have a paintbrush in hand — and that was for brushing away sand and dirt from an ancient artifact or burial.

      Then, just when I thought I was as low as I could get, Eddy called. When Aunt Margaret handed me the phone, my knees were shaking.

      “Hi, Eddy. I was hoping I’d hear from you. Got some good news for me?” Her silence made me feel like a balloon with a tiny hole, and I was slowly deflating.

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