Sure enough, the second they got home, her dad whooped and said, “I’ll make the batter. No, sit down, both of you; you’ll just get oil everywhere.”
That night, they feasted on chicken-fried wild mushroom with mashed potatoes. Afterward, Ollie and her mom swam in the freezing creek and ate homemade ice cream. It was the best of days. But when Ollie’s mom came to tuck her in that night, she found Ollie crying.
“Olivia, are you okay?” she asked. “Does your tummy hurt?”
Ollie shook her head. “I’m sad for the tree—the tree where the mushroom came from. It doesn’t seem fair that it gave us the best and yummiest mushroom and now it’s just going todie.” She buried her face in her pillow. That was back when she could cry over dumb things like elm trees.
Her mother sighed and said, “No, it’s not fair. But the tree gave us a gift. Even bad things can lead to good. Maybe in sad times, it helps to think of that.”
“Maybe,” said Ollie, unconvinced.
“If you like,” said her mom, giving her a hug, “we can go visit the tree tomorrow and say thank you.”
“I’d like that,” said Ollie, and wiped her nose.
But they never did. First it rained and then it snowed, and then Ollie got older and forgot. Now they wouldn’t ever and it didn’t matter. Why did she even have to think of it?
9
“MISTY VALLEY MAKESmost of its money from ecotourism,” Dad had told Ollie on the way to school. “That means Linda Webster isn’t selling her milk for big bucks. She’s getting the big bucks from idiots who want to milk the cow. And I mean actual big bucks. She just bought a Mercedes for going down to Boston—this town’s never seen an ordinary farmer do so well.”
Most milking barns had machinery to do the milking. Linda Webster’s cows were led in on halters and milked into buckets. Ms. Webster even had one cow who was on a weird milking schedule so she could be milked for tour groups, not at 5:00 a.m.
This cow was tied in one of the milking stalls when the sixth grade clomped in. A man was sitting on a stool next to her, stroking her udder, humming under his breath. He had a shock of pale hair, even lighter than Coco’s, curlingover his forehead. His face was angular. There was a dimple on one side of his mouth.
Up ahead, Lily Mayhew was walking with Jenna Gehr-mann. They both were struck with a severe case of giggles.
“This is Seth,” said Ms. Webster. Seth’s eyes were dark and just a little green, like looking into a pond on a cloudy day. “He helps out around the farm,” Ms. Webster said. “Can anyone tell me what he’s doing now?”
“Getting her to let the milk down,” said Mike Campbell. He was one of the farm kids.Obviouslywas in his voice. A third of the class lived on dairy farms.
“This is Cora,” said Seth. He had a soft, pleasant voice, but it cut through the farm kids’ impatience, the hockey bros’ chatter, even Lily Mayhew’s giggling. They all quieted down. Seth, Ollie thought, would not stand for nonsense from kids or cows. Probably Cora didn’t dare kick the milk bucket. Seth started to milk her in steady strokes.
The bus driver was still a step behind Ms. Webster. But if she was scared of him now, she showed no sign of it. “Cora is aJerseycow,” Ms. Webster said. She went into detail about the nature of Jersey cows. Ollie’s attention wandered.
A black cat was watching the milking. He was big and sleek: the kind of cat that tortures mice and steals cream. Without looking around, Seth lifted the cow’s teat and aimed at the cat, who caught the milk in its mouth with apracticed air. A few kids applauded. The cat twined itself around Seth’s legs, purring. Cora shivered and stamped. Seth jerked his chin. The cat left.The one cow in Vermont that’s afraid of barn cats, and the one cat in the world that obeys orders,Ollie thought. But still, nothing she’d seen explained Ms. Webster’s tears the day before.
Mike, Phil, and Brian were passing Mike’s phone around, grinning. Mr. Easton reached over Brian’s head and confiscated it. The class snickered. Mike looked wounded.
“Cora is our oldest,” Ms. Webster said, an edge in her voice. Well, the sixth grade wasn’t exactly hanging on her every word. “She doesn’t give much milk anymore. But she is gentle.” Cora chewed her cud and blinked at them. “Perfect to meet guests. Would anyone like to milk her?”
Seth stood up, leaving the bucket down by Cora’s feet.
Even the kids who lived on dairy farms rarely milked cows by hand. Cows were used to getting milked by machines and didn’t like people. No one wanted to get kicked by an angry cow. The whole sixth grade hung back. Lily and Jenna giggled and pushed each other forward, but neither volunteered.
“Someone volunteer or I’m picking someone,” said Mr. Easton.
“I want to be first!” squeaked Coco Zintner suddenly. “Let me go!” She pushed forward. “Hello,” she said delightedly to the cow, and reached up to give Cora a pat. Some ofthe farm kids snorted. Coco’s parents had only moved the family up north that year, to “get back to nature.” Things that bored the local kids—like cows—all delighted Coco.
“Get back to nature,” Ollie had once overheard Ms. Mouton whisper to Mr. Easton, sighing. “I wonder if nature will survive it.”
Coco stepped toward the milking stool. “Wait now, easy...” began Mr. Easton.
Too late. Coco tripped on the milk bucket and went flying. Cora, startled, jumped and shuffled. The whole class laughed. Even Ms. Webster cracked a smile. Well, Cocohadlooked ridiculous, going splat on the barn floor.
Only Seth didn’t laugh. He looked thoughtful. Coco burst into tears. The noise was unbearable: Coco crying and kids laughing. Ollie decided that she’d had enough. She edged toward the barn door, then slipped out. Mr. Easton didn’t see her. He was preoccupied with Coco, who had a bloody chin. If anyone asked, Ollie decided, she would just say she’d gone to the bathroom and gotten lost.
—
