Chapter 3

The day after Toby died, Emily placed the cat in a cardboard box and buried him in Fitch field, in a hole dug by Emily's father. They stood solemnly around the hole while Emily said goodbye to Toby. Emily's mother and gave her tissue for the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

For two weeks after her cat died, Emily was in a slump. At home, she didn't even pick on her brother when he went out to his Young Conservatives meeting dressed in a tie. At school she completely ignored Cindy Madison, and pretended ignorance when others said, 'Did you hear that Cindy Madison...?' No, she hadn't heard of Cindy's latest exploits and couldn't care less, thank you. Besides, they usually involved buying something or going on a trip that no one else could afford. And as for Dirk, he might as well have become invisible, for all the attention she paid to him. She amazed even herself at her lack of interest in what her social circle was up to. In way, it was kind of refreshing to be left alone. Because, after a while, that's exactly what everyone did.

Her neighbors were full of theories about Toby's death. The most popular theory was that the power plant was responsible. Mrs. Cutwiler, from two doors down, repeated the story, which everyone already knew, that her dog died after drinking water from the stream. Then there was Mr. Parsons, whose brother grazed cattle near the Moon Hill Pond, into which the stream emptied. He told the story, which everyone already knew, about his brother's cattle dying mysteriously after drinking from the pond. Mr. Parsons had the water tested and did not find unsafe levels of arsenic. It was always that word unsafe that got Mr. Parsons going, and sometimes Emily's father, too, if he was within earshot of Mr. Parsons giving one of his speeches.

"Unsafe for who," Mr. Parsons grumbled one day. "Might not be unsafe for a child or a cat."

"But Rory and his friends have gone swimming in the stream," Emily had told him.

"But that's in the summer. Maybe the plant only releases the arsenic in the winter," he said, his eyes gloating.

"It's not winter yet, Mr. Parsons."

"But it's fall, so we're getting close."

But Emily knew that none of these theories would bring Toby back, so what was the point of arguing about them? In the evenings she did her homework in her room, surrounded by her stuffed animals. They all reminded her of Toby; he loved playing games with Emily's animals. Emily's mother breezed through Emily's room occasionally, on a pretense of putting clean clothes away or looking for a glass or a magazine that Emily had carried into her room. Emily knew that her mother was really just checking on her, and trying to get her to talk about Toby. But Emily didn't see the point of talking about it. Toby was gone. No amount of talking would bring him back.

One day, Emily's father, sitting at the kitchen table just before dinner, startled them by saying, "You won't believe this." He rattled the paper. Emily only half-listened from the kitchen sink, where she was washing vegetables. Her period of mourning had not gotten her out of kitchen duties.

"It says here they found a dead coyote at the east end of Fitch field," said Leo. "Somebody took it to the vet and it tested positive for very high levels of arsenic."

Emily turned and looked. "Do you think that's what killed Toby?"

"I don't know, but if it's powerful enough to kill a coyote it sure could kill a cat," said Leo, reading quickly to the end of the article. "Says here the coyote ate something that had very high concentrations of arsenic."

"Did it drink the water from the stream?" asked Emily. "Mr. Parsons says the stream has arsenic in it."

"Almost all streams naturally have a little bit," said Leo, folding the paper. "Our stream probably has more arsenic than most because of the power plant. Coal-burning plants release a lot of arsenic into the air in the form of ash that settles onto water surfaces."

"I thought they had laws against that," said Emily.

"They do, but for years there were no laws and so most plants just dumped the fly ash anywhere, including streams, or they buried it in the ground, and it leached into the soil and contaminated ground water."

"Is ours contaminated?" said Emily.

"According to the government testers, our soil and water has been clean for the past twenty years," said Leo.

Frances spoke up from the oven, "But that doesn't mean there aren't accidents."

"That's true," said Leo. "Or illegal dumping."

Emily's eyes widened. "Cindy Madison's father is the manager of the power plant. Do you think he dumped arsenic into the water and killed Toby?"

Frances put her hands on her hips, "Rumors like that will get you in big trouble. I advise you not to repeat that at school."

"We need proof," said Emily. Then she paused as a thought came to her. "We should have had Toby tested for poisoning."

"It's expensive," said Leo. "But we might try looking for the mouse. Maybe if we find it we can bring it to the same vet that looked at the coyote."

"Yuk," said Frances. "It'll be two weeks old."

"I'll wear gloves," said Leo.

Emily's face brightened for the first time in two weeks. It wouldn't bring Toby back, but it might get to the bottom of the mystery. And maybe they could save other pets, and wild animals, from dying.



Emily arrived at school the next day in better spirits. On the bus, she sat with her friends and chatted about what it was going to be like when they graduated from eighth grade and started riding the bus to high school. It was farther away, and so they would have to leave earlier, and get up earlier in the morning.

"My Mom can barely get me up as it is," Katie Green exclaimed with a roll of the eyes.

As the bus lurched into the parking lot of Moonville Middle School, Emily joined the throng of students filing off buses or stepping out of cars driven by parents or walking from the bike racks. Almost no one walked to Moonville Middle because it was not near any residential neighborhoods, a point that Frances always complained about to school board officials whenever they held meetings with parents. Frances liked to describe Moonville Middle as the "latest in 1960s architecture." Emily was not sure what that meant but she did know the school was forty years old and drafty and was not energy efficient.

Emily's first class on Wednesdays was geometry. It so happened that she and Katie Green were in the same class, so they walked together from the bus.

Katie said, "Are you getting a new cat?"

Emily shrugged. "Not yet. I still miss Toby."

"That's so sad," said Katie.

"Thanks," said Emily.

In the crowded hallway, Emily noticed Cindy Madison standing in the center of a group of girls and boys, including Dirk. Emily started to pause, but Katie nudged her along, saying, "Don't even bother,"

But as they walked past the cluster of Cindy-admirers, Cindy called out to them, "Emily, how are you. Are things okay at home?"

"I still can't talk about it," Emily said solemnly. "It's too horrible." She lowered her eyes and then she and Katie moved away quickly. Emily had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from giggling; she knew she was putting on an act.

Katie knew it, too. She whispered, "You are a master at putting people down without them even knowing it."

"Well, she deserves it. She's so fake," said Emily.

"And Dirk needs to stop kissing her butt and get a life," said Katie.

Emily pretended to yawn. "I'm growing rather weary of him."

As the day's classes wore on, Emily's thoughts kept returning to Cindy's father and the power plant. What if it were true that the power plant caused Toby's death? Emily realized it would completely change things among eighth graders at Moonville Middle: no one would talk to Cindy after that. She would be the daughter of a cat murderer. She would probably stay home out of embarrassment. But, two classes later, Emily was thinking the same thoughts and realized they were kind of mean, and she felt embarrassed for thinking of them, and she was very glad she didn't tell anyone, not even Katie Green.

The last class of the day was English. It wasn't always the last class, because the English teacher, Mr. Styles, insisted that the end of the day was the worst time to try to teach English. So it rotated morning periods with math and history.

As Emily entered the classroom she noticed that Mr. Styles had a stack of green handouts. Emily assumed it was a pop quiz or an exercise. Mr. Styles loved to give out writing exercises. Most of the students groaned, but Emily had found that writing was fun for her, and it came easy. She could close her eyes and think of something, and then write it down just the way she thought it. In a fifty-minute class, Emily could fill page after page with neat cursive and well thought out sentences. Emily was Mr. Styles's favorite student, and Emily knew it but she was careful to pretend she didn't know it.

When everyone was seated, Mr. Styles walked around the front of the room with the stack of green paper. Everyone was staring at it.

"I have something very special today," he said.

There were many groans. When Mr. Styles said "special" it usually meant work. Emily was very curious.

"I have an assignment here that you're going to love."

A hand went up, Jimmy's. "There must be an error in your logic, Mr. Styles. You used love and assignment in the same sentence."

The class roared. Even the teacher could not chase the grin from his face. "Very good, Jimmy. I like clever jokes. But this is a very special assignment because it comes all the way from the President of the United States, who lives... where?"

A few hands went up. The teacher pointed to one. "The White House," said Veranda, a very quiet girl who got straight As in history and social studies.

"Excellent, Veranda. This assignment is from the White House. Of course, we printed them here at school. But we got the assignment by email all the way from the Department of Education in Washington, D.C. It is going out to all eighth-graders in the country. And can you guess what it is?"

Hands went up. He chose Alice. "A pop quiz?"

"Not exactly." There was a collective sigh of relief. "It is an essay contest. And there's a prize."

Now Emily tuned in more carefully. She raised her hand.

"Yes, Emily?"

"What's the subject of the essay contest?"

"Good question." Mr. Styles went to the chalkboard and wrote the following words: Everything In Balance. "Everything in balance," he said.

"What does that mean?" someone asked. But Emily felt that she knew it was going to be about the environment. She couldn't explain why, but she had a hunch.

"It's about balancing conflicting needs of society," the teacher explained. "We need energy for light and heat and power, but at the same time we want to protect the quality of our air and water. We also need jobs so we can have houses and clothes and cars, but if those jobs are polluting the soil then we might ask, is there a proper balance here?"

The class grew quiet suddenly. Emily knew that many of her classmates were sons and daughters of power plant workers and coal miners. This was getting personal. Even Leo, Emily's father, who often ranted about the pollution caused by the power plant, was careful not to rant too much around people who worked at the power plant. They didn't want to hear it. And now Emily felt a certain kind of hostile quietness in the room. They were starting to not like this essay contest, even if it did come from the President of the United States.

Mr. Styles continued talking, without missing a beat. "It's important for us to learn to think analytically. To consider an issue from all sides, even if there is a particular side that we like or don't like. That's what this essay contest is really about." He started to hand out the green pages. "And that's why I'm asking each of you to take this home and give it some serious thought. I want everyone to write something as a class assignment, even if you don't plan to enter the essay contest."

There was another groan: they were hoping it would be optional.

Emily's heart beat faster as the green pages came to her. She took one and passed the rest to the person behind her. She read it. Everything In Balance. Nice title, she thought. And there was a prize: a trip to Washington, D.C.! The winner would go with his or her parents to visit the White House, meet the president, visit Congress, meet representatives from their state, and visit other sites in the nation's capitol. And, to top it off, they get to stay in a hotel.

Emily could hardly contain her excitement as she left English class. When she got to the bus she found Katie Green and said, "Did you hear about the essay contest?"

"The what?" said Katie.

"The essay contest about the environment. Didn't your English teacher pass out something?"

Katie twisted her face into a I'm-trying-to-remember kind of grin and then said, "I think Miss Swisher passed out something. I'd have to check my backpack."

"The winner goes to Washington, D.C., to visit the White House and meet the president," said Emily. "Isn't that cool?"

"What are you going to write about?" Katie asked as they settled into a seat.

Emily noticed that no one else was talking about the essay contest. Why aren't they excited, she wondered. "I know exactly what I'm going to write about: my cat. Suppose Toby was poisoned by the power plant, wouldn't that be a case of everything not in balance?"

"I guess so, but how do you know the power plant poisoned your cat?"

"Well, we don't know yet. But Toby was eating a mouse, and my dad was going to take the mouse to have it tested. Did you hear that a coyote died from arsenic poisoning?"

Katie's eyes widened. "No way."

Emily nodded confidently. "Yep."

When she got home, Katie rushed into the house to find her mother. Frances was in her sewing room. "Mom, there's going to be an essay contest with a trip to Washington, D.C.," Emily said in one burst of words.

Frances read the flyer quickly. "Hmm. Very interesting."

"Do you think I can win?" said Emily.

"It says here this is going to every eighth grader in the country," said Frances. "That's a lot of kids." She looked at Emily. "I'm afraid it will be a long shot. But, don't let that stop you from writing a good essay. The real value in this will come from the writing, not the winning."

"I already know what I'm going to write about," said Emily.

"And what would that be?"

"Toby."

"Toby?"

"Sure. Somebody needs to write about how power plants affect pets as well as people. Right?"

"True, but we don't know Toby's death was caused by the power plant," said Frances.

"Did Dad find the mouse in the field?"

"Yes, he did. But it might be a couple of weeks before we hear anything."

Emily felt her enthusiasm sink a notch. She was imagining a brilliant essay where she proves that the power plant killed Toby. And she imagined Cindy Madison being so embarrassed that she stayed home from school. But now, Emily wasn't sure how she could write about that without proof.

"I want to write about Toby," said Emily.

"You can, dear," said Frances, hugging her daughter.

"But how, if I don't know how he died?"

"But you know how he lived," said Frances. "And so you can write about how important pets are, and how the nation's environmental policies must consider animals as well as people if all creatures are going to get along together."

Emily slumped in the chair she had been sitting in, holding in her lap the pile of fabric that had been taking up the seat of the chair. "That's not as exciting as saying the power plant killed Toby. I wanted to see the look on Cindy Madison's face."

"So this isn't really about Toby at all, is it? It's about Cindy Madison," said Frances.

Emily grudgingly agreed. "She's so popular, and I'm not popular at all. And she's rich. Somebody needs to put her in her place."

Frances stopped her sewing and came around and pulled the room's only other chair next to Emily, after first moving the pile of fabric from that chair onto the floor. "There's a little something I want to tell you about popularity."

Emily listened with her eyes focused on the floor.

"All those people who seem to like Cindy Madison may not really like her at all. In fact, I'll bet some of them can't stand her."

"Then why do so many people hang around with her like she's a movie star or something?" asked Emily.

"Because they want something she has. They want a little bit of her charm. Or they think a little of her status will rub off on them. Or they think she'll invite them to her big house for her next pool party."

"In her indoor pool, of course."

"Of course. You wouldn't want to have your pool outside..."

"...where ashes from the power plant could fall into it?"

They both laughed. Then Frances grew serious. "My point is, don't assume the popular kids are happy, because they may not be happy. They may not have any true friends, because they can't tell who's a real friend and who just wants something they have."

"How do you know this, Mom?"

Frances straightened up and rearranged her hair. "Because I was popular once, back when I was beautiful."

"Mom, you are beautiful."

"No. Now I'm just an old hippy. I used to have youth and beauty, and I was good at telling jokes, and I was a cut up who got a lot of attention. Everyone wanted to be around me, but do you know what? I didn't have any real friends."

"What about Dad?"

"Your father was one of my first real friends. He wasn't blinded by beauty, as they say. He looked right through it and saw the real me, which, in my opinion, wasn't very pretty."

Emily swung around in her seat to face a wall of photographs and posters. Frances liked to decorate her sewing room with memorabilia going all the way back to her high school days. Emily pointed to a black-and-white photograph of Frances as a stylish, attractive young mother, holding a baby in a crowd of people. A tall, distinguished-looking man with light-colored hair was patting the baby on the head. The baby was Emily, the man was Bill Clinton, who visited Kentucky while he was president of the United States.

"You were beautiful in that picture, when you met the president, and that was only about twelve or thirteen years ago," said Emily.

"Was that only thirteen years? Seems like a lifetime ago," said Frances. Her voice trailed off a bit as she relived the moment. "Leo and I went to a political rally where Clinton gave a speech. I was determined to meet him. We loved politics, your father and I. Never missed a rally or a protest or a campaign. That was our social life."

"I hope I get to meet the president," said Emily.

"Then get started on that essay, and write from the heart, and you will win," said Frances. "Just write what you know is true."

Emily hugged her mother. "Thanks, Mom."