Scout's Honor: Chapters 5–8

Mom’s smile unfolds with the same meticulous slowness she employs to unwrap presents.

My lungs, legs, and feet are on fire
before we’re even out of the cul-de-sac.

Lo stuffs a retractable sword down the
back of my sports bra to keep my posture up.
The pink plastic handle chafes against my spine.

“You’re oversteeping it,” Mom chides. “Tea is delicate,
Prudence. You can't brew the Tea of Seeing with
this heavy hand. It’ll be undrinkably bitter. It's dried
grub material. It’s liable to disintegrate
with too much force.”

Tía Lo gives me the key to her china hutch,
pressing it hard into the palm of my hand
like she’s bequeathing riches upon me.

I attempt to match her gravitas as
the door hinges screech open
and I’m staring down a dozen different tea sets.

It’s a personalized day planner that comes with a variety of washi tape and pens, so, duh, it’s from my sister. I’m a second away from making fun of it before I crack it open and see that it has a pad of premade checklists for Ladybird meetings. Just one of these could consolidate, like, thirty of the to-do lists on my phone.

“Prudence, you’re not just a scout now. You’re in charge. You can’t shirk your responsibilities by handing them off to Chancho.”

But where Chancho’s face is wide and goofy, Avi’s is all impish angles.

“Happy Initiation Day, Dame Prue!” Avi says with a titter slightly too practiced to be sincere.

I do sort of worry that under the intense tutelage of Faithlynn and the other senior scouts, Avi may give up blinking altogether.

Her dress is a confection of rainbow sequins and tulle.

I recognize her blue gingham dress from spending Easter dinner with her family, which, for some reason, makes my nerves triple.

I try to imagine myself three months from now, after I’ve Forgotten. Never having to wear little white gloves again. Never worrying that every twist in my stomach is trying to alert me to imminent danger.

Kelsey flushes a pleased pink and offers me one, which of course I accept.

Today, you walk across the threshold into womanhood.
Today, you learn the truth: It has always been the
job of women to keep our communities safe.

A selfie comes through—Kyle smoldering at me from behind the shoe rental counter at the bowling alley, his sandy brown curls hanging over his ears and eyebrows.

Paul shrieks as he, Chancho, and Sasha run away from the pergola in three directions, like buzzards deserting a carcass.

With a grub the size of a bull mastiff running rampant through my yard, there isn’t time to explain the Sanrio-fication of the Ladybird learning tools.

His lemon-yellow shoes stomp and swat his nearest Tizzy Louse, which resiliently climb his legs like Everest.

“They are not demons. They’re an interdimensional aberrant species called mulligrubs. It’s a colonial word for ‘stomach complaint.’”

“These can’t hurt you,” I say evasively.

The last thing I need is the Nock Jaw turning Carnivore because no one is having enough fun to keep it satiated.

As it brandishes its needle teeth at me, I swing both knitting needles up into its soft underbelly.

Avi wags a reproachful finger.

“Demon has an ‘alienating religious connotation’ that Headquarters prefers we avoid,” I quote with a sigh. “Scouts are pest control. Not priests.”

Avi nonchalantly dusts off her gloves.

Paz would have had a contingency plan.

I will go down in Ladybird history as the worst Dame of all time, supplanting the Dame whose circle let their mint die and had no way to banish the grubs that set off the New Jersey mass hysteria of 1972.

If we find an entry point, experience grub-drain, and just generally face the sweaty tedium of a midday patrol, I bet by the end of the walk I can get Avi her Identification charm and everyone else will agree to Forget this as soon as possible.

“Different societies have different names for their local monsters,” I say. “All types of ghosts, aliens, eldritch gods—”

The last time I saw her on the phone with her dad, a Scranch clawed at the window the entire time, an inch too far over to make it inside the room. Grubs aren’t great at spatial awareness.

“Mulligrubs breed to feed,” Chancho says. He nudges Sasha with a conspiratorial smile, trying, as always, to get her attention. “Our grandma used to say that.”

Her gingham skirt and the spiral tips of her curls flounce in step with her natural skip.

The buildings—which my mom still calls “temporary classrooms” even though they’re older than I am—are the size of train cars, easily scalable with a high-enough basket toss.

The powdery tendrils of the Dreary Blight grow more like English ivy than like an animal.

Wrapped around the air conditioners, the grub looks like a cross between a coral reef and the livid fuchsia lungs of a dinosaur.

Its flesh crumbles the same way the paint on the portables does, leaving bald patches at the seams. In the slice of sunlight between buildings, it’s easy to see fuchsia motes breaking free and floating away.

“Now that you can See what everyone else can’t, you’ll need to learn to be inconspicuous. Keep mint in your pockets. Altoids—the peppermint ones—can work in a pinch, but essential oil is better. Practice not looking directly at grubs in public. You draw a lot of attention to yourself when you start watching things other people can’t See. Hunting is a secret for a reason.”

“Because when people can’t See what you do, they assume the problem is you, not them. They won’t believe you. And the harder you fight to explain, the more unhinged you’ll look.”