alone
in the room
at the top of the house
with her silver flute.
PORTRAITS
While Luke and I sat quietly beside Mrs. Falala, waiting for the others, Luke whispered, Did you see what’s on the walls?
Dozens of drawings were tacked along the walls: renderings of the barn, the house, Zora and Paulie and Crockett and China and Edna, the pasture, the fence, the trees.
Did you see the ones of us? Luke asked. There were several sketches of Luke, all of him sitting on a hay bale drawing. Two drawings showed me and Zora: in one, Zora was pushing me over with her big head; and in the other I was resting my head along her back, staring off into the field.
Mrs. Falala must have tacked them up in the order she finished them, because at the far left, the drawings were primitive and awkward, but you could see her skills improving as you scanned the room, for the ones at the far right, nearest her cot, were more detailed and fanciful, even playful. On the table was her drawing pad with two final sketches on it. One was of me holding a show stick in one hand and Zora’s halter in the other, both of us looking at each other, with blue ribbons floating in the air all around us and a big plop of manure behind Zora. The other drawing was of Luke and me, as we were riding away on our bikes, and trailing behind us were all the animals—Zora and Yolanda, China, Crockett, Paulie, and seagulls flying circles over our heads. Very small in the bottom right corner was a little figure with a long braid, her hand raised in the air.
MRS. FALALA’S GIFTS
According to Mr. Colley, Mrs. Falala had spent the past month “getting her affairs in order.” This included making out a will, which she and Mr. Colley had finalized the week before the fair.
She must have had a sense about things. Old people do, you know. After all, she was losing her sight—
She was?
—yes, yes, and fell a few times—
She did?
—yes, yes, and she was feeling so weak—
She was?
—yes, yes, but for the first time in a long while, she had stopped worrying about what would happen to the animals if she died. She must have been looking for just the right family and—along you came.
Us?
Yes, it’s here in the will. She wants you to have the animals.
Us? Mom repeated.
The animals? Dad said.
Yes, yes, the cow, the pig, the cat, the parrot—
Luke said, The snake?
Oh, is there a snake, too? Well, yes, I suppose—
Dad said, But we don’t have a farm. We can’t take care of the animals.
I hadn’t cried yet about Mrs. Falala’s death, but I cried then, thinking of her and of what would become of her animals, Zora especially.
Maybe you could buy this place then, Mr. Colley said.
Mom and Dad exchanged a look. I knew that look.
We can’t afford this place, Dad said. It’s a great idea, but I’m still looking for a job.
Oh, Mr. Colley said. Oh, I see.
MORE DRIPPING
When we left Mrs. Falala’s that day, we were all feeling low and blue. Luke and I took turns weeping and staring out the windows. We all took naps. We wept some more.
The
d r i p
r
i
p
of the rain
matched our
d
r
i
p
p
i
n
g
eyes
and our
s a g
g i n g
souls.
And then I had an idea.
It is strange how ideas can arrive
out of dripsagging blue.
Come on, Luke, I said. Let’s go find Mr. Colley.
THE PROPOSAL
I am glad to see you, he said. Do you think you and Luke and your friend Zep can feed and tend the animals until I arrange for someone else to do it?
Sure, I said. We’d be missing Zora so much if we couldn’t do that, right, Luke?
Right.
Mr. Colley? Your property is next to this, isn’t it?
Yes, over there, the house with the blue door.
And wouldn’t you like to have more land? I stood by the window looking out. All that nice pasture? And that little pond? Mm?
Mr. Colley joined me at the window. It is a nice piece of land, he agreed.
We talked a little longer and then Luke and I fed the animals again before leaving. The following day, Mr. Colley phoned and talked to Dad.
I have a proposal, he said. Let’s talk.
SIX MONTHS LATER
It is hard to imagine that it was less than a year ago that we first thought of moving to Maine, and now here we are, at home in the house on Twitch Street, with a blizzard raging outside and a fire roaring in the fireplace, and animals warm in the barn.
Mr. Colley bought Mrs. Falala’s place
(An investment! he said)
and hired Dad as the live-in manager
and we all moved here in September.
We had a summer of cows and fairs
and “lobstahs” and ocean
and riding our bikes up and down
the narrow roads of this coastal town.
We had an autumn of dazzle-dazzle leaves
red and orange and yellow
and going to a new school
and meeting new friends.
We’ve had our first Christmas here
and our first blizzard
and our first power outage
and many, many shovelings of snow.
And for five months now
thanks to Mrs. Falala
we’ve had the company of Zora
and Paulie and China and Crockett
and probably Edna the snake
(who we hope is hibernating)
here on Twitch Street.
Yolanda is also here and Zep visits daily.
Is he coming to see Yolanda or you?
Dad asks regularly.
I don’t answer that question
because I don’t know the answer.
From a file Mrs. Falala kept on her cows,
I learned about Zora’s lineage.
She did indeed come from a long line of
champions
and maybe one day when I show her
at a fair
she will receive a blue ribbon
or become a Grand Champion
but
right now
I have a lot more to learn
about showmanship and
about Zora—
that stubborn, crazy, belligerent
sweet, sweet heifer.
Maybe she will calm down
just enough
to please the judges
but not calm down too much—
because then she would not be
Zora.
Luke drew a portrait of Mrs. Falala
with her long white braid
swinging over one shoulder
and he hung the drawing in the barn
so the animals could see it.
We have kept the attic
pretty much as Mrs. Falala
left it: all the drawings on the wall
and her silver flute on the cot
and sometimes Luke and I go up there
and remember her
with her long braid swishing
and her stars and leaves and
music
floating
out
the
window.
It feels a long, long way
from the city with subways and monuments
and traffic and sirens
to this town
where the mountains
meet
the
sea
where people hike and bike
and fish and farm
and to this house and barn on Twitch Street
where we live with animals we love
even
Edna
the
snake
but most especially
with
that
Zora:
That cow!
Moooooooo.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sharon’s granddaughter with Ginger the cow
Photo by Karin Leuthy
SHARON CREECH has written twenty books for young people and is published in over twenty languages. Her books have received awards in both the U.S. and abroad, including the Newbery Medal for Walk Two Moons, the Newbery Honor for The Wanderer, and Great Britain’s Carnegie Medal for Ruby Holler.
Before beginning her writing career, Sharon Creech taught English for fifteen years in England and Switzerland. She and her husband now live in Maine, “lured there by our grandchildren,” Creech says. “Moo was inspired by our mutual love of Maine and by our granddaughter’s involvement in a local 4-H program. We have all been enchanted with the charms of cows.”
www.sharoncreech.com
BOOKS BY SHARON CREECH
WALK TWO MOONS
ABSOLUTELY NORMAL CHAOS
PLEASING THE GHOST
CHASING REDBIRD
BLOOMABILITY
THE WANDERER
FISHING IN THE AIR
LOVE THAT DOG
A FINE, FINE SCHOOL
RUBY HOLLER
GRANNY TORRELLI MAKES SOUP
HEARTBEAT
WHO’S THAT BABY?
REPLAY
THE CASTLE CORONA
HATE THAT CAT
THE UNFINISHED ANGEL
THE GREAT UNEXPECTED
THE BOY ON THE PORCH
CREDITS
COVER ART © 2016 BY VINCENT MOUSTACHE
COVER DESIGN BY SARAH NICHOLE KAUFMAN
COPYRIGHT
MOO. Text copyright © 2016 by Sharon Creech. Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Vincent Moustache. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015952544
ISBN 978-0-06-241524-0 (trade bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-06-241525-7 (lib. bdg.)
EPub Edition © August 2016 ISBN 9780062415271
* * *
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FIRST EDITION
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