Chapter 4: Mud and Mess

Matilda stood in front of the old barn, kicking dirt with her muddy sneakers.

It was morning, and the sun was already hot. She wore an old shirt of Uncle Ben's because she didn't want to ruin her own clothes.

The shirt was too big, hanging off her shoulders like a sack. She felt stupid. She looked stupid too, she was sure.

The barn stood there, quiet and still, with its faded red paint peeling off in long strips. The air smelled like dry grass and dust.

She squinted up at the sky. It was bright blue, not a cloud in sight. Her sneakers were caked with dirt from the walk over, and she kicked at the ground again, sending little clumps flying.

Uncle Ben had dropped her off ten minutes ago. He'd said, "Be good. Work hard," and then drove away in his rusty truck.

The truck rattled as it went, leaving a trail of dust behind. Now she was alone, waiting for Jack.

The barn was falling apart—wood planks loose, roof sagging. Piles of junk sat around it: old tires, rusty buckets, a broken chair.

This was where they were supposed to build the wombat statue. Matilda didn't know where to start.

She didn't want to start. She looked at the mess around her and sighed. The tires were stacked unevenly, some flat and cracked.

The buckets were dented, with rust eating through the metal. The chair had only three legs, leaning sadly against the barn wall.

She wondered how long it had all been sitting there, forgotten. She heard footsteps crunching on the dry path and turned.

Jack was walking up, carrying a toolbox. He wore a faded cap pulled low over his eyes and a shirt with the sleeves ripped off.

His arms were tanned from the sun. He looked at her and grinned. "Nice outfit, city girl," he said, his voice teasing.

"Shut up," Matilda said. Her face got hot. She crossed her arms over her chest and turned away, staring at the barn.

She didn't want him to see her blush. The big shirt flapped in the breeze, and she tugged at it, wishing she'd worn something else.

Jack dropped the toolbox by the barn door with a loud thud. Dust puffed up around it. "You ready to work?" he asked, brushing his hands on his jeans.

"No," she said. "I don't even know what we're doing." She kicked at the dirt again, harder this time. A small rock skittered away.

"We're building a wombat. Mayor Dodd wants the base done by next week. We start with wood."

He kicked a pile of planks nearby. Dust flew up into the air, and Matilda coughed, waving it away from her face.

"I don't know how to build anything," she said, frowning.

She looked at the planks. They were rough and uneven, some with nails sticking out.

"You'll learn," Jack said. "Grab that hammer." He pointed to the toolbox. Matilda stared at it.

The hammer sat there, old and scratched, next to a pile of nails and a rusty screwdriver. She didn't want to touch it.

She didn't want to be here. But Jack kept looking at her with that dumb grin, so she bent down and picked up the hammer.

It was heavier than she expected. She almost dropped it, her fingers fumbling.

Jack laughed, a short, loud sound. "Careful. Don't smash your foot."

"I won't," she snapped. She held the hammer tight, like it was a weapon. Her knuckles turned white around the handle. "What now?" she asked, glaring at him.

"Nails," he said. He handed her a jar full of them. The nails clinked together as she took it. "We're making a frame. Hold this."

He picked up a plank and set it against another one, balancing them carefully. Matilda didn't move. She didn't know what he meant. The jar felt cold in her hand.

"Hold it where?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"There," he said, pointing to the spot where the planks met. "Keep it steady."

Matilda grabbed the plank. It was rough and splintery under her fingers. She held it while Jack hammered a nail in. Bang, bang, bang.

The noise was loud, sharp, and it hurt her ears. She winced, her shoulders hunching up.

Jack looked at her. "You okay?" he asked, pausing with the hammer in midair.

"Fine," she lied. She wasn't fine. This was hard, and she hated it.

Her arms were already tired, and the sun was beating down on her head.

They worked for an hour. Jack did most of it—hammering, measuring, cutting wood with a saw.

The saw made a high, whining sound as it bit into the planks. Matilda just held stuff when he told her to. She felt useless.

Sweat dripped down her face, stinging her eyes. Her hands were sore, red marks forming where the wood rubbed.

She wanted to sit down, but there was nowhere clean. Just dirt and junk all around.

The ground was hard and dry, cracked from the heat. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt.

Then Jack said, "We need paint. It's in the barn." He walked inside, his boots thumping on the wooden floor.

Matilda followed, dragging her feet. The barn was dark and smelled like mold and old hay. Old tools hung on the walls—shovels, rakes, a bent pitchfork.

A bucket of red paint sat in the corner, its lid dented. Jack picked it up. "You carry this," he said, holding it out to her.

"Why me?" Matilda asked, crossing her arms again.

"'Cause I'm doing everything else," he said. He grinned again, showing his teeth. She wanted to wipe that grin off his face.

She grabbed the paint bucket, yanking it from his hands. It was heavy, and the handle dug into her palm.

She carried it outside, grumbling under her breath. The bucket swung a little, bumping against her leg.

Back by the wood pile, Jack set up a ladder. It was old, with chipped green paint and wobbly legs.

"We're painting the base," he said. "You start."

"Me?" Matilda said, her voice rising. "I don't know how." She set the bucket down with a clang.

"Dip the brush in and slap it on," he said. "Easy." He leaned against the ladder, watching her.

Matilda opened the paint can. The lid stuck at first, but she pried it off with her nails. The smell was strong, sharp, and it made her nose wrinkle.

She found a brush in the toolbox—its bristles were stiff and stained—and dipped it in. Red paint dripped onto her shoe, a bright splash on the muddy white.

"Great," she muttered.

She climbed the ladder, holding the brush in one hand. The wood frame was wobbly, shifting under her weight.

She reached out to paint, but the ladder shook. She grabbed it with both hands, her heart jumping.

The brush fell, tumbling down. It hit Jack's head with a soft thud.

"Hey!" he yelled.

Paint splattered on his cap, red streaks running down the side. Matilda froze, her hands gripping the ladder.

Then she laughed. She couldn't help it. He looked ridiculous, standing there with paint dripping off him.

"It's not funny," Jack said, wiping his face. Red streaks smeared across his cheek, mixing with the dirt already there.

"It is," Matilda said, still laughing. She climbed down, her sneakers slipping a little on the rungs. "You look like a clown."

Her stomach hurt from laughing, and she pressed a hand to it.

Jack glared at her, his eyes narrow. Then he grabbed a handful of mud from the ground. It was dark and wet, sticking to his fingers.

"Oh yeah?" he said.

He threw it. The mud hit Matilda's shirt, right in the middle. Cold and wet, it stuck to her chest. She gasped, the air rushing out of her.

"You jerk!" she shouted.

She dropped the paint can. It tipped over, spilling red all over the dirt in a big, messy puddle. She didn't care.

She scooped up her own mud, her hands sinking into the cool earth, and threw it back. It hit Jack's arm, leaving a brown smear. He laughed, a loud, barking sound.

"Nice aim, city girl," he said.

He threw more mud, a bigger clump this time. She ducked, but it got her hair, sticking in the strands.

She screamed and ran at him, tackling him into the dirt. They fell, rolling down a small hill by the barn.

Mud smeared everywhere—her face, his shirt, their hands. The ground was hard, and little rocks dug into her elbows.

They landed in a heap at the bottom, breathing hard, their chests heaving.

Matilda sat up, brushing mud off her arms. "You're the worst," she said, spitting out a bit of dirt that got in her mouth.

"You started it," Jack said.

He was grinning again, mud stuck in his teeth. Matilda wiped her face with her sleeve. She wanted to be mad, but she laughed instead.

It was stupid. They were stupid. The mud was cold and slimy, clinging to her skin. She could feel it in her hair, heavy and wet.

They sat there, covered in mud, catching their breath. The paint can was still spilling in the distance, a slow red river soaking into the ground.

The frame was half-done, crooked and messy, leaning to one side. Matilda shook her head.

"We're bad at this," she said, her voice quiet.

"Yeah," Jack said. "But it's kinda fun." He stretched out his legs, kicking at a rock.

Matilda didn't answer. She didn't want to admit it, but he was right. It was a little fun. Not that she'd tell him that.

She stood up, brushing mud off her jeans. It didn't help. She was a mess—mud caked on her legs, her shirt soaked and heavy. Her sneakers squished with every step.

Jack stood too, shaking out his arms. "We should clean up," he said. "There's a hose by the barn."

He pointed to the side of the building, where a green hose was coiled up.

They walked back, dripping mud onto the dry ground. Jack turned on the hose, twisting the nozzle.

Water shot out, splashing everywhere. He sprayed his hands first, the mud washing off in dark streams. Then he aimed it at Matilda.

"Hey!" she yelled, jumping back.

Cold water hit her legs, soaking her jeans. She grabbed the hose from him, yanking it hard, and sprayed him in the face.

He sputtered, shaking his head like a wet dog, and laughed.

"Okay, truce!" he said, holding up his hands. Water dripped from his cap.

"Fine," Matilda said.

She dropped the hose. It landed with a thud, still leaking a little. They were wet now, not just muddy.

She shivered, hugging herself. The sun was still hot, beating down on them, but the water was cold, making her teeth chatter.

They sat on an old tire, letting the sun dry them. The tire was cracked and hard, but it was better than the ground.

Jack looked at the spilled paint, now a big red stain in the dirt. "Mayor Dodd's gonna be mad," he said, scratching his head.

"That's your fault," Matilda said, pointing at him.

"You dropped it," he said, pointing back.

"You threw mud first," she shot back, her voice sharp.

He shrugged. "Fair." He leaned back against the barn wall, closing his eyes.

They were quiet for a minute. Matilda looked at him. His cap was still wet, and his shirt was a mess of mud and paint.

He wasn't so bad when he wasn't talking. Maybe. She still didn't like him, but she didn't hate him as much as yesterday.

The sun felt warm on her face, drying the water on her skin. She picked at a clump of mud on her knee.

"We're not done," Jack said, opening his eyes. "Gotta fix the paint mess tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Matilda groaned. "I don't want to come back." She slumped down, resting her chin in her hands.

"Too bad," he said. "You're stuck with me." He grinned again, and she rolled her eyes.

Matilda sighed. She was stuck. With Jack, with the wombat, with Wattle Creek. She didn't say anything else.

They sat there, muddy and wet, the sun climbing higher in the sky. The barn creaked in the breeze, and a bird chirped somewhere nearby.

Then Uncle Ben's truck pulled up, its engine rumbling. He got out and stared at them, his hands on his hips.

"What happened to you two?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"Don't ask," Matilda said.

She climbed into the truck, leaving muddy footprints on the floor. The seat was hot from the sun, sticking to her wet jeans.

Jack waved at her as they drove off, his hand raised high. She didn't wave back. But she didn't glare either.

Maybe tomorrow wouldn't be the worst. Maybe. The truck bounced down the road, and she watched the barn shrink in the side mirror, still messy, still waiting.