The Wally Hole (IQ Testing Book 3)

  The Wally Hole

  ipam

  Chapter 1

  Sunday

  Burrville

  6:01 pm. sunset. early evening. blue sky. orange clouds. sunny. hot. humidity 99%. 3 mph winds. no rain. sunny. 103°F

  The outer township of Burrville are composed of farms and farmers, farming the farmland for crop fields of food for all the citizens of Colfax and the surrounding outer townships.

  The farmer sits inside the cab of glass, slowly steering the tractor towards the end of the crop field, pulling the tiller. He wears an orange jumpsuit, a pair of orange gloves, and an orange cowboy hat. His face is covered in an orange scarf, keeping the dust out of his mouth and nose.

  The cab is covered in glass and enclosed, but the tiny and numerous dust particles wiggles between the glass seams, running straight into a set of dripping nostrils then stick. The scarf catches the flying orange soil. Since, the orange dust dances all the way up to outer space.

  The tiller lifts the old stalks of corn from the dirt then rotates the roots into the air for burning by the sunshine. Then, the fresh soil can absorb the nutrients of the burned roots.

  The farmer stops at the end of the row then backups the tractor, turning the tractor perpendicular to the tilled soil. So, the tractor is ready for the early work day, tomorrow.

  I am petite and pale skin. My long brown hair is wrapped into a bun under the cowgirl hat. I stand inside my tractor cab, wearing a pair of binoculars. My look-see view through the binoculars shows a wider field of vision, and the brighter object, another tractor. I have a clear, clean, and crisp image of the tractor, more than three miles, which is the eye distance of my pupil. I whisper. “So, that’s how ya do it.” I wear a used orange farmer jumpsuit, a used pair of orange cowboy girl boots, a pair of used gloves, and a used orange cowgirl hat. A soft used orange scarf covers my neck. I spy on the farmer, my next door neighbor, duplicating his tractor skills, since I am a novice at farming.

  I finished tilling my small section of crop dirt, today, but I didn’t understand how to park the tractor, without damaging my nice tilling work, not desiring to retill it, tomorrow.

  I giggle, wondering, if there is such as word as retill.

  I was going to march the tractor back into its home, the barn, when I realized that I was too far from both our homes.

  So, I am parked at the end of my tilled row, spying on my neighbor farmer for my information.

  This is my first complete day, being a farmer girl. I like it, but I love Buffo, being a love sick teen.

  Buffo is tilling another section of crop dirt, far away from Ketona.

  The entire landscape of Burrville holds ancient looking three story houses surrounded by 3,000 acres of orange dirt for the food plants, for the Colfaxians to eat.

  I have technically been adopted by Buffo’s grandparents, since I do not have blood-relatives living, here, within the Burrville country limits. And, it would seem that Duchie was correct.

  The local teens attended the Cubby Hole, answered only the necessary questions, attaining the orange level, becoming a farmer. The kids want to be farmers, like their parents and grandparents.

  I sit, cranking up the tractor, then drop the tiller gear. I slowly jolt along the rough tiny mounds of dirt up and down, backing up the tractor, making the hood a perpendicular statue towards the horizontal rows of uprooted orange dirt.

  I press the pedal, roaring the old engine. I back up then slam into something.

  I exhale, viewing behind my collar bone, narrowing my eyelashes. I do not see any object behind me. I slam the gear into park, cutting off the engine. I giggle. “Don’t wanna die, before my honeymoon with Buffo.” I open the cab, carefully sliding down onto the top step, which is three feet from the bottom step.

  Then, I sorta fall on my boot toes into the orange dirt, landing on my knees, too, giggling. I leave the door open, stomping towards the rear of the tractor.

  The tractor spits black smoke from exhaustion, too, like me. The black smoke reminds me of the old truck Duchie and I used in the green color tone.

  I ignore the smell, since the hat and the scarf help deter any nasty smelly smoke particles, walking towards the tiller. It looks okay.

  The tiller is not functioning. The tractor is off.

  I carefully view the tractor, the tiller, and then unplowed orange dirt. I do not see any obstacle behind the tiller edge.

  I exhale, stomping towards the tiller. It might be hung upon a stubborn corn stalk. Some of the stalks are really big, since the roots are really stuck deep down in the thick dried soil. When I find a stubborn stalk, I park the tiller blade over the stubborn corn and then mow it to death. I giggle.

  I learned that trick, my way.

  I stand beside the low tiller, holding my hand over the metal. The metal is cool, not running. “That’s good! The tiller is not working.” I drop to the dirt, not really care about getting more soil on my soiled jumpsuit.

  I’m a farmer, now and forever.

  I view under the tiller, seeing more dust bunnies of orange. And, I see no other foreign object preventing the tiller to hang in the dirt. “That’s good. I clear you, tiller.” I giggle and stand, watching the dancing orange dust bunnies. “No debris under the tractor, either. So, why am I stuck in the dirt?”

  I view the crop field behind the tiller, seeing more orange dust bunnies, rising towards the sky. I stomp towards the dancing dust bunnies then hit an object.

  I giggle, back stepping. “A barrier wall,” I shake my hat. “Everyone told me about the barrier wall. I just forgot. Okay, I ran the tiller plow into the barrier wall. Okay, my parking job with the tractor is done for the afternoon.” I exhale, wiping the dirt from my jumpsuit, sorta. I walk to the cab, dragging out my nifty new flying seater.

  A flier is a single seat attached to an engine with a set of holding bars. The flying engine is propelled by compressed air waves, spinning around and around, lifting a person from the ground into the air, about ten feet.

  So, I can’t fly to the moon, or to heaven, or over the barrier wall.

  The flying seats are used to transport the farmer over many miles of crop fields, since I am truly stuck four miles plus from my little tiny house.

  I jerk the lightweight flying seat from the dirt then over my back muscles. I pad five hundred feet from the tractor then press the button.

  The flyer seater blasts cold air waves into the wind, lifting me from the ground. I hover about nine feet, before pressing the green button, going forward. There are only two buttons, red for start and green for go.

  I slowly fly over the crop field, seeing my tilled orange dirt, feeling my growling stomach.

  My mama was correct.

  Farming is long hours, and hard work, but there is a bonus for me, too.

  My tiny farm house

  I land in front of the open garage door, stomping the thick grass with my boot heels then release my net webbing inside the flier. I stand, cutting off the air fan engine.

  The fly seater is powered off.

  I slide the flying seat from rear body then gently place it inside the open tailgate of the old truck, that doesn’t work.

  My old tractor runs on gasoline, since I am novice farmer. Most of the bigger tractors run on solar energy, since most of the farmers are better farmers than me.

  I walk towards the front porch of my large run-down three-story house, which is really a storage house. Buffo’s blood-kin was nice enough to adopt me into their farm family, after I selected to be a farmer as my dream job with my dream man.

  Buffo and I are planning our wedding for the holiday time, so both of our parents from Colfax can attend. Therefore, I am living in the out house…
correction…the outer house, behind the main house.

  I giggle with my mental joke then strip out my right boot. I toss the right boot onto the manicured grass then dance and wiggle across the front porch from one side to the other side. I slowly strip out my left boot, dancing and humming an invisible tune inside my mind.

  I stop, lifting my leg then pull of my right sock, exposing my nasty sweaty foot. I fling my leg up and down, stirring the orange dust bunnies around my body.

  I stop.

  I lift my right leg then pull off my left sock, exposing my other nasty sweaty foot. I fling my leg up and down, giggling.

  I stop.

  I stand, wiggling my hands from my breasts down my waist, down to my hips, wiggling my hips. I giggle then wiggle my hands down to my knees and then down to my ankles.

  I upright, giggling and cleaning off the excess orange dust from my jumpsuit. I untie the orange scarf then fling off my hand.

  It floats into the air, hitting its peak trajectory then drops to the manicured grass.

  I giggle then slowly unzip the front zipper from my throat.

  The zip slowly moves between my breasts, exposing my naked shoulders. It moves down the middle of rib cage, exposing my covered breasts. It moves down my waist, exposing the top half of my body. It slowly moves down between my legs, when the jumpsuit falls from my arms.

  I giggle.

  The zipper stops.

  I wiggle side to side, shimming out of the dirty jumpsuit. I turn, dancing side to side, along the naked front porch. The porch holds a two-seater swing in the corner, two lower windows with dirty glass, and one metal door of red. I dance side to side in the wind, brushing off the orange dust between my body parts, giggling.

  I stop.

  I stand in the middle of the front porch on the edge of the steps. I remove my cowgirl hat then toss it into the wind, wearing my two-piece bathing suit and naked feet.

  The weather is summertime, hot and humid.

  I sweat, even, before I dress, and then I sweat inside the tractor.

  I giggle, waving at the second window on my right.

  Buffo: tall, muscular, dark skin, blue eyes. He stands at the window, smiling and clapping my strip-tease farm girl performance.

  We live in two separate houses, under the guidance of his grandparents.

  The front porch is our future home, once we get married, next year, after attaining the age of eighteen years old.

  The three story house foundation is sound, but the exterior walls need painting. The interior walls need painting. The kitchen needs painting. There are new appliances. And, the bedrooms need a new paint, and curtains, and carpet, and other such things. Over the next year, his grandfather is purchasing these items for our house. Then, we will be performing the painting and decorating, together.

  Buffo walks from the rear door, carrying a tray of sweet tea in iced cubes.

  I giggle, back stepping from the steps.

  He places the tray on the porch then swings and hugs Ketona for love and protection. He spins her around and around, smiling and chuckling. He kisses her lips then smiles. “Whoa! What a day! I’m bushed from the heat and humidity.”

  I giggle. “I’m ready for supper, too. Should I help your grandmother do something in the kitchen, Buffo?”

  He spins her towards the front porch then grabs two glasses of sweet tea.

  We walk to the swing, sitting and rocking the chair.

  I sip the cold tea then smile. “I finished my tilling for the day. I realize that it was a small patch of dirt, but I think I got the hang of the tractor, pulling the tiller. I even parked it, sideways, so I can access the tractor for my working section, tomorrow. Farming is hard work and long hours…”

  Buffo sips the tea. “Yeah, it’s different from studying in school, or going to school, or playing in school…”

  I cuddle next to him, smelling the fresh dirt, the hay, and the grass on his body and his clothing. He wears a pair of shorts, a shirt, and naked toe bones, too.

  We don’t bath, until after suppertime, since we like to spend some time, together, before bedtime.

  After suppertime, it’s completely dark outside in the country. You see only the bright stars.

  I sip the tea then frown with worry, staring at his nose profile. “What’s wrong, Buffo? I realize this isn’t what we planned, after finishing Citizenship Day. But, I do love the fresh air, the zillions of stars, and the cool breeze. The quiet of night isn’t really quiet with the croaking frogs, whistling birds, and singing crickets. We usually don’t hear those songs in Colfax.”

  Buffo sips the tea, viewing the wooden planks of the porch. He exhales, saying. “I like it, here. I’m not disappointed, here. I’m not disappointed at my performance of the Cubby Hole, either. “Are you…you disappointed in being here?”

  “Naw. I love you, where you go, then I go and I stay, right here.”

  He nods. “I really wanted to hear that from you. I have a confession to make to ya, Ketona.”

  “Okay, confess?”

  “I lied, when I said, that I was having fun inside orange color tone. I…I, immediately, went back into the orange color tone, a second time, after I failed the first time. I couldn’t answer the questions. I can’t figure out the complicated mathematical questions, within the fifteen seconds of the deadline. It was so much pressure and stress and distress. So, I gave up and joined the other teens. I talked with them. They had experienced my same failure, so I could relate to them. Then, you didn’t fail and fall back into the color tone. I was surprised or mad. You’re really smart, Ketona. I really wanted to advance into the red color tone, then the green color, and whatever. I just couldn’t pass the questions. If the time limit had been a little longer, or if I could’ve written out my solution to the problem, but I wasn’t allowed to do that. So, I gave up. I sorry. I wanted you to know, what really happened to me, inside the orange color tone. I don’t want to fib to you, Ketona, about nothing. I love you. I wanna marry you. I just hope you can understand, why I stayed, there, inside the orange color tone.”

  “I do, Buffo. And, I figured out that you…f…fell in love with the country side. I can see the passion for the fresh air and pretty flowers, here, in Burrville. Now, no more talk about the Cubby Hole or the Citizenship Day. That was yesterday. That’s over and done. This is our life. This is almost the end of our first whole day in Burrville. I love it, here. And I love you, Buffo. We will build our future and our family, here, in Burrville…”

  He sips the tea, viewing the planks. “I have another confession to make.”

  “Okay, confess!”

  He exhales. “I am sorry, again. I had secretly established a backup plan. My parents were very concerned about my academic progression, so they talked with my grandfather. He was prepared for me, in case I didn’t make it passed the orange color tone.”

  I drop my mouth. “Back up plan was living here, in Burrville.”

  He nods. “I couldn’t tell anyone about my backup plan per my parents. I really wanted to tell you my backup plan, but I couldn’t. I hope you’re not mad, Ketona.”

  I exhale. “Naw, I can understand, sorta.”

  He nods, smiling. “Good, I really need for you to understand my concerns. I was prepared for the worse. And, the worse happened. I couldn’t advance out of the orange color tone. I was trapped in there. And, then, you showed up. I was both shocked and surprised…”

  I gasp. “You were both shocked and surprised that I came back, looking for you.”

  He nods. “I thought you had advanced into the red color tone or beyond with Rincon and Marsilla…”

  I exhale. “I did then I changed my mind. I came back, looking for you…”

  “Then, ya disappeared, again. I guessed you advanced back into the red color tone.”

  “Yes, I was…”

  “…frustrated with me. I would have been, too. You’re really smart, Ketona. I mean, you failed into the red color tone, twice, and then still managed t
o land inside the golden color tone. And, you answered the single most difficult question, inside the Cubby Hole. I heard the question from the me-chee, too. Well, I guess all the teens inside the Cubby Hole heard the question for a chance to jump out of your particular color tone. I, honestly, didn’t have a clue to the answer. You answered it. You advanced into the gold color tone. I wasn’t surprise. I was very proud of you.”

  I smile and hug his shoulder. “You were?”

  He sips the tea, nodding and smiling. “Yeah, you’re really smart. You would’ve been a great medical technician.”

  I exhale. “I am going to be a farmer. Yay hay!” I drink the tea.

  He exhales. “I have another…”

  “…confession?” I frown with confusion.

  “This is a worry. I worry about Hatch and Jara. They’re trapped in Dookie Town for the rest of their life. I don’t understand, what happened.”

  I stare at the wooden planks, remembering yesterday, reliving the fear and fright. “I do, the stress of the mental games, inside the Cubby Hole. Each color tone became more difficult, filled with creepy things, like snakes and knives. A teen can only take, so much pain and suffering. I almost reached my limited, within the blue color tone, if not for Duchie. She was strong and brave. She helped me overcome my mental fear and physically exhaustion.”

  “That should have been me.”

  I pat his forearm. “Well, Duchie is a good friend and a smart girl. She deserves to be a me-chee technician, after answering the most single difficult question, inside the gold color tone. She’ll be a good one. So, what else is on your active mind, darling?”

  “So, Hatch, just, gave up, too, inside the yellow color tone.”

  “Naw, I actually believed that he was having too much fun, inside the yellow color tone. You brought the concept to my attention, when you said that ya’ll sent back each teen to play within the love answer of the Citizenship question. The love answers were much more fun rather than the fear answer.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. So, Hatch was having too much fun and he forgot about advancing out of the color tone.”