The Mystery of the Cactus Arm

I stand under the saguaro cactus in my front yard with my next-door neighbor, Calvin. The cactus towers over us, at least five times our height. Its trunk-like body and large curving arms reach for the cloudless Arizona sky.

“Oliver,” Calvin says. “I bet five dollars you can’t make that arm fall off.” He’s always betting me like this. Last week he bet five dollars I couldn’t catch a tarantula hawk, which is a nasty wasp. I ended up with the most painful sting of my life. But that was still better than having to deal with Calvin making fun of me at school if I’d chickened out.

A wooden support beam is wedged under one of the saguaro’s arms. My parents put it there to hold the arm up after a tree branch fell on it, causing it to nearly break off. I push on the beam, but it’s pretty stuck. “I don’t know,” I say, kicking at it lightly. “My parents are trying to save it.”

Calvin narrows his eyes and grins. “I’ll bet you 10 dollars.”

I’m tempted. I could put the money toward the new video game I’ve been wanting—Animal Crossing. But it’s still a bad idea. “Nah,” I say. “My parents might get mad.”

Calvin rolls his eyes. “You’re such a chicken.”

Here he goes again with his taunting. Why did that guy have to live next door to me?

I lean on the beam a little. “I don’t think so,” I say, but I’m sure Calvin senses he’s wearing me down.

“Fine,” he says. “Fifteen dollars. That’s all the money I have.”

Whoa. He’s never bet me that much before. Fifteen dollars would definitely be enough to buy Animal Crossing, and maybe Calvin would finally leave me alone once and for all.

I kick a little harder at the beam. It budges. I know I shouldn’t do it, but that arm is on its way out anyway. How long could it possibly hold on? “Deal,” I say.

I glance back at my house to make sure no one’s watching and kick at the beam as hard as I can. It moves about an inch. My toes sting, but I keep kicking it. The beam eventually clatters to the ground in a cloud of dust, forcing us to jump out of its way.

The saguaro arm sways and sags, but it doesn’t fall. Calvin pumps his fist. “You lose!”

“Not so fast,” I say, picking up a large rock. I chuck it at the arm. It bounces off, and the arm sways again. I start grabbing every rock I find and hurling them at the arm. It begins to tilt, finally twisting and tearing off at the joint, plummeting to the ground in another puff of dust.

“Yes!” I shout. There won’t be any teasing at school tomorrow, and with all of Calvin’s money gone, maybe not ever.

I stand under the saguaro cactus in my yard with my neighbor Calvin. The cactus towers over us, at least five times our height. Its large curving arm reaches for the cloudless Arizona sky.

A recent storm had nearly caused the cactus arm to fall down. My parents wedged a wooden board under the saguaro’s arm to hold it up.

“Oliver,” Calvin says. “I bet five dollars you can’t make that arm fall off.” He’s always betting me like this. Last week he bet five dollars I couldn’t catch a tarantula hawk, a nasty wasp. I ended up with the most painful sting of my life. But that was still better than having to deal with Calvin making fun of me if I’d chickened out.

“I don’t know,” I say, kicking at the cactus lightly. “My parents are trying to save it.” Though I can’t really understand what the big deal is about a stupid cactus arm.

Calvin grins. “I’ll bet you 10 dollars.”

“Nah,” I say. “My parents might get mad.”

Calvin is pale despite the blazing heat. “I can’t believe it,” he mutters.

“What’s going on out here?” We whirl around and see Dad coming toward us. “Oh no,” he says. “That arm broke off.” He looks down at us suspiciously. “How’d that happen, Oliver?”

I shrug, my shoulders shaking a little. “I don’t know.”

“It was like this when we got here,” Calvin adds. We glance at each other nervously.

Dad shakes his head. “Bummer,” he says. “You know it takes a hundred years for a saguaro cactus to even grow an arm? What a loss.”

I blink at him in the bright sun. No, I hadn’t known that.

Dad shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing to be done about it now. Will you boys help me wrap it up and carry it to the Dumpster?”

We help Dad roll the arm up in an old piece of carpet and carry it across the yard. As we toss it into the Dumpster, Dad says, “Just think—a hundred years down the toilet.”

“Actually, down the Dumpster,” says Calvin, chuckling.

Dad smiles, but I don’t feel like smiling at all anymore. After Dad goes back into the house, Calvin grumbles, “I’ll bring you your money tomorrow.” Then he turns and leaves.

I watch him walk next door, the guilt already building in my chest over what I did to that cactus. And over how I’d lied to Dad.

Calvin rolls his eyes. “You’re such a chicken.”

I lean on the board a little. “I don’t think so,” I say, but I’m sure Calvin senses he’s wearing me down.

“Fine,” he says. “Fifteen dollars. That’s all the money I have.”

Whoa. He’s never bet me that much before. Fifteen dollars would be enough to buy the video game I want. And maybe Calvin would finally leave me alone.

“Deal,” I say.

I glance back at my house to make sure no one’s watching and push the board as hard as I can. The beam clatters to the ground.

“Yes!” I shout. There won’t be any teasing tomorrow, and with all of Calvin’s money gone now, maybe not ever again.

I toss and turn in my bed that night, thinking about the cactus and Dad’s disappointed face.

A hundred years down the Dumpster.

A light flashes into my room, and several seconds later thunder booms. I start counting the seconds between the flashes and booms. There are fewer seconds every time. The storm is moving closer.

After another blinding burst of light, I count, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi—”

I stop. Did I hear something? It sounded like whispering.

The thundering boom comes, and I think I hear whispering again.

Poo’s old at Jack Hut’s farm.

Is that what it’s saying? That can’t be right. I don’t even know anyone named Jack Hut.

I strain to hear the words. It’s getting easier to make them out between the booms because the whispering is getting louder, just like the thunder. My heart nearly stops as I figure it out.

Who stole my cactus arm?

I pull the covers up to my trembling chin. Then I let out a big sigh of relief, the realization hitting me—it’s Calvin. He’s pranking me. It’s just like him to do something like this. What a sore loser.

I throw the covers back down and jump out of bed. Running to the window, I shout, “I know you’re out there, Calvin! I’m not letting you off the hook for the money!”

The whispering gets even louder.

Who stole my cactus arm?

Lightning flashes, revealing the yard outside my window. I run back to my bed, my heart leaping in my chest, the thunder rattling the window. I pull the covers up over my head.

Because I hadn’t seen Calvin outside. I hadn’t seen anyone at all.

Down the Dumpster

“What’s going on out here?” We spin around and see Dad coming toward us. “Oh no,” he says. “That arm broke off.” He looks at us suspiciously. “How’d that happen?”

I shrug, my shoulders shaking a little. “I don’t know.”

“It was like this when we got here,” Calvin adds. We glance at each other nervously.

Dad shakes his head. “Bummer,” he says. “You know it takes a hundred years for a saguaro cactus to even grow an arm?”

I blink at him in the bright sun. No, I hadn’t known that.

We help Dad roll the arm up in an old rug so we don’t get hurt by the thorns. Then we carry it across the yard. As we toss it into a Dumpster, Dad says, “Just think—a hundred years down the toilet.”

“Actually, down the Dumpster,” says Calvin, chuckling.

Dad smiles, but I don’t feel like smiling at all anymore. The guilt is already building in my chest over what I did to that cactus. And over how I’d lied to Dad.

Calvin hands me the 15 dollars as we walk to the bus stop the next morning. “Here,” he says begrudgingly, like it’s my fault he’s broke now, when he’s the one who forced me into the bet.

I take the money and wipe sweat from my forehead, the air already hot and humid from the storm. “Were you outside my window last night?” I ask.

“Why would I be outside your window? It was storming.”

I squint at him. “I heard you whispering.”

He smirks. “And what exactly was I whispering?”

“Who stole my cactus arm?”

He laughs. “That’s a good one. I think you’ve been reading too many scary stories.”

“I know it was you.”

“Dude, I was asleep in bed last night. I wouldn’t go out in a storm. I don’t want to get struck by lightning.”

But it had to be Calvin. Who else could it have been? A ghost? That’s silly. And it couldn’t have possibly been the actual . . . No, that’s ridiculous. It had to be a person. And that person was probably Calvin.

“Fine,” I grumble, though I still don’t totally believe him. Because I really don’t know what else it possibly could’ve been.

Thunder, Lightning, and Whispers

I toss and turn in my bed that night, thinking about the cactus and Dad’s disappointed face. A hundred years down the Dumpster.

Thunder booms outside and lightning flashes into my room. A storm is rolling in. I stop. Did I hear something? It sounded like whispering.

Poo’s old at Jack Hut’s farm.

That can’t be right. I don’t even know anyone named Jack Hut.

I strain to hear the words. The whispering is getting louder. My heart nearly stops as I figure out the words.

Who stole my cactus arm?

I pull the covers up to my trembling chin. Then I let out a big sigh of relief. I realize it’s Calvin, trying to prank me. I throw the covers back down and jump out of bed. Running to the window, I shout, “I know you’re out there, Calvin! I’m not letting you off the hook for the money!”

Who stole my cactus arm?

Lightning flashes, revealing the yard. I run back to my bed, my heart leaping in my chest. I pull the covers up over my head.

Because I hadn’t seen Calvin outside anywhere. I hadn’t seen anyone at all.

More storms roll in that night as I lie wide awake in bed. I pull the covers tightly around me. And then I hear the whispering again. Only it’s louder than last night. Much louder. And I realize it doesn’t sound like Calvin at all.

Who stole my cactus arm?

Burying my head under the pillow, I tremble. “Leave me alone!”

Who stole my cactus arm?

“Go away!”

Who stole my cactus arm?

The whispering is loud enough now that I’m sure it’s inside my room. “I’m sorry! It’s gone! The garbage truck already took it away!”

Who stole my cactus arm?

The fear overwhelms me and I start to cry, declaring, “I’ll make it right! I promise! I’ll make it right if you’ll just go away!”

And the whispering finally stops.

Another Stormy Night

Calvin hands me the 15 dollars as we walk to the bus stop the next morning. “Here,” he says reluctantly. I pocket the money. 

“Were you outside my window last night?” I ask. “I heard you whispering, ‘Who stole my cactus arm?’”

He laughs. “That’s a good one. I think you’ve been reading too many scary stories.”

“I know it was you.”

“Dude, I was asleep in bed last night. I wouldn’t go out in a storm.”

But it had to be Calvin. Who else could it have been? A ghost? That’s silly. And it couldn’t have possibly been the actual . . . No, that’s ridiculous. 

More storms roll in that night as I lie awake in bed. Then I hear the whispering again. Only it’s louder than last night. Much louder. And I realize it doesn’t sound like Calvin at all.

Who stole my cactus arm?

Burying my head under the pillow, I tremble. “Leave me alone!” 

Who stole my cactus arm?

“Go away!”

Who stole my cactus arm?

The fear overwhelms me, and I shout, “I’ll make it right! I promise!”

The whispering stops.

The next morning, I sit down at breakfast with my parents, my heart thumping. “I have something to tell you,” I say.

“What is it, honey?” Mom asks.

I swallow hard. “I knocked the cactus arm down. I’m sorry.”

Dad stares at me. “Why would you do that, Oliver?”

I explain the whole story about Calvin and the bet. “I’ll make it right,” I tell them. “I have to make it right.”

Mom puts her hand on mine and squeezes. “Thank you for telling us the truth.”

“And I think I know how you can make it right,” says Dad.

The next morning, I sit down at breakfast with my parents, my heart thumping. “I have something important to tell you,” I say.

They stop chewing their cereal and give me their full attention. “What is it, honey?” Mom asks.

I swallow hard. “I made the cactus arm fall down. I knocked it off. I’m sorry.”

Dad stares at me. “Why would you do that, Oliver?”

I explain the whole story about Calvin and the bet. Then I tell them, “I’ll make it right.” I take in a deep breath. “I have to make it right.”

Mom puts her hand on mine and squeezes. “Thank you for telling us the truth.”

“And I think I know how you can make it right,” says Dad.

It’s Up to Us

On Saturday, Mom and Dad take me to visit Saguaro National Park. The park ranger tells us, “This desert is the only place in the whole world where the saguaro cactus grows. Some of these cactuses are hundreds of years old. It’s up to us to protect them.”

My hand shoots up, and the park ranger points to me.

“What can we do to help?” I ask.

Putting his arm around me, Dad smiles.

“We have to take care of the desert,” the park ranger says. “Pick up trash and be careful not to start fires. And you can always donate.”

I pull the 15 dollars out of my pocket and tell the park ranger, “I’d like to donate.”

It’s Saturday, so Mom and Dad take me to visit Saguaro National Park. On the tour, the park ranger tells us, “The Sonoran Desert is the only place in the whole world where the saguaro cactus grows. It can take 10 years for a saguaro to grow its first inch, and some of these cactuses are hundreds of years old. It’s up to us to protect them.”

Dad raises his hand and asks, “What’s the penalty for damaging a saguaro?” He looks down at me and raises an eyebrow.

“A person can be sentenced to up to 25 years in prison for cutting down a saguaro, even on their own property,” the park ranger says.

I gulp. Twenty-five years? My own hand shoots up and the park ranger points to me.

“What can we do to help?” I ask.

Putting his arm around me, Dad smiles.

“Glad you asked,” the park ranger says. “We have to take care of the desert. Pick up trash when you see it. Be careful not to start fires. And of course you can always donate.”

I reach down, pull the 15 dollars out of my pocket, and tell the park ranger, “I’d like to donate.”

That night, I’m able to fall asleep easily. The sky is clear and quiet. There are no more storms. No more guilt over what I did.

And no more whispers.

That night, I’m able to fall asleep peacefully because the sky is clear and quiet. There are no more storms. No more guilt over what I did.

And no more whispers.