Sprig

Eleven-year-old Joey Ann Scruggs lives a quiet life in Ashton, Iowa, with her Papa, carrying the secret that she has no mother and was found by her Papa stashed away in a bush years ago. When her fifth-grade class is assigned a family-history scrapbook project, Joey fabricates a family tree with fake relics, stories, and family members to fit in with her classmates. She hides her notes and treasures in a small box, hoping in shame that no one will uncover her lies.

Amidst teasing from her classmates, the pressure of Mrs. Rappaport’s expectations, and her burning shame of being adopted, Joey’s project wins the State of Iowa Achievement Award. As the award ceremony approaches, Joey struggles with guilt, fear, and anxiety about being discovered in her web of lies. Eventually, Joey confesses everything to her Papa – her lies, her fears, her longing for a real family. She faces a choice: accept the trophy grounded in her deception or reveal her truth.

Sprig is a 25,700 word middle-grade verse novel exploring the meaning of found family, identity, and love.

Currently seeking a literary agent for the publication of Sprig.

Chapter 1: Found

Papa says that when he found me,

I wasn’t crying.

He says I was barely moving,

barely breathing,

clammy and cold and tiny.

Wrapped in a white towel,

stuffed in a yellow cardboard box

––though Papa can’t be totally sure about

the box color––

because once he realized that it

contained a live human baby,

he picked it up and ran.

Ran, ran and ran.

Ran a quarter mile through hedges

and parked cars

and ambulances

flashing red lights

across windy rain.

Ran into the emergency room

at Powesheik County Hospital

where he was janitor.

Pushed his way to the front of the line,

nearly broke the nurses’ window

from knocking so hard.

Clarice was the triage nurse on duty

that night.

Papa lifted my limp body out of the box

and showed Clarice what he knew:

I was too blue, too tiny, too lifeless.

Clarice said the top of my head

curved inward like a bowl, which meant

I was dehydrated.

Papa says he could practically feel

my thirst

in his throat.

“Who’s this?” Clarice asked.

Papa blurted out,

“This here’s my daughter.”

The words

surprised Papa

even more than Clarice.

Clarice raised her eyebrows because she knew:

Papa had only left work five minutes before.

Papa wouldn’t use a soggy cardboard box to carry a baby.

Papa had no wife, no girlfriend, nobody outside the hospital

to call a friend.

Clarice knew the truth.

My papa, Jerry Scruggs, had no such daughter.

But thank the Lord

––Papa always closes his eyes when he tells this part––

Clarice was fond of Papa.

She liked his old-fashioned manners and gentle smile.

She liked the way Papa scrubbed her desk sparkling clean each night,

lined her pens up

in rainbow order.

Made her feel like a sixty-four-year-old queen.

“Jerry?” she said.

She was looking for an answer.

“Clarice,” he said.

“Please.”

And that’s all Clarice needed.

She signed me in and snuck

Papa into my hospital room

as a “family member.”

Clarice says she’d rather break

the law than break a heart.