by Cynthia Lord
“Yes, indeed. We could use you in the choir, Lola.” Reverend Beal leans against the doorway, arms crossed.
I grab the purple hat off my head. “We were just —”
“How about ‘Amazing Grace’ now?” Reverend Beal asks. “We really, really old people like that one.”
I clamp my fingers over my mouth.
“I got a call from Mrs. Coombs. She saw you two come in here and was worried you were up to mischief.” He glances at the open boxes.
“We’ll put these things back neatly,” I say. “I promise.”
“All in good time.” Reverend Beal sets up a folding chair and sits down to be our audience. “I think Fourth of July will be very special this year,” he says. “Thank you for agreeing to play for us, Aaron.”
As Aaron plays “Amazing Grace,” Reverend Beal joins in with his booming bass voice. I let myself sing a little louder with each few words, in a way I never would dare at church or school, where I try to keep my voice low and in the middle of the group.
Aaron plays verse after verse.
And I sing free.
On the morning of the Fourth of July picnic, Dad and Libby go to the parish hall to help decorate. Last year, Amy and I were in charge of decorating all the long tables, but when Dad mentioned going this morning, it didn’t sound fun without her.
I’m washing up breakfast dishes with Mom to the far-off sound of Aaron improvising with his trumpet in the attic.
You’re a grand old flag, do-doot-de-doo!
From the open window above our kitchen sink, I watch the spruce treetops swaying in the breeze, like they’re dancing. Thin clouds stretch a line of dashes across the blue sky. And past our yard, Doris Varney sits in her porch rocker, a mug stopped halfway to her lips.
You’re a high-flying flaaag!!
“You don’t think Aaron’ll play it that way at the picnic, do you?” Mom pulls a dry dish towel from the rack beside me. “Because Mrs. Coombs will be fit to be tied.”
I rinse a skillet under the water. “I like the song that way.”
You’re the emblem of — the land I looooove.
“It makes it sound new and not as ordinary.” I hand the skillet to Mom and pick up a juice glass from the soapy water. “He also plays the piano really well. Did you know that?”
“No. Is that why you two were sneaking around the parish hall the other day?”
“Um.” I scrub the glass so hard it squeaks.
Mom smiles. “Mrs. Coombs called, but I told her you wouldn’t be up to any trouble. I’m so glad Aaron’s feeling more a part of things here.”
The home of the free and the brave! BAH-dah-DAH!
“I can’t wait for everyone to hear Aaron play.” Part of me is itching to tell Mom this was all my idea and how I got Doris Varney to call Mrs. Coombs — without me even asking her. I’m afraid Mom might think that was meddling in other people’s business, though, instead of helping out. But sometimes the right thing needs a little shove to get started.
Keep your eye on the grand old flaaaaaaag!
The long church supper tables are set up on the grass, covered with pies, cobblers, and slabs of watermelon on paper plates. The Ladies’ Aid Society went red, white, and blue wild this year — from the striped napkins on the table to the little flags stuck upright in the cupcakes to the balloon bouquet attached to the fire hydrant. There are buntings under every window and twisted streamers looped over the parish hall doorway.
Dad’s over with the men tending the clambake, and Reverend Beal, wearing a chef’s apron, bastes and turns chicken legs on the big grills. All around, women hurry with platters and bowls and shoo the littlest children out from underfoot.
Mom, Aaron, and I make our way around a traffic jam of old ladies:
“Let’s make some room on the table for this.”
“Do we need a bowl for the chips or can we just put out the bag?”
“Oh! Who brought this blueberry pie?”
Mrs. Coombs calls over to Mom, “Isn’t this a beautiful day, Kate? We couldn’t have had better weather if we’d ordered it from a catalog!”
“Yes,” Mom replies. “It’s a perfect day for a picnic — sunny, but with that lovely breeze off the water to keep the mosquitoes away.”
“I’m glad you remembered my music book, because I’ve thought of a few more songs I want to add.” Mrs. Coombs nods to Aaron. “You can come over and get ready. No funny business, now — I want those songs played with the respect they deserve.”
“Don’t worry,” Aaron mutters, handing her the songbook. “I’ll play everything downright grim.”
He follows Mrs. Coombs, and I sidestep a few people setting up folding chairs.
Next to the lemonade table, I see Mrs. Ross with her hand on Grace’s hair. I scan the crowd to see if all the other new kids are here, too. I see Henry setting up chairs with Mr. Morrell. The Webbers brought Sam, and — oh.
Over to one side, Eben Calder is sitting with a group of summer kids. Eben nods his head toward me and says something to the boy next to him. The boy laughs.
I make a sour face at them. Eben better not make any trouble today.
As I pass the dessert table, I pull a daisy from one of the vases of red carnations, white daisies, and blue iris.
When will I know for sure that Aaron will stay with us? I start pulling off petals. This year, next year, sometime, never. This year, next year, sometime, never. I pull petal after petal, ending with sometime.
I drop the bare stem in the grass. “Sometime” could include “this summer,” right?
“Hey, Tess,” Jenna says, coming up beside me. “You’d better act busy or Mrs. Coombs’ll pick a job for you. Last year she put me in charge of picking up trash. It was disgusting.”
I smile. “Okay.”
We rake seaweed over the clams for Dad and carry things for Reverend Beal. As we work, I keep sneaking glances to Aaron talking to people and getting ready. This is gonna be great! As he opens his trumpet case, I tell Jenna, “Come on. It’s starting!”
“Aaron’s real good at trumpeting,” Libby announces loudly as Jenna and I sit down between her and Grace on a blanket on the grass.
“He’s more than good,” I say.
Mrs. Coombs picks up her songbook off the table. She carries a music stand to the top of the parish hall steps and sets it dead center in front of the audience. “Welcome, everyone! We have a special treat today! Aaron has agreed to play us some good old-fashioned patriotic tunes to get our toes tapping!”
I glance to Eben whispering with another boy on the other side of the lawn, his full plate balanced on his knee. Eben probably just came for the free food.
Aaron stands up straight, his fingers flickering over his trumpet stops. I would’ve expected him to look embarrassed by Mrs. Coombs’s corny introduction, but he just straightens the music book on the stand.
Libby inches forward on the blanket, and I throw a proud look at Eben. He gives me a mocking smile, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. It feels like when I play UNO with Libby, and I’m down to one wild card left. I sit there, waiting to lay that last card on the table and win.
“So let’s give Aaron a big Bethsaida Island welcome for agreeing to entertain us this day!” Mrs. Coombs says.
People clap politely. Aaron steps his feet apart, like he needs to brace himself against the music. His elbows come up, his forehead lines with concentration. He purses his lips at his mouthpiece.
My country, ’tis of thee,
sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing;
For the first few notes, I don’t recognize the song. Aaron plays it soothing, like a lullaby.
Land where my fathers died,
land of the pilgrims’ pride,
from every mountainside let freedom ring!
Mrs. Ellis starts singing along from the audience, her quivery old voice sounding surprisingly good with Aaron’s trumpet.
My native country, thee,
land of the noble free, thy name I love;<
br />
I love thy rocks and rills,
thy woods and templed hills;
my heart with rapture thrills, like that above.
Let music swell the breeze,
and ring from all the trees sweet freedom’s song;
let mortal tongues awake;
let all that breathe partake;
let rocks their silence break, the sound prolong.
Our fathers’ God, to thee,
author of liberty, to thee we sing;
long may our land be bright
with freedom’s holy light;
protect us by thy might, great God, our King.
Everyone claps loud and long. Libby inches forward on the blanket, and I glance at Eben. He stares back, but I don’t care, because I know Aaron’s good and so does everyone else.
Aaron smiles, looking happier than I’ve ever seen him, and turns the page of the songbook. He plays “Pilot’s Hymn,” “God Bless America,” and “The Battle Cry of Freedom.”
Sitting cross-legged on the ground, I roll a piece of grass between my finger and thumb. Mom didn’t need to worry about Aaron improvising, because he plays song after song without a single “doo-wah.” But I miss the spirit he gives those songs at home — the extra bits he adds that lift them up to something new.
With every song he plays, more people sing with him. My toes move gently up and down in my sneakers. When he holds a long note, he closes his eyes for a moment, his muscles tight in his arms and around his mouth. Leaning back, he tips his trumpet up, like he’s playing that note to the trees. As he finishes each song, I cross my fingers it won’t be the last.
In the pause after “Stars and Stripes Forever,” I hear Mrs. Coombs from somewhere behind me. “Wasn’t that stirring, Kate? I always said Aaron would be a good addition to this place.”
I can’t see Mom, but I bet she’s pursing her lips, holding back words — like I am. Except Mom’s words probably don’t include “old biddy.”
“Such a fine young man, even if he is a bit scruffy around the edges,” Mrs. Coombs continues. “A good haircut, that’s all he needs.”
Aaron turns to another bookmarked page. His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth opens. His gaze sweeps over the audience. Then he slams the songbook shut so hard, the music stand teeters.
Everyone claps, but Aaron’s off the steps and cutting through the maze of people on the grass. Wait! He didn’t play “Taps” yet. He knows Mrs. Varney is waiting especially for that one.
“What’s going on?” Libby asks Jenna as I scramble over purses and blanket corners and squeeze past elbows. Dad and Mom stand up, but Aaron doesn’t even stop for them. “Excuse me,” I say over and over.
Ahead of me, Aaron runs away down the road. His shoulders are hunched and his head dips forward, like he’s hurrying headlong into a storm, with his trumpet under his arm. I call after him, but he doesn’t look back — not once.
On an island, silence usually means people are talking about you. Our phone hasn’t rung since we got home. The whole island’s probably hashing over how Aaron stormed off and about the Post-it note Mrs. Coombs found on the bookmarked page of “Taps.”
Go home!
Oops, you can’t. Right, orphan?
“At least he didn’t punch anyone,” Libby said to Mom and Dad when Aaron wouldn’t come down for supper.
“I’m going over there and have it out with Eben and his father,” Dad said, pushing back his chair.
“You don’t know if Eben did this,” Mom replied. “You let me handle it. You and Brett Calder’ll just make this worse.”
They argued about it until Dad stormed off to Uncle Ned and Aunt Barb’s house, and Mom went upstairs to talk to Aaron.
I think she did most of the talking, though.
When Mom came back downstairs, I went to my room and listened hard to hear how Aaron was taking this: Would he cry or throw things or even pace in the attic above my room? But I didn’t hear anything at all, and that felt sadder than if he’d been sobbing.
In the morning, Mom got a call from Mrs. Coombs, saying she’d discovered that Eben was at the bottom of that note. She’d gone straight over to the Calders’ house and given him a big piece of her mind and now he has to mow the whole cemetery as a punishment.
“I suspect that’ll set Eben straight,” Mom said after she hung up the phone.
I doubt it, though. I can’t imagine Eben’s a bit sorry.
Aaron doesn’t leave his room until I’m out working on my skiff. From under my fringe of bangs I see him coming. He’s frowning, not looking at all like he’s in the mood for talking. He takes a paint scraper, and we work in silence. I’m about half done with the scraping. Most of the boat looks shabby and old right now, but sometimes you have to make things worse in order to make them better.
Aaron chips at the paint so hard, he takes some wood off with it.
“Hey!” I say.
He does it again, and another sliver of wood flies off the hull.
“Stop it!” I grab for the paint scraper.
He pulls the tool away before I can get it. “This part’ll be in the water. No one’ll even know.”
“I’ll know!”
He lowers his eyebrows, but I don’t back down. “Look, I’m sorry Eben put that note in the music book. And I’m sorry if my family isn’t doing everything right, but we really are trying, and we want you to fit in here. Why didn’t you just crumple up the note and throw it away?”
“I showed up and I played — even though I didn’t really want to! Isn’t that enough?” He glares at me. “You went to that picnic because everyone knew you belonged there. I only got invited to play the trumpet!”
“That’s not true! You would’ve come with us, even if you didn’t play.”
“Right. I would’ve come with your family! And if you didn’t need me to keep your school open, I wouldn’t even be here.” He gouges another splinter of wood off my boat.
I snatch the scraper from him. “So what? That doesn’t mean it has to be awful or that we don’t want you. Everybody gets something for the things they do. Even when people seem like they’re only thinking of others, maybe it’s because doing good makes them feel nice inside. Did you ever think of that? Those people are still getting something in return. Maybe we’re just more honest about it.”
Aaron huffs. “You have no idea what it’s like for me. Not being where I want to be, having everything I’ve known yanked away from me, over and over. Having people feel sorry for me or think I’m a bad kid because something bad happened to me. You can’t even imagine it.”
“Maybe not as much as you,” I say. “But since last winter, I’ve been imagining losing things that matter to me — having to start over at a new school, coming into the middle of everything where kids have made all their friends already. Having to learn all those people’s names, and I will have missed how they learned to do everything. And because everyone else knows, no one will think to explain it to me.”
“You mean like what happens to me every time I have to move? Except I have to do more than change houses and schools. I get dumped into a whole new family each time.”
His words smack me. “I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. When your skiff is ready, I’m —” He stops.
“You’re what?” I wait, but he doesn’t answer. “What do you mean when my skiff is ready?”
He still won’t answer, but he makes a fist so tight I see blue veins bulging on the back of his hand.
How could I have been so stupid? “I thought you wanted to work on this boat so you could do something with me.”
“I want my own home again — with my own mom. Why can’t you understand that? I thought you wanted to be my friend.”
I lay both scrapers down on the hull. “I do. But —”
“When they came and took me away that first time, the lady promised it’d all work out in a month or two.” He flicks at a stubborn paint chip with his fingernail. “What a joke.”
“But if your mom didn’t do what she was supposed to —”
“They made it too hard for her!” He picks up one of the scrapers and stabs the boat with the corner hard enough that it stays upright, stuck in the wood. “They could’ve tried something else or given her another chance. Mom didn’t give up — they did!”
“But you can’t run away with my skiff! They’ll just come find you and —”
“I should’ve known you’d take their side!”
“I’m not taking their side!” I say, even though he’s already walking away from me. “But don’t expect me to keep this secret, too.”
I grab the handle of his scraper and pull the blade out. As I’m smoothing over the cut in the wood, the screen door slams.
As I climb the steps to the porch, I hear Mom talking in the kitchen. “Aaron’s going through a hard time. I’ll play Monopoly with you instead.”
“But he never plays with me!” Libby whines. “I keep asking and asking, and he keeps saying no, no, no.”
I take a tiny step backward from the door. I want to tell Mom about Aaron’s plan to run away, but I want to do it alone.
“I said he could come live with us, but I didn’t know he’d hate me!” Libby says.
“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you, honey.” After a pause, Mom adds, “He’s not used to having little sisters. And he’s been moved around so much, it’s probably hard to believe he’s here to stay. Saying good-bye is always hard, Libby. Maybe it seems easier not to get too close to us, in case that happens again.”
I slump against the side of the house and stare out at my skiff. How can I ever launch it now? All this time, I was hoping Aaron’d be a boy version of Anne of Green Gables, but Gilly Hopkins came instead: angry and tough and not wanting to need anyone.
I liked that book, The Great Gilly Hopkins — all except the ending. In the book, Gilly had come to love her foster mom, but one day Gilly got mad and wrote a complaining letter to her birth mom. That mom came and took her back. Why couldn’t Gilly realize how good she had it before she threw it all away?
