by Cynthia Lord
As I take it from him, I look quickly at the front of the envelope. There’s only my name and address — nothing else. Even without a return address, I know it’s not from Amy.
“Go, Tess!” Libby shoves the dice onto my leg. “It’s your turn.”
I throw the dice without even looking.
“You’re stuck in jail!” Libby laughs.
Across from me, Aaron stares at my hands as I unfold the letter. There are only two words written inside.
I’ll try.
As the days pass, I make sure that I’m the one who gets the mail every day, just in case Aaron’s mother writes again to explain her “I’ll try.” I’m hoping she’ll tell us for sure if she can come to the talent show.
“Has everything been put out?” I ask Mr. Moody.
He smiles. “You must be expecting something important. A letter from Amy, perhaps?”
I nod. It’s not completely a lie, because I am expecting a letter from Amy — someday. I wish she’d write, because I have so much to tell her. But it takes two people to be best friends, and lately, I think I’m the only one who still cares.
“I’ve got a couple piles left to do. Let me see if I have anything for your family.” Mr. Moody looks through a stack of letters and bills. “There’s some school mail for your mother. And look. The stores are having back-to-school sales already. You’d think they’d let you kids enjoy your summer first, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Moody sorts through more mail. I have my eyes peeled for anything yellow in his hands.
“I hear Aaron is playing in the talent show?” he continues. “Mrs. Coombs asked if I’d be Master of Ceremonies again this year.”
“Aaron is playing his trumpet. He’s playing piano for Libby and Grace’s act, too.”
Libby couldn’t convince me to do an act with her, so she talked Grace into performing a song and dance together. When Libby asked me for a suggestion, I told her bees are lucky (and they’re a sign of a visitor coming), so Libby made up a song called “Big, Fat Bees,” which is only a little singing and dancing and a whole lot of chasing and buzzing. Aaron’s piano accompaniment is the best part of their act.
“I’m glad Aaron is willing to play for us again. It was such a shame what happened at the Fourth of July,” Mr. Moody says. “And what about you, Tess? Are you going to perform?”
I shake my head. “I always did something with Amy.”
“Well, there’s no law against making a change, is there?” He turns over the stack of letters. “Nope, sorry. There’s nothing else here for your family, Tess.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say brightly. “See you later, Mr. Moody.”
I wish Aaron’s mother could’ve been a bit more definite. He’s excited that she might come to the talent show. I even caught him sliding across the kitchen floor in his socks one afternoon when he thought no one was watching.
But he’s short-tempered and prickly about other things. He didn’t use to complain to Mom and Dad about anything, but now he’s picking battles over the smallest things.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Mom says that night as she’s doing some paperwork to register Aaron for school, and he storms off like she asked him to donate his trumpet to Goodwill.
“Well, then, you fill this out!” Mom calls after him. She turns to Dad. “What is with him lately?”
Dad strokes his beard. “Remember what they said at training? We’d get a honeymoon period and then he’d feel safe enough to show us another side of him?”
I leave the dishes only half done and head for the attic to talk to him. As I climb the stairs to the second floor, Aaron begins his nightly trumpet practice. But tonight, it’s like no music I’ve ever heard him play before — brassy and wild.
I hate to interrupt him, but I want to tell him to cool it a little before Mom gets suspicious. When he answers my knock, he’s holding his trumpet in front of him, his fingers still positioned on the stops. His hair is messy, like he’s been running his hand through it.
“I think you should be careful with Mom,” I say to him. “Like all mothers, she’s got special radar for secrets.” As soon as I’ve said it, I wish I could suck back those careless words. It might hurt him, not having his own mother to complain about. But he doesn’t look offended. “That song you played was amazing,” I say.
He shrugs. “You can come up to my room and listen if you want.”
“Okay.” I try not to look too excited — afraid he’ll change his mind if he sees how much I want to. In the attic I sit on his bed and wait for him to play, but Aaron looks out the window.
“I want to take a photo of the view here,” he says. “Like I did of the mountain at Home Number Two.”
“You can look out the window here. You don’t need a photo.”
He glances to the collage of photos on his dresser. “When I move, I might forget it.”
“You won’t have to move,” I tell him.
“You don’t know that,” he says plainly. “It happened before. Every time I thought I could count on people — the time came when I was in a car going to another house. I can’t keep doing this.”
I get off his bed to look at the photos on his bureau. The top photo is a house with a white barn, with blue-gray mountains curving above and behind it. “I miss that mountain,” he says.
“Did you know we live on a mountain, too? An island is the top of an underwater mountain.”
“It doesn’t feel like a mountain, though. Not a real one,” he says behind me. “Don’t you ever feel closed in, living here?”
I shake my head. “I feel more closed in on the mainland. On an island, you always know where the edge of the earth is. But once you’re on the mainland and leave the coast behind, there’s only ‘middle’ running in every direction. I feel lost in all that land.”
I blush, because maybe he thinks that’s ridiculous. But when I glance at him, he’s nodding. “A mountain makes an edge, too,” he says.
“Maybe we could go visit that place in your photo sometime,” I say. “I bet Dad would take us there when fishing slows down.”
“It’s pretty in the summer,” he says. “And in the fall, but —”
“Is this your band?” I cut him off, in case his next words were gonna be “I won’t be here then.” I point to the next photo: a group of kids, each holding a musical instrument. I scan the row until I find Aaron’s red hair. His smile in the photo looks hopeful and a little shy.
“Yeah. And this is my grandmother.” Aaron comes up beside me and gestures to the next picture, an older woman with cat-eye glasses and short, wavy gray hair.
“She looks nice,” I say.
“She was.” He moves his finger down to the photo in the right-hand corner. “And that’s my mom.”
She has red hair.
In the photo, his mom’s smiling, but it doesn’t light her eyes. Everything about her looks a bit out of date — from her makeup to her black dress. She’s sitting at an upright piano, but her hands are in her lap, not on the keys. “You look like her,” I say.
He nods. “I know.”
Inside, I feel like someone is ripping me right down the middle. I want him to stay here with us, but he’ll be hurt if his mom disappoints him or doesn’t even come.
“I want my song for my mom to be perfect,” Aaron says.
“It will be beautiful. You play so well.”
“When Mom was a kid, Grandma taught her to play, too,” Aaron says. “She told me Mom said that nothing compared to playing piano. Hearing people get all quiet, waiting for you to begin. Then applauding after. Knowing ‘I did that.’ I feel that way when I play, too. Sometimes when I practice, I imagine Mom’s right next to me listening.”
“If she comes —”
“She’ll come,” he says firmly.
“Come where?” a voice asks.
I spin around. Libby’s halfway up the stairs, looking at Aaron. How long has she been listening?
“Oh, I forgot to knock!” Libby says. “G
ood luck you weren’t naked, Aaron!” She climbs another stair. “So when’s Aaron’s mom coming?”
And I know exactly how long she’s been listening.
Long enough.
One problem with agreeing to keep a secret is that it always starts off feeling like an easy, little decision. But it doesn’t stay easy or little. It sits there like one of those jagged ledges hiding under the surface of the ocean at high tide — quietly waiting to rip everything apart if you forget, for even a second, it’s there.
Every night after supper, Aaron, Libby, and I walk over to the parish hall to practice for the talent show. Now that it’s August, dusk comes a little sooner, and by the time our rehearsal is over, the frogs are trilling and booming in the marsh, and moths dart and dive around us. Every night, I make Libby promise and repromise not to tell about Aaron’s mom coming. “Cross your heart and swear not to tell anyone,” I say.
Libby draws another X on her chest. “I won’t tell.”
But my happiness gets punctured a week before the talent show as Libby skips along beside us on the way to practice. “Grace wishes her mom could come to the talent show, too!”
Aaron and I stop short. “What?”
Libby slows down. “It just slipped out. We were talking about who was coming to watch.” She chews the side of her lip. “But it’s okay. Grace promised not to tell anyone but Jenna.”
“Oh, great!” I say. “Why don’t we put a sign up on the bulletin board at Phipps’s!”
“Jenna won’t tell,” Libby says.
“I’ll make sure of that,” I promise Aaron.
“Okay.” But he looks concerned.
At the parish hall, Aaron takes his seat at the piano and I sit next to Jenna. While Libby and Grace sing and buzz about on the stage, I’m trying to decide how best to bring up the subject of Aaron’s mother. “I’m so glad Grace and Libby have become friends,” Jenna says. “It’s nice for Grace.”
“It’s nice for me, too, because it keeps Libby busy.”
Libby’s wearing sunglasses wider than her face. Beside her, Grace looks like she’s heading off to Sunday School in a pink-striped dress, little white socks, and black shoes.
“Grace’s mom bought her those clothes to wear to church, but Grace won’t take them off,” Jenna says. “I keep telling her they’ll be a mess by Sunday, but she won’t listen to me. I don’t know why she has to argue over everything.”
“She’s being a little sister,” I say. “You’ve never had one before, but this is what it’s like — some parts are fun and some parts are completely annoying.”
Jenna takes a deep breath. “It’s hard to think of her as my little sister, though. Because I know she’ll probably go back to her mom someday and then we might get another foster child. It won’t be for months, though. Her mom has a lot of things she has to do first. This isn’t how I thought it would all work out.” She blushes. “Not that I don’t love Grace.”
“Take it from the beginning,” Aaron says from the piano bench. “Try to come in together.”
I lean close to Jenna’s ear and say quietly, “Did Grace tell you Aaron’s mom might be coming?”
Jenna nods.
“I hope you’ll keep it a secret.” I whisper the whole story of the yellow envelopes, Aaron’s mom, Gilly Hopkins’s story, and Libby’s big mouth.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Jenna says. “But what if it doesn’t work? When Grace sees her mom, she usually gets mad at us afterward. It doesn’t make her want to stay with us forever.”
“That’s different,” I say. “Grace is little, and she has a real chance of going back.”
“Maybe,” Jenna says. “But what if you’re wrong?”
“I can’t be.” My voice sounds certain, but inside, I’m not near as sure.
We sit there watching Libby and Grace flap their arms. “How come you’re not doing something for the talent show this year?” Jenna asks me. “You usually do something.”
Not without Amy.
“I want to do more than help my dad pass out programs this year. Maybe you and I could do something together?” Jenna looks hopeful. “I’d like to be in the show, but I don’t really want to do it by myself.” She glances to the stage. “And I definitely don’t want to be a bee.”
Part of me would like to say yes, but it feels like I’d be cheating on Amy — especially since Amy never really liked Jenna. “I was only gonna watch this year. But okay.”
Wait! Did I say that? I swear the part of me that wanted to say yes blurted out “okay” without checking with the “no” side first.
Jenna grins. “Great!”
Oh, glory.
“We could sing an easy song,” she says.
Amy and I never did a song, so it isn’t exactly like I’m replacing her. And when I pretended to be Lola that night in the parish hall, it was fun. “Um, how about ‘Peace Like a River’? I sang that recently and it’s not hard, but it’s really pretty. And Aaron knows it, so he’d probably say yes to playing it for us.”
Jenna smiles. “We’ll ask him to play loud. Then we’ll sound good, no matter what.”
I nod. “Let’s ask him to play really loud.”
“They should call this the no-talent show,” a voice says from the back. I whip my head around.
“I was just walking by, and Beast started howling from the terrible noise coming from in here,” Eben says.
“Shut up,” Aaron says.
“We just came to listen.” Eben pats Beast’s head, all pretend sweetness. “Can I see your music book, Aaron? I’d like to make a request.”
I walk toward him with my fists clenched. “Go away!”
“How about ‘All by Myself’?” Eben asks.
“Buzz, buzz!” Libby screams. “Sting them!”
She and Grace jump off the stage. Beast turns to flee, his tail down. Aaron, Jenna, and I laugh as Eben chases after him out the door.
“Grace and Libby might be bees,” Jenna says. “But Beast’s a chicken.”
I grin back, but I can’t help the troubled twist in my stomach that Eben came by on purpose. What if he’s planning to ruin the talent show, too?
Usually, I feel some excitement to see what’s in my lobster traps, but as Dad guns the Tess Libby’s engine, heading for Sheep Island, I can’t stop thinking about the talent show tomorrow.
Beside me, Aaron taps his fingers on the boat rail as if it’s a piano.
Off starboard, I watch a small flock of seagulls on the rocks, quarreling over who got what. If they’d only keep quiet, they wouldn’t have to share, but gulls can’t help bragging about what they’ve found.
“They sound like a bunch of oboe players,” Aaron says. “Really bad oboe players.”
Dad slows the boat near my first buoy, and a new gull swoops by, dropping a mussel shell on the rocks to break it open. Before he can eat what’s inside, another gull grabs it away. The loser throws back his head, giving an earsplitting cry.
Dad leans out to grab my buoy with the gaff.
“Hey, Tess Libby, you on?” Uncle Ned’s voice comes over the radio. “How’s them new traps fishing, Jacob?”
I look over to where Dad and Uncle Ned have set their fake traps as decoys. A bunch of buoys are around them, including one of Eben’s. I can’t help but smile, knowing he’s copycatting a couple of cement blocks.
Dad winks at Aaron and me as he picks up the mic. “I’ve caught lots today: little ones and big ones.”
I touch the blue lettering on the suspenders of my hauling pants. When I first started fishing this spot, I wished: Please let me have caught some lobsters.
But I keep catching baby lobsters and one day — the worst-luck day of all — I caught a lobster that was too big to be legal. I don’t even know how he got himself in the trap.
“Some things should work out but they don’t,” Dad said yesterday when my trap hauled up with only a couple crabs, a starfish, and a sea urchin inside. “It’s not only about what you th
ink or feel is right. It’s also knowing when to admit it’s time to move on, Tess.”
“Not yet.” I picked the starfish out of the netting. His tiny pink legs curled against my finger before I dropped him over the rail.
We rebaited the trap, though I could tell Dad thought I was wasting my time.
So today, my wish is:
Please let me have caught some lobsters I can keep.
Wishes are slippery things. You have to be very specific or you can get exactly what you wished for and still end up with nothing. Only when I hear my trap break the surface do I risk a peek.
Dad lets out a long whistle, then clamps his hand over his mouth as if trying to push the whistle back.
I stare, frozen in place. Inside the trap’s a brilliant blue lobster! Blues are rare, and this one’s the most beautiful color I’ve ever seen: a gleaming, summer-sky blue.
“Hey, Tess Libby.” Uncle Ned’s voice comes again over the radio. “Barb wants to know when we can have you all over for supper again? Would tomorrow night suit ya?”
“What are we having for supper, Neddy?” another fisherman asks.
“Barb makes a fine blueberry pie. Think she’d make us one?”
Dad picks up the mic, but he just stands there, holding it.
“None of you is invited!” Uncle Ned snaps. “I’m talking to Jacob.”
“It’s a public radio,” another voice says.
“Ayuh, seems like any invitations ought to be for everyone. Don’t you think so, boys?”
Dad clears his throat. “Tess just caught a blue lobster, Ned. Bluest I’ve ever seen. It doesn’t even look real.”
“Well, now!” Uncle Ned chuckles. “Guess you’ve got yourself something special there, Tess. Your daughter’s a real Brooks fisherman, Jacob.”
I throw Dad a proud look as I band the lobster’s crusher claw. “Yes, I am.”
Dad sighs and puts the mic down.
“Hey, Tess! I’ll pay ya fifty bucks for that lobster,” a voice on the radio says.
