Blossom Promise

by Betsy Byars

  Junior tries to fly using homemade wings. Vern attempts to go down a flooded river on a raft. And Maggie learns to do tricks on a galloping horse. Which of these things would you most like to do?

  My last choice would be to do tricks on a galloping horse. I have had wonderful experiences on water and in the air—though never in anything homemade. One fortunate thing about being an author is that you don’t have to actually do everything you write about. Otherwise we’d spend a lot of time in emergency rooms.

  Why does horseback riding play a role in the Blossom books? Were you a trick rider like Maggie? Can you rope twirl like Pap? How close have you ever been to a real, live bull?

  The Blossoms are a rodeo family; they have to do that stuff. My function is to go to rodeos, soak up the experiences, eat rodeo food, and enjoy myself. My husband and I live on an airstrip in rural South Carolina. Next to us is a cattle farm. A fence in my backyard separates us from the fields. On occasion, my nearest neighbor has been a bull.

  Pap uses lots of old expressions, and Vern shares one with Michael: “I thought we were goners” (p. 31). What is your favorite expression?

  Years ago when people were startled or learned something surprising, they’d say, “Well, I’ll be.” As a child, I never understood what they would be; but today when I am surprised or startled by something new, I say to myself, “Well, I’ll be.”

  A Biography of Betsy Byars

  Betsy Byars (b. 1928) is an award-winning author of more than sixty books for children and young adults, including The Summer of the Swans (1970), which earned the prestigious Newbery Medal. Byars also received the National Book Award for The Night Swimmers (1980) and an Edgar Award for Wanted … Mud Blossom (1991), among many other accolades. Her books have been translated into nineteen languages and she has fans all over the world.

  Byars was born Betsy Cromer in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her father, George, was a manager at a cotton mill and her mother, Nan, was a homemaker. As a child, Betsy showed no strong interest in writing but had a deep love of animals and sense of adventure. She and her friends ran a backyard zoo that starred “trained cicadas,” box turtles, leeches, and other animals they found in nearby woods. She also claims to have ridden the world’s first skateboard, after neighborhood kids took the wheels off a roller skate and nailed them to a plank of wood.

  After high school, Byars began studying mathematics at Furman University, but she soon switched to English and transferred to Queens College in Charlotte, where she began writing. She also met Edward Ford Byars, an engineering graduate student from Clemson University, whom she would marry after she graduated in 1950.

  Between 1951 and 1956 Byars had three daughters—Laurie, Betsy, and Nan. While raising her family, Byars began submitting stories to magazines, including the Saturday Evening Post and Look. Her success in publishing warm, funny stories in national magazines led her to consider writing a book. Her son, Guy, was born in 1959, the same year she finished her first manuscript. After several rejections, Clementine (1962), a children’s story about a dragon made out of a sock, was published.

  Following Clementine, Byars released a string of popular children’s and young adult titles including The Summer of the Swans, which earned her the Newbery Medal. She continued to build on her early success through the following decades with award-winning titles such as The Eighteenth Emergency (1973), The Night Swimmers, the popular Bingo Brown series, and the Blossom Family series. Many of Byars’s stories describe children and young adults with quirky families who are trying to find their own way in the world. Others address problems young people have with school, bullies, romance, or the loss of close family members. Byars has also collaborated with daughters Betsy and Laurie on children’s titles such as My Dog, My Hero (2000).

  Aside from writing, Byars continues to live adventurously. Her husband, Ed, has been a pilot since his student days, and Byars obtained her own pilot’s license in 1983. The couple lives on an airstrip in Seneca, South Carolina. Their home is built over a hangar and the two pilots can taxi out and take off almost from their front yard.

  Byars (bottom left) at age five, with her mother and her older sister, Nancy.

  A teenage Byars (left) and her sister, Nancy, on the dock of their father’s boat, which he named NanaBet for Betsy and Nancy.

  Byars at age twenty, hanging out with friends at Queens College in 1948.

  Byars and her new husband, Ed, coming up the aisle on their wedding day in June 1950.

  Byars and Ed with their daughters Laurie and Betsy in 1955. The family lived for two years in one of these barracks apartments while Ed got a degree at the University of Illinois and Byars started writing.

  Byars with her children Nan and Guy, circa 1958.

  Byars with Ed and their four children in Marfa, Texas, in July 1968. The whole family gathered to cheer for Ed, who was flying in a ten-day national contest.

  Byars at the Newbery Award dinner in 1971, where she won the Newbery Medal for The Summer of the Swans.

  Byars with Laurie, Betsy, Nan, Guy, and Ed at her daughter Betsy’s wedding on December 17, 1977.

  Byars in 1983 in South Carolina with her Yellow Bird, the plane in which she got her pilot’s license.

  Byars and her husband in their J-3 Cub, which they flew from the Atlantic coast to the Pacific coast in March 1987, just like the characters in Byars’s novel Coast to Coast.

  Byars speaking at Waterstone’s Booksellers in Newcastle, England, in the late 1990s.

  Byars and Ed in front of their house in Seneca, South Carolina, where they have lived since the mid-1990s.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Blossom Family Series

  CHAPTER 1

  Junior’s Surprise

  “Junior.”

  Junior was digging under the pine trees. His mother called again from the porch.

  “Junior!”

  Junior still didn’t hear her. He was intent. He dug carefully, lifting shallow scoops of earth on his shovel, then throwing them sideways into the brush. Sweat rolled down his shiny face.

  “Junior Blossom!”

  Now he looked up. He made a visor with one hand and shaded his eyes from the late afternoon sun.

  “What are you up to, Junior?”

  “I’m making something.”

  “Junior …”

  “It’s something for school.”

  “It doesn’t look like something for school. It looks to me like you’re digging a hole.” This was an accusation.

  “No, no, it’s not a hole.”

  Junior looked down at his feet. He had been digging since he got home from school, and as he dug, he covered his excavation carefully with boards.

  The boards jagged across the pine needles like a streak of wooden lightning.

  “A hole is round, Mom. Does this look round?”

  He spread out his arms to take in the panorama of his digging.

  “Junior Blossom, you know what I told you about holes.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What?”

  “You told me not to dig them. You said people could break their necks falling into holes. You said you knew a cow one time that fell in a hole and you said your daddy made you and your brothers dig a ramp to get it out. You said even though you had not helped your brothers dig the hole, you had to help dig the ramp, which was not fair. See, I remember every single thing you ever told me about holes.”

  “Then why are you digging one?”

  “THIS is NOT a HOLE!” Junior emphasized the important words to get the message across.

  “So?” his mom said. “What is it?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Junior—”

  “A good surprise,” he said to ward off what he knew was coming. It came anyway.

  “I have had it with your surprises. You made wings that broke both your legs. You made a coyote trap that trapped YOU. And your UFO ended up on Old Man Benson’s chicken house.”

  “This is
different, Mom, really. You’ll like this one.” He stepped over his streak of lightning so he could have a talk with his mother.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth to make the talk more intimate. “Mom, remember what I told you last week about school?”

  She sighed.

  “I said I didn’t like it, remember?”

  “That was not exactly headline news, Junior. I’ve heard that before a time or two.”

  “Well, I take that back. I do like school. I love school. School is my favorite thing in the whole entire world.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “You’ll see on Friday. That’s just one more day to wait. This is Thursday. Tomorrow’s Friday. Something wonderful is going to happen to me on Friday.”

  Junior had rested his shovel against his skinny chest, and now he folded his hands over it prayerfully. “Please don’t make me tell, Mom. Please! I want it to be a surprise. Please, please, please wait till Friday.”

  “Junior, don’t get down on your knees. If you promise me it’s not a hole …”

  “I promise.”

  “But if I find out it is a hole …”

  “You won’t. You couldn’t. Because it isn’t. It’s a—” Junior clamped one hand over his mouth.

  He had almost told. He had almost blurted out the secret. That was the trouble with a really good secret. It was always trying to slip out on its own.

  His mother seemed unaware of how close she had come to hearing the big news. She said, “I don’t want any trouble on Friday, Junior; that’s when Roon’s coming.”

  “I know that.”

  “I want Roon to think we are a normal, everyday family.”

  “We are.”

  “I don’t want one single thing to go wrong.”

  “It won’t.”

  They watched each other across the empty yard for a moment. There was a long silence.

  Then Vicki Blossom said, “Well, supper’s on the stove—hot dogs.” She crossed the yard to the truck. Her steps quickened as she got closer.

  “Oh, Junior,” she said, more to herself than to her son, “I’m going to the mall and get the best-looking outfit they’ve got. I want to look beautiful tomorrow!”

  “You will.”

  “So, eat when you get hungry.”

  “I’m probably too excited to eat.” He glanced down. “You know … the surprise.”

  “Well, it’s there if you want it. Don’t anybody wait up for me. I’m going to be late.”

  She opened the door to the truck, climbed in, started the engine, and roared out of the yard, leaving a trail of dust behind.

  Vern came out on the porch and sat on the top step.

  Junior leaned on his shovel. “Don’t ask me what I’m making because—”

  “I won’t ask what you’re making because I don’t want to know,” Vern interrupted.

  “But ask me tomorrow and I will tell.”

  “I’m not going to ask tomorrow or any other day. I wouldn’t ask if you begged me. I—”

  The phone rang inside the house and Vern got quickly to his feet. “If it’s for me,” Junior called after Vern, although Junior had never gotten a call in his life, “if it’s for me, say I’m busy making a surprise.”

  Vern disappeared into the house, and Junior took his shovel and dug three more scoops of earth. He measured the length of the excavation with his eyes.

  It was perfect.

  Junior put the last board into place and stepped back. For the first time he saw the completed project.

  It took his breath away.

  This was the best thing he had ever made in his life. Junior put his hand over his heart to keep it from bursting out of his chest with pride.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he had been looking at something too bright for human eyes to endure. He tried to swallow the lump of emotion in his throat. Then he opened his eyes and looked again at his invention.

  This time Junior tried to look at his invention critically, as if he were Vern. He tried to find fault with it. But he couldn’t. There was no fault. Perfection, absolute perfection, lay at his feet.

  When Junior was small, he used to say things like, “Good-bye, house” and “good-bye, red hill.” But the family was always saying, “Junior, stop that. Hills and houses can’t hear you.”

  “Maybe … maybe not,” Junior would answer.

  But now there was no one to hear him, to make fun of him.

  “Hello, tunnel,” Junior said softly.

  He picked up the shovel, and walking backwards so he could admire his work as long as possible, like a procession in reverse, Junior moved toward the house.

  Vern picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Vern, is that you?” It was his best friend Michael.

  “Yes.”

  “Vern, has anything happened?”

  Michael’s voice was a whisper. Even though Vern was alone in the house, he lowered his voice too.

  “No, we’re still all right.”

  “She hasn’t told on us?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think she will?”

  “Well, it’s been …” Vern paused to count the days on his fingers. It had happened Saturday, so there were Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and today was Thursday. Almost five whole days. “It’s been five days,” he whispered.

  “Do you think if she was going to tell, she already would have?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m still scared, are you?”

  “I’m still scared.”

  “Mad Mary is the scariest woman in the world.”

  Vern could not disagree with that. “Yes.”

  “But how are we going to get our backpacks?”

  “I haven’t figured that out.”

  “Mine’s Boy Scout, and it’s got my name on it. My mom’s already asked me where it is.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I left it at your house. We have to go back to get it; but if we do, I’m afraid she’ll kill us.”

  “I’m afraid she’ll kill us too. She wanted to kill us last time.”

  Junior spoke from the doorway. “Who wanted to kill you? What are you talking about?”

  Vern said quickly, “I got to go. Big Ears just walked in.” He hung up the phone.

  “Who wanted to kill you?” Junior persisted.

  “Nobody.”

  “I’ll tell you about my surprise if you’ll tell me who wanted to kill you.”

  “Nobody! How many times do I have to tell you? Nobody!”

  Vern ran up the steps into his room and slammed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mystery by the Roadside

  “I know you’re tired of hearing about my summer, Ralphie, but I can’t stop talking about it.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “I mean, I was disappointed at first that Pap and Vern and Junior didn’t go on the rodeo circuit with Mom and me; but really, Ralphie, the truth is that Vern and Junior are still children and Mom and I are …” She paused.

  “Women.” Ralphie said the word in a flat voice that made it unflattering.

  “And there’s always next summer. We can all go then.”

  “I thought the family was going to settle down—stay home.”

  Maggie was on the back of Ralphie’s bicycle. Ralphie was pedaling. They were moving slowly up the hill toward the Blossom farm.

  “Well, we are … eventually—” She broke off. “Oh, stop, Ralphie, there’s a turtle.”

  “The turtle’s making better time than I am.”

  “Please, Ralphie.”

  Ralphie moved to the side of the road and stopped. “Maggie, this is a hill, and when we stop on a hill, it’s hard to get started.”

  “I’ll walk the rest of the way. Every time I see a turtle on the road, I just have to stop and help it across, don’t you?”

  “Not really.” Ralphie shook his head. Sweat flew.

  “Octob
er’s the turtle-mating season, did you know that?”

  “No, but this is the third turtle you’ve made me stop for. These turtles need to cool down.”

  “I think it’s romantic the way they cross highways and ditches for the turtles they love.”

  Ralphie thought it was romantic the way he was pedaling up an impossible hill for the girl he loved, but he said nothing.

  “I would just hate it if while this turtle was rushing toward her lover, a truck came by.”

  Maggie picked up the turtle. It drew back into its shell, but the legs continued to walk in the air.

  Maggie looked at the turtle’s face as she carried it across the road.

  “Ralphie, do you think she’s on her way to one particular turtle?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  There was the sound of a car horn and Maggie glanced over her shoulder. She said, “Oh, it’s my mom. Mom!” She waved with her free hand.

  Vicki Blossom honked again. “Supper’s on the stove!” she called as she passed them. Then she gunned the motor, and the truck disappeared over the top of the next hill.

  “My mom has a new boyfriend, did I tell you?”

  “I thought she liked the bull rider.”

  “No, that’s over.”

  “So what does this guy do?”

  “Ralphie, my mom has fallen in love with a horse detective. My mom could not fall in love with someone who sells hardware or drives a bus. She has to fall in love with a horse detective.”

  “Well, I guess somebody’s got to.”

  “It’s like, well, somebody buys a horse and insures it for a hundred thousand dollars. This happens, Ralphie. Then the horse dies. So then this man—his name is Rooney—gets hired by the insurance company to prove it was murder. Which he usually does.”

  “You like him?”