The Secrets of Blueberries, Brothers, Moose & Me

by Sara Nickerson

  “She cried though.”

  “What?”

  “Mom cried. Because of what you said.”

  “What did you do?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there. Claude patted her back and then she sort of laughed. But still, she seemed sad.”

  For once, I didn’t know what to say. I had made my mother cry? Just thinking about it turned my stomach into a twisted knot. I wondered if I was having an appendicitis attack, brought on by stress and sorrow. I hoped so. Then she would have to forgive me.

  “The first thing I’m going to buy,” Patrick said, studying his catalog, “is a pair of swimming shorts, the long kind. For the lake.”

  Even as I said, “Uh-huh,” I wondered if he would really be brave enough to show up at the lake. The summer before, right after he’d been nicknamed Praying Mantis Boy, he woke up with a sick stomach every lake day. “Anyway,” I added, “when are we going to have time for the lake? We’ll be too busy picking blueberries.”

  “Weekends,” he said. “Dad weekends.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said again. Dad weekends were about a lot of things, but never about the lake. Mostly they were about Dad and Dad’s girlfriend, Tessa. About fixing up Dad’s new old house and “getting to know Tessa better.”

  Patrick flipped through the catalog’s heavy pages filled with photographs of teenagers playing in the surf and sand. Their teeth were all shiny white. Their hair had streaks of sun. “Forty-two cents a pound,” he said.

  “And a prize,” I reminded him.

  “What are you going to buy, Missy?”

  I studied the pages and wondered: Could you buy hair like that? A group of laughing friends? A perfect afternoon at the beach?

  “Maybe those shorts,” I said finally, because I couldn’t give voice to the other secret wishes. I could barely let myself think them. “The ones with the little flower stitched on the pocket.”

  CHAPTER 3

  DAD WASN’T SO SURE THE BLUEBERRIES WERE A good idea, even though Patrick brought the calculator that weekend and punched numbers like a crazy math genius. It was Sunday afternoon, after lunch, and we were counting down to our three o’clock going-home time.

  “Dad,” Patrick started in again, “you always say that if we want more than you can provide we need to work for it. And now we’ve found a job, but you’re saying no.”

  Tessa cleared her throat. “Ted,” she said, “the kids have been making good points all weekend. It’s a summer job, a learning experience. Like camp would be.”

  I looked at Patrick. His eyes were wide. Tessa hardly ever spoke up in family discussions.

  “Yes, it’s a summer job,” Dad said slowly. “But so are other things. Like, well, mowing lawns.”

  “Mom already called the field,” I said quickly. “There’s a lot of supervision, if that’s what you’re afraid of. And Tessa’s right. It’s just like camp.”

  Even though she’d been hanging around for way too long, it was the first time I’d said her name out loud, and it sort of stuck in my throat like I imagined a hairball or a fish bone would.

  Dad shook his head. “I’m not afraid. I just didn’t think kids were allowed to do that kind of thing anymore. Child labor or something.”

  “This is more like an experience,” Patrick said. “Like Tessa said. It’s what the lady told Mom, too.”

  Dad’s face got tight, like a balloon with one too many puffs of air. “I just want what’s best for the two of you,” he said finally.

  “Sure, Dad. We know.” Patrick still believed everything Dad said.

  “Right,” I started in a mocking voice, but then nothing more came out. Words swirled around in my head—all the mean things I wanted to say. But suddenly, I couldn’t put them together. And then my heart constricted. Was I having a heart attack? At twelve? Could bottled-up words be choking my heart?

  Dad, not noticing my sudden medical emergency, cleared his throat cheerily. “Okay, listen! How about a frozen treat?”

  My dad works for a company that makes ice-cream bars. It’s how he met Tessa, less than a year after he moved out of our house. Mom and Dad said it was both their decision to split up, that they just couldn’t get along as married people, but they’d always get along as our parents. Claude had just learned to walk.

  “Like that makes any sense,” I said at the time. “What about Claude? This might stunt his growth.” To which they had no response except, “It will all work out, Missy,” and, “It’s for the best.”

  What I really wanted to say was this: Claude’s only had one Christmas with all of us being a family. One birthday. One month of walking on his own two feet. But I could barely even say those words to myself.

  So Dad found himself a mess of a house—a “fixer-upper” he called it. And we got this thing called a Parenting Plan, which told us when we got to be with Dad and when we got to be with Mom, and everything felt weird, especially since Claude didn’t spend the whole weekend with us at Dad’s yet, and then there was Tessa, who he met at some weird frozen-treat convention for weird frozen-treat people. And that’s when ice cream stopped tasting so good to me.

  Dad pulled two boxes from the freezer and placed them in the middle of the table. He pointed at the one with a picture of a sombrero-wearing banana. “Something new we’re testing,” he said. The banana appeared to be dancing. There was a crazy balloon coming from its mouth, with the words: Banana Amarillo!

  “Why is the banana saying that?” My voice had found its way back to me.

  “It’s the name of the product.”

  I picked up the other box, happy to see that it was the only thing I could still choke down: ice-cream sandwiches. There are no tricks or surprises in an ice-cream sandwich. No crazy packages that try to convince you of something. Just pure vanilla ice cream sandwiched between two soft chocolate wafers.

  Because he knew Dad wanted him to, Patrick opened the dancing banana box. “Bananas can’t dance,” I warned him. “They do not wear hats or speak. Never eat anything so full of lies.” Then I pushed back my chair and marched out of the kitchen, making gagging sounds with every step. Ghaagh, ghaagh, ghaagh.

  Because sound effects are often more accurate than words.

  Even though dramatic exits are thrilling in the moment, they mean you miss out on all the exciting things that happen after you leave. And also you miss your ice-cream treat. Luckily, I had Patrick to fill me in. So what came next, after I’d ghaaghed out of the room, was this: They had a fight. A real fight. The first fight in the history of Ted and Tessa.

  “I can’t believe I missed it,” I whispered.

  “I know. She called him spineless.”

  We were in Patrick’s bedroom and I was sitting on his bed, gulping down the melting mess of ice-cream sandwich he’d smuggled up for me. Through a mouthful of cold vanilla-and-chocolate goodness I said, “Well, he is spineless.”

  “Shut up, Missy. He’s our dad.”

  “I know. He’s our spineless dad.”

  Patrick shoved the last of his weekend clothes into his backpack. “Anyway, we’re picking blueberries this summer.”

  “I already knew that. Mom already decided.”

  “But Dad said it was okay, so now it’s official.”

  I licked my fingers clean. “I don’t care what he says. He’s just a weekend dad. He has no rights during the week.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It’s true for me,” I said.

  “Well, that’s just stupid.”

  “I’m stupid, then. But I’m not spineless.”

  “You need to watch your mouth, Missy.”

  He didn’t say it in a mean way so I said, “I know.”

  Patrick liked Dad weekends. He liked the color of his bedroom walls and the fact that all his bedding matched—sheets and pillowcase
s and bedspread. He liked that the hardwood floors had been sanded smooth and were now the color of honey.

  I liked the bedding, too, but I never slept as well as I did at home in the room I shared with Claude, who breathed too loud, giggled in his sleep, and shouted out words like, “No!” and “Pee-pee!” and, of course, “Cat!” And I’ve always liked having carpet on the floor, even if it is bad green and worn out by too many feet.

  Patrick slung his bag over his skinny shoulder. “Come on, Stupid.”

  I laughed. “Coming, Spineless.”

  I rode in the backseat of the car, staring at the small patch of scalp beginning to peek through the wavy black hair of my father’s head. If it had been an ordinary day—a day with no fighting or stomping up the stairs—I would have said something to him about it. Something like, “Hey, Dad, you probably don’t know this but you have a bald spot the size of a silver dollar. And your scalp is all shiny and white underneath.”

  I turned my attention to the back of Patrick’s head. Except for not having a bald spot, it could have been my father’s. It made me wonder what the back of my own head looked like.

  I put on my 3-D glasses and stared out the window. With the world framed in that perfect black border, I was able to slip into the foggy little dream I slipped into every Sunday Dad drove us home. It only lasted the length of our street, but it gave me such an awful good feeling, I couldn’t stop. I pretended we were all going home to stay.

  CHAPTER 4

  IT RAINED THE NEXT DAY AND THE DAY AFTER THAT, too. While Mom taped thin strips of yellow paint samples to the living room wall, Patrick and I searched the sky for a break in the clouds.

  We waited for the five o’clock weather report, and even rode our bikes to the library to consult a thing called The Farmer’s Almanac, which made me an expert on the different natural disasters that might occur at any moment, including earthquakes, flash floods, sinkholes, and volcanic eruptions, which are still a real thing, especially to people like me, who have lived their entire life in the shadow of Mount Saint Helens.

  Even though I still didn’t know what a blueberry plant looked like, I imagined those poor berries out in a field, small and green and wrinkled with cold. The worst part was wondering if this weather delay would make Mom change her mind, so I did everything possible to prove I was worthy of my first job.

  Without being asked, I made my bed and cleaned my room, including Claude’s side. I played hide-and-seek with Claude, even when he didn’t want to. I did not mock Patrick when he made his smelly protein drink for breakfast, or when he lifted weights in front of the bathroom mirror. I did not ask to ride my bike around the neighborhood or visit my friends Constance and Allie, not once. And I folded pile after pile of laundry, and even tried to start the washing machine with a load of Claude’s clothes that were disgustingly crusted with pieces of honey toast and chunks of banana.

  The one thing I did not do was apologize to my mom. The words were there, always on the end of my tongue, but they would not come out, no matter how bad I wanted them to.

  But Mom didn’t seem to mind. She thanked me for helping with Claude, and didn’t get too mad when the washing machine got clogged with suds because I hadn’t read the instructions on the detergent label. And she even remembered when it was Packing Day.

  “Aren’t you going to Constance’s house this afternoon?” she asked. I’d been sitting in front of the window, searching the dark clouds for a glimmer of light.

  “What?”

  “Isn’t it Packing Day?”

  “I guess,” I said.

  “Do you want me to drive you over there? It looks like it might pour again.”

  I shrugged. “I could ride my bike. If I go.”

  Mom shot me her laser eyes, but this time, instead of trying to put something into my brain, it was like she was trying to suck something out. “Is everything okay?”

  “What?”

  “Are you and your friends getting along?”

  “Of course,” I said quickly. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “No reason. Sometimes things just change.”

  “What do you mean change? No one is changing, Mom. Ever.”

  Mom smiled. “Then you’d better get over there. Packing Day is halfway over.”

  I laughed. “Not when Constance is packing.” I went to my room and grabbed a sweatshirt, then took my 3-D glasses from the special top drawer. I slipped them in my pocket.

  It was nice to be on my bike. Even though everyone complains about how much it rains in the Pacific Northwest, the air is always fresh here, and the grass and trees are a bright and cheery green. I pumped my legs as fast as they would go and felt the good damp air fill my lungs. The tires made swishing sounds as they sliced through the murky brown puddles.

  I turned the corner of our development and pedaled past the entrances to two other developments. Both Constance and Allie lived in the third development down from me, exactly seven minutes by bike.

  Constance’s mother met me at the front door. “Where have you been, Miss Missy? I’m no help and poor Allie is about to lose her mind.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I lost track of time.” I walked down the hall and stood quietly in the bedroom doorway, studying my two best friends. They were so different from each other—Constance, like a three-year-old or a chipmunk, constantly darting from one shiny object to the next, and Allie, more like one of those panting dogs in Scotland, the kind obsessed with herding sheep into neat little pens.

  Allie, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, saw me first. “Missy! It’s about time!” She rolled her eyes at Constance, the pile of clothes and empty suitcase in the middle of the floor. “Every time I put something in she takes it out!”

  Packing Day had started two summers before, when Allie and Constance first signed up for the same sleepaway camp on the east side of the Cascade Mountains, where it is a guaranteed summer with no rain. They tried to get me to go with them, but my parents said it was too far away and too expensive. I know Packing Day was supposed to help me feel like I was a part of things, and it had worked that way before. But standing there, I just felt dangly and useless. Still, I tried to sound cheerful when I plopped down next to Allie and said, “Okay, what can I do?”

  Constance, with a furry pink slipper in her hand, wandered around the room. “I need a theme,” she said. “To help me get started.”

  Allie jumped up. “I told you. The theme is summer camp.” She grabbed the furry slipper from Constance’s hand and tossed it aside. Then she crouched next to the pile of clothes and pawed through it. Soft, wispy things flew through the air. “You don’t need anything like any of this. You need shorts. T-shirts. One sweatshirt for chilly nights. Where’s your underwear?”

  I slid off the bed, joined Allie at the clothing pile, and dug around until I found a black velvet cap. “You’ll need a hat,” I said, placing it on my head. “Even I know that and I’ve never been to camp.”

  Allie snatched away the cap. “No velvet at summer camp!” She dug out a pair of khaki shorts and dropped it in the suitcase. “There. Do not remove. And find more like it.”

  Constance reached into the pile and pulled out a bathing suit top. It still had the tags. She placed it in the suitcase, right next to the khaki shorts. Then Allie found a pink bra and said, “Where are your others? You’ll need at least two more bras.” Which made Constance sigh dramatically.

  “Well, thank goodness I don’t have to worry about that,” I said, my voice a little too loud to be real.

  My friends had both started wearing bras during the school year, and they always acted like it was such a big deal. Even though I didn’t want one or need one, I still felt a little bit left out by the whole thing. I took out my 3-D glasses and slipped them on. “Don’t forget these.”

  Constance and Allie, perfectly framed, exchanged a look. “What?” I said. />
  “I’m not bringing my glasses to camp,” Allie said quietly.

  Constance said, “I’m not either.”

  I stared from one to the other. Then I touched the Spectacular Button on the right side of the frame. It was an actual button, midnight blue, glued on with Allie’s mom’s hot glue gun. “But we always take our glasses with us.” I hated how my voice was an embarrassing mix of angry and whiny. I pushed the button again, as if it hadn’t worked the first time.

  “I see something now . . . no, wait—” I pushed the button a third time. When I spoke again, it was in a robot voice. Which I know is dorky, but sometimes necessary to prove a point.

  “In-Spectacular-Vision-I-See-That-You-Two-Are-Very-Grown-Up-Now-That-You-Go-to-Sleepaway-Camp-and-Also-Wear-Bras.”

  Constance tried to interrupt. “Missy—”

  “No—Wait!” I pushed the Spectacular 3-D Button again. “Perhaps-We-Should-Also-Discuss-Marriage-and-Careers.”

  Allie’s face turned red—it does that when she gets mad. But Constance just laughed, her perfect Constance laugh. She reached over to her dresser and this time pulled out her own pair of 3-D glasses. She unfolded the plastic stems and slipped them on. The lenses had been removed, just like mine, but instead of colored markers and construction paper, Constance had decorated her frames with pipe cleaners and rainbow glitter-glue. She touched her Spectacular Button, which was purple.

  “There,” she said. “You’re right, Missy. Now I see it all clearly, too.”

  The three of us had seen our first 3-D movie together at the start of fifth grade, and when we’d walked out of the theater, bent over and laughing, had decided to keep our glasses on the entire day. But doing that gave us headaches, so we took out the lenses. And that’s when we made the most amazing discovery of all time—that we could actually see a new dimension just by wearing the frames. We could see through everything fake and phony. We could see what was Spectacular.

  So we spent the rest of that afternoon decorating them and then wore them to school the next day. And we made a pact—to have them with us at all times.