by Helen Frost
used to, when he took us fishing. I hope the weather
will cooperate—we only have one more week
before we leave. We sit for a while, dangling our feet.
Then Abi says, I wish I knew what Brock is thinking.
I tell her about seeing him. You should go to the beach,
I say. Maybe he’s embarrassed about being
rescued the other night. He might want to talk
to you about that. If he’s with that girl again,
you could just leave his clothes by his bike and walk
away before he sees you. When I think about that,
it seems kind of childish, but Abi listens to me,
nodding as if she’s considering everything
I say. I guess I could try asking him who he
likes best—her or me, she says. But then … what if he picks
me, and it turns out I like … someone else better?
I don’t answer that. Does she mean TJ? Probably.
This seems like something I should let her
figure out on her own. We dry our feet,
put our shoes on, and go back to the cabin.
Dad holds Blake’s hand up in the air and says
in a squeaky baby voice, Hi, Claire! Hi, Abi!
A Fawn and Its Mother
Claire
I set my alarm last night before I went to bed
so I’d wake up early, like Abi does.
But it’s the steady sound of a gentle rain
I’m hearing now, before the alarm goes
off. Which means no canoeing or early-morning
swim. That’s okay. It turns out to be a good
day for all of us to stay inside together. I get out
our old Legos, and Abi asks, Claire, would
it be okay if I sketch you while you’re putting
that spaceship together? Sure, that’s fine—
why not? I don’t pay much attention
until she finishes, and shows me her line
drawing. She’s good. It looks a lot like me,
except she’s done something to make my hair
look like it’s pulled back from my face.
I ask, What’s that black thing right there?
She reaches in her pocket and shows
me a hair clip like the one she’s drawn,
then pushes back my bangs and puts it
in my hair. The rain has stopped. A fawn
steps out of the woods, and the mother
deer stands over it. The fawn starts to nuzzle
for its mother’s milk. As I walk over to the window
to watch them, Pam looks up from the jigsaw puzzle
she’s been working on and says, That looks nice.
She’s talking about my hair, and Dad agrees.
While my whole family, even Blake, is looking
at me, the fawn disappears into the trees.
It Rises in the Yeast
Claire
After yesterday’s rain, the air today is clear
and bright. Abi and I wake up early, and Dad
helps us make hot chocolate for our canoe trip.
As we walk down to the canoe, Abi says, I’ve had
Brock’s clothes for six days now. I know—they’re
still in the bag, at the back of our closet. Maybe
we should take them to the beach today, she says, after
we go to see the swans. I like that idea. Abi
and I start paddling east toward the sunrise,
remembering an old Dad-joke about east and west.
How is the sun like a loaf of bread? I ask, and Abi smiles
and answers, It rises in the yeast, and sets behind your vest.
My Form of Rest
The lake
I love these early-morning
hours when hardly anyone is up,
everything calm on my surface, while below it’s
all so full of life—underwater movement is my form of
rest. Yesterday was stormy, but now, here are these girls
in their canoe, with hot chocolate and oranges.
They’re up early, out exploring.
I recall the first time they tried canoeing—
neither of them could steer. Claire leaned over the edge,
tipping the canoe right over. Their father quickly rowed out to
help, but didn’t tow them in. He calmly talked them through it, and
eventually, they made it back to shore—laughing by then. Abi
doesn’t know that all the cygnets have hatched. Yesterday
evening, they were tucked beneath their mother’s wing
enjoying a ride on her back. This morning, as a
pink-and-orange sunrise streaks the sky, the girls
head toward the channel, slowing to watch an
egret fish in the shallows,
and the flock of
rooks fly from the rookery. Now
they have reached the channel, and the mother
swan swims toward them, as if to introduce her babies. She’s
carrying three cygnets now—the fourth swims along beside her.
Oh, Abi whispers, as the swans glide past. Claire whispers back,
Remember the story of the ugly duckling? Baby swans are
even cuter than baby ducks, if you ask me.
Ring the Bell If You Need Me
Claire
We sit in our canoe watching the swans
for a long time. Then Abi says, This is how
it was the other day with TJ. Neither of us wanted
to leave. It was quiet and peaceful, like it is now.
When we’re paddling back, the whole lake
seems like it’s greeting us. Two beavers come
up close to our canoe. A dragonfly rides
on Abi’s shoulder most of the way home.
Halfway up the path to the cabin, we meet
Pam walking down, carrying Blake
in a baby sling, all wrapped around her.
Claire, she says, why don’t you and I take
Blake down to the water for a few minutes. Abi—you
have a guest. A few minutes ago, there was a knock
at the front door, and a very nice young man
introduced himself. He said his name is Brock.
Abi says, You mean he’s here—all by himself?
I have to smile. Does she think he’d bring
his new girlfriend along, or what? Yes, he is,
Pam says. I can see Abi’s thoughts swing
back and forth as she looks from Pam to me.
Should she say, Come on, Claire—you come, too?
Or not? She settles on “not,” takes a deep breath,
and turns toward the cabin. Ring the bell if you
need me, I sort of joke. We haven’t used that bell
since we were too little to tell time, and Dad
would ring it to call us in for meals. We knew
exactly where our boundaries were—we had
to stay between the driveway and the row
of pine trees; we couldn’t go near the road. We
wore whistles around our necks, so if we did
get lost, we could whistle for Dad and he
would come and find us. I wonder if Abi
ever misses those days, like I sometimes do.
Pam looks at Blake, then at me, studying our faces.
You know, Claire, she says, he looks a lot like you.
I look at him to see if I can see what Pam sees, and
that poem comes into my mind. Hey, Tyger, I whisper,
kissing him on the top of his head. What a
great nickname, Pam says. If your dad and sister
like it, too, maybe we should call him that, at least
while he’s a baby. When he gets a little older,
he can tell us what to call him, like Abi has.
Pam likes my idea? I’m glad I told h
er.
More Lemonade?
Abi
I find Brock sitting on the porch.
Pam gave him a glass of lemonade,
and put one on the table for me, too.
We both start talking at the same time,
saying the exact same thing: Umm …
and then we both stop and wait,
hoping the other will speak first. Here’s your hoodie,
he finally says. Oh, thanks, I say. And you left your
shoes and clothes on our dock. I was bringing them
to you the other day, but then … Never mind, I’ll be right back.
I get his clothes and give them to him. Thanks, he says,
then, Why did you and your sister turn your canoe around
instead of paddling over so I could introduce you to Rachel?
How am I supposed to answer that? I don’t know, I say.
Awkward silence. Do you want some more lemonade?
I wish Pam and Claire would come back. No thanks,
says Brock. I’m good. I should go. My cousins are leaving
this afternoon. I didn’t know his cousins were— Wait.
Is Rachel … your cousin? I ask. He gives me a funny look.
Yeah, he says. They come every summer for about a week.
She’s my age, almost like a sister. We get along great.
I try to act like: Oh. Right. I knew that.
But my face gives me away. Abi, Brock asks,
did you think…? I start to say, It looked like …
But I’m not sure what it did look like. I
didn’t stop to look. Brock, I ask, what did you
think, when Claire and I turned the canoe around
like that? I think he blushes as he answers,
I thought you didn’t like me so much anymore, after
you found out I couldn’t swim as far as you. That was
horrible—your little sister rescuing me, and all.
I hadn’t thought of it from his point of view. I don’t
want him to think that’s true. No, I still like you, Brock,
I say. Then he smiles, and I smile, and we laugh
a little bit. He puts his arm around me, tries
to pull me close—I’m not sure why I turn away.
An Idea for Pam
Claire
As Pam and I walk along the lakeshore, she
picks up a pinecone and says, Maybe I could
do some “Pointers” about this for my blog. How
could this be used? I have an idea: the wood-
stove is sometimes hard to start—I look at
all the pinecones on the ground: Dip them
in candle wax and use them for fire starters?
When I see how easy it is to make Pam
happy I feel a little guilty for not trying to do it
before now. Yes! she says. (Is this even an original
idea? I might have seen it online somewhere.)
I think harder—“Pointers from Pam” in its final
form has to be more elaborate. Maybe, I say, you
could add glitter to the wax, so it would be a table
decoration before you use it for the fire. Pam looks
surprised. Does she think I’m not capable
of having ideas? Or—this would be worse—is she
surprised to be having a friendly conversation
with me? Thank you, Claire, she says. Maybe Pam
and I could just enjoy what’s left of our vacation.
The Truth Starts Pounding
Abi
I wish I had an answer when Brock asks,
Why? I told him I still like him—and he
still likes me. We both enjoy kissing.
So it must be confusing when I turn away.
I try to explain: When I thought you liked another
girl, I felt bad. And I don’t want you to feel like that
if I like someone else sometime. Not that I do, but …
I stop, because I’m trying to tell the truth, and I
might be starting not to. Brock waits for me to finish.
This is way harder than I thought it would be. Abi,
he says, I like you for a lot of reasons. You’re really fun.
You’re smart. You’re pretty. And, boy, can you swim.
It’s my turn to say something. But when I try,
the truth starts pounding in my ear. I can’t say:
I do like you, Brock. It’s just that I like TJ more.
For a second, I’m tempted to kiss him
in order to fill this awkward silence. I don’t
want to hurt his feelings. I don’t want to lie.
But I don’t want to kiss him, either. I take a deep breath
and say the best thing I can think of: Would it be okay
if we just like each other … but don’t kiss anymore?
He steps away from me. Stops smiling. Stands
on one foot, then the other. I guess so, he finally says,
(What else can he say?) but I still don’t understand why.
Claire and Pam are coming up the path. I say, Thanks
for bringing back my hoodie. Brock says, Thanks for these.
He picks up his shoes and clothes. And then he leaves.
How Should We Celebrate?
Claire
Abi is very quiet after Brock leaves.
Not sad. Not happy either. More like
she’s thinking about something. She
goes off by herself for a long bike
ride, and while she’s gone, Dad says, Claire,
I can hardly believe that you will be eleven
in two days. How should we celebrate this year?
I’ve thought about this. The year I was seven,
I say, we had the Johnsons over for a cookout,
remember? And we made strawberry ice cream
for dessert. Can we do that again? Dad says,
I remember that night—the girls’ team
beat the boys’ team in Frisbee keep-away. Maybe
we should wait a few years before we try that again.
Let Blake get big enough to give us some backup
if the twins sit on the Frisbee, like they did back then.
Later, after dinner, Pam calls Mrs. Johnson,
and they agree they’ll all come over in two
days. Abi offers to help Pam make my cake.
Thanks, Abi, I whisper. I can count on you
to be sure it’s chocolate marble—Pam might
think carrot cake is healthier. I don’t know
how Abi feels about us inviting TJ’s family.
She doesn’t say anything about it, so
it must be okay. At sunset, Dad wraps Blake
in the baby sling, and he and Pam go for a walk.
As soon as we’re alone, Abi says, Claire, can we
talk about what happened this afternoon, with Brock?
My sister wants to talk to me about her love life.
It’s weird, but for some reason I’ve kind
of gotten interested. We sit on the porch while
Abi talks nonstop. About boys. And—I don’t mind.
I Close My Eyes
Claire
I’ve had a good day, but I can’t get to sleep.
Too much to think about: What is kissing
like? What if you hurt someone’s feelings?
(Or they might hurt yours.) Why am I missing
Mom so much, even though I hardly knew her?
I close my eyes, and she starts to appear
as if in a dream, and then she comes closer, like
she’s saying, Claire, it’s okay. The mother deer
I saw with her fawn the other day steps into
my mind. The swans. A dragonfly. The leap
of a fish, only without a splash, just endless
circles going toward shore as I fall asleep.
If I’m Going to Try
Claire
Abi wakes up for her morning swim
and shakes me out of my dreams.
Want to swim to the island and back? she asks.
We’ll be leaving in four days, which means
if I’m going to try, I’d better do it now.
Okay, I say. I hope TJ is up. He said he’d row
along beside me. Abi says, I don’t think you need
his help, but we can ask. That was an hour ago,
and now here I am, feeling strong and happy,
taking these last few strokes as we arrive
at Anna’s Island. I stand on the shore and wave
to TJ in his boat, then turn to Abi for a high five!
I rest awhile before going back in the water. Will I
be able to swim back, against the current? I want
to do this while I’m still ten, I say as I start out. Abi says,
You will, Claire. TJ calls, Remember, if you can’t—
Abi interrupts him. No, forget that. Let’s go.
We step into the water together, and I swim
all the way home—with no help! I’m glad TJ was
with us all the way, even though I didn’t need him.
That Boy You Mentioned
Claire
Dad can be a few steps behind, but he always
catches up eventually. Today, he’s cooking
scrambled eggs for lunch, and says to Abi,
You know that boy you mentioned—I’m looking
forward to meeting him. Abi has to think a minute
to remember that she told Dad about Brock
the other day. Oh. Yes. That boy, she says. Well,
you might not actually meet him. Dad gets this look
that means he realizes he missed something,
and Abi takes pity on him, answering the question
he doesn’t ask. We’re still friends—I think—but no more
than that. Pam looks up and offers a suggestion:
Maybe, she says, you should talk to him one more
time before you leave, to say goodbye. Just so you end
the summer on a good note. That way, when we come
back next summer, you’ll still have him as a friend.
I notice that Pam says “when we come back.”
We—she understands that she belongs here.
I look more closely at what she’s doing—
dipping pinecones in candle wax. Where
did she get those half-burned candles to melt? A box
