Summer of Brave

by Amy Noelle Parks

  “Maybe. Mom says she didn’t even know who she was when they got married. Much less who she wanted to be with my dad.”

  “And it seems like there are more and more ways you can be—on your own or with someone else. I like that.”

  Knox doesn’t answer except to stretch out his arms so our fingers barely touch. I don’t know if this is on purpose or by accident. Then he scoots a little closer, and his fingers slide over mine. On purpose then.

  Even though his hands are warm, his touch makes me shiver, and I pull back. But Knox’s hand closes around mine, not letting me go. I turn my head to look at him.

  He smiles. “Is it so bad? Holding my hand?”

  “No,” I whisper. It isn’t bad at all. It’s nice. I like the way he folds my fingers inside of his because it makes me feel taken care of. But liking that scares me.

  Because I’m only just learning to take care of myself. I take my hand back and sit up.

  Knox does too. We cross our legs, facing each other, inches between our knees, but it’s not comfortable. He’s disappointed, which makes me feel guilty.

  “Do you not like me at all?” he asks, eyes on the ground.

  “You know I like you.”

  He gives me a not-having-it look.

  “Why me?” I ask.

  “Is that what this is about? I did this wrong? I should tell you how great you are first?”

  “No,” I say, embarrassed. “This isn’t a test. But why not Vivi?” Until right now, I didn’t know I was worried about this, but I need to know that Knox didn’t pick me because I was a nearby girl-shaped person. I want him to have a reason other than Colby already liked Vivi.

  “Truth?” he says with a wry smile.

  “Naturally.”

  “I’m not sure. I could list a hundred things I like about you. But I could do that for Vivi too. But when I look at her, my heart doesn’t speed up. Maybe it’s because you know what divorce is like. Or because you get me when I talk about music. And you say things I go to bed thinking about. And you have this smile that says you’re thinking something but not saying it. Only sometimes I know what you’re thinking anyway. And that’s the best.”

  It’s hard not to be swept away by this, but I want to be careful. “I don’t want things to change between us. I still want to play with blocks and argue about doors and hang out with Vivi without it being weird. And when I have an idea, I want you to listen to me. And treat me like I’m a whole person.”

  He pulls back a little. “You think I don’t want those things?”

  “I think if you’re thinking about me like that, you might want something else.”

  “Lydia Edith Baxter-Willoughby,” he says slowly. There’s a depth to his voice that’s unfamiliar, but a little fascinating. I meet his eyes. “Just because sometimes I think about you like that doesn’t mean it’s the only way I think about you. I still want to work at the museum and look at your sketches and mock you for your hopeless paintball skills. I just want to hold your hand sometimes while I’m doing it.”

  “That’s all?”

  “For now,” he says with a smile that makes everything inside me flutter.

  “Okay,” I say.

  He stands and holds his hand out. And even though I could get up by myself, I let him pull me up. When we turn to walk back to my house, he doesn’t let go. And I don’t pull away.

  CHAPTER 33

  New Room

  At home, I try Dad’s first. No one’s there, but a note on the table tells me to go up to the attic.

  Maybe he’s setting up a studio? We always planned to do one up there, but we haven’t had time. If I’m not going to the magnet school, he probably wants me to spend more time on art at home, which is fine. I don’t want to stop drawing. I just want to do other things too.

  Halfway up the third flight of stairs, I hear Mom say, “This is all you. Two hundred pounds of notebooks from high school.”

  Dad laughs. “Tape that back up. There are drawings in there you don’t want to see.”

  “It’s not me you have to worry about.”

  They are so weird. I understand why Knox’s parents got divorced. His dad fell for the babysitter, and now they can’t stand to be in the same room. But Mom and Dad seem happier now than they’ve ever been. I guess that’s the answer. They’re better living apart.

  Mom’s laughter settles me a little. Despite her words at the showcase, I was afraid of what I might come home to. We don’t do shouting, but Mom and Dad are both pretty good at letting me know when they’re not happy.

  “What are you doing?” I ask from the door.

  The attic is two big rooms with ceilings that rise to a peak in the center. Windows in the front and back let in lots of light—which is why it will make such a great studio. But right now, the only things inside are boxes from the move that never got unpacked.

  “We’re cleaning your room,” Dad says.

  This makes no sense. That girl in The Little Princess had to go live in the attic when her dad died, but even if Mom and Dad are more unhappy than I thought, this seems a little extreme.

  “I don’t…”

  Mom sits down on a cardboard box and pats the space next to her. Dad sinks to the floor and leans back against another giant box.

  When I sit, Mom says, “We’ve been thinking about all the things you’ve said. Tonight. This year. And all the things you haven’t said. We don’t want you to feel like you have to hide from us.”

  I still don’t know what this has to do with the attic, so I wait.

  “We’ve been telling ourselves that as long as we did the divorce right, it didn’t have to affect you.”

  “But it did,” Dad says.

  Obviously, I want to say. But now that they’re finally getting it, that feels like rubbing it in.

  “We weren’t making each other happy,” Mom says. “And it was getting worse and worse. We can’t stay together. Even for you.”

  “I know,” I say quickly. This was a major theme from our year in therapy.

  “But we can do a better job listening,” Dad says. “You don’t like moving back and forth all the time. And you’re right. It’s hard not to have something that feels like yours. So…” He motions to the attic.

  My. New. Room.

  The same bed to sleep in every night. Bookshelves and sketchbooks and a desk and my computer all in one place.

  “Really?” I say.

  “Really,” Mom says. “We’re going to put an alarm on the back door for safety, so we’ll have to get used to that, and for now, you’ll have to go downstairs for the bathroom, but in a year or two, we might be able to put something up here.”

  “Can we bring up a bed for Vivi?”

  Mom laughs. “Sure.”

  “Can she come over tonight?”

  “It’s late. Let’s save the sleepover for tomorrow,” she says. “But we can bring a mattress up for you tonight if you want.”

  “But not quite yet,” Dad says. “We need to talk about a couple other things.”

  “Okay,” I say. Nervousness washes over me again.

  “I’m sorry about the dating thing. You were right. When I started seeing people, I should have told you.”

  I nod once.

  “But I don’t plan to be serious about anyone for a while. And I’d rather not have people coming in and out of your life.”

  “Okay.” It’s not like I actually want to talk about stuff like this. I just want to know what’s going on. I think of something else. “Are things going to be weird at the museum with you and me and Kate?”

  “Probably. Yeah. There’s a lot of people not happy with how she handled this. Mr. Lyons is on the board, so there are going to be some conversations. But you don’t need to worry about it.”

  “What about you?” I say to Mom.

  “I’m not happy with Kate either,” she says.

  I smile. “No. I mean…are you dating?” It’s unfair, but her dating scares me so much more.


  She shakes her head. “Not yet. I’m sure I will. But right now I’m focused on work. And you. I won’t go if you tell me you can’t handle it, but I do want to try Northwestern. And I don’t want to ask you to move. I hope someday you’ll see me going after what I want as a good thing. Even for you.”

  Mom has tears in her eyes, which wrecks me. I never wanted her to have to choose between me and her work. “I understand,” I say. “Really. I’m so proud of you.”

  Yes, in my perfect world, my mom would be in my house with me every day. But I know she loves me wherever she is. And I don’t want her to give up her dreams for me.

  Even if her dreams are about bugs.

  “And we’re going to text every day. If something horrible happens to you or something really good, I want to hear about it from you. Not read about it in an art installation.”

  I feel guilty and proud at the same time. I made an art installation.

  “Same,” Dad says. “I know it’s harder to talk to me about some of this. But I want us to find a way. Maybe you can show me your sketches as a way in.”

  This seems like a good idea, but the truth is when I open my sketchbook, Dad barely takes a breath before jumping in about my composition or line fluidity or whatever.

  “Maybe,” I say. “If you can promise to talk to me about what I’m drawing—and not just criticize my technique.”

  “I don’t—” He stops. “I kind of do, don’t I?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll work on that.”

  “I’m sorry I hid everything from you,” I say. “I’m going to work on that.”

  “You did great, kiddo, but you shouldn’t have had to do it alone. We’re going to try more listening. I think you may be wrong about the magnet program, but you shouldn’t do it only because we push you into it.”

  “And whatever you do with your life, we’ll be proud. And we’ll love you. But you need to tell us what’s going on,” Mom says. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” I answer.

  “Let’s get your mattress then,” Dad says.

  On the way down the stairs, I remember I’m still hiding something, so I say, “One more thing?”

  Mom turns back from her door, and Dad looks up from the stairs below me.

  “Knox might be my almost-boyfriend.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Enough

  “And then what did they say?” Vivi asks the next night. We’re sitting cross-legged on one of my twin mattresses.

  “My dad said I was too young to have a boyfriend, even an almost one, and Mom said ‘Will, we talked about this,’ and he said, ‘Oh, no we did not,’ and ‘What does she mean almost-boyfriend ? Is that some sort of code?’”

  Vivi puts her hands over her mouth and giggles, but I don’t stop.

  “And Mom said, ‘It’s kind of like those women you’re seeing are almost your girlfriend,’ and he got real quiet. And then Mom said Knox is a sweet boy, and I would be lucky to have him as my first boyfriend and Dad said, ‘First!’—which honestly is the same thing I was thinking—and then he went into his house. And Mom told me he needed to get used the idea, and in a few weeks, I’d be thirteen, and it wouldn’t freak him out so much.”

  “Wow,” Vivi says.

  “I know. It was bananas. He almost pulled his hair out, and he kept pacing up and down the steps. I was worried he was going to somersault to the bottom and we’d have to call 911.”

  “You were okay though?”

  “Yeah.” It helped that I knew he wasn’t really, truly angry. But I’m also getting better at calming myself down. I kept telling myself it was going to be over and he still loved me and he wasn’t going anywhere, and that kept me from saying things I didn’t believe to make it stop.

  “Well, I’m glad you and Knox worked everything out,” Vivi says.

  “I don’t know about everything. But we’re definitely… in talks.” I look closely at her. “You’re really not bothered? Not about us—” I flap my hands around wildly.

  Vivi laughs. “We’re going to have to come up with words you can say out loud. But no, I’m not worried. I’m not letting go of either one of you.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” I say. “Without you, Vivi, I’d be so much less than I am.”

  “Without you, I’d be a lot more judgy. You see nice things in everyone.”

  “Not everyone,” I say, thinking of Matt.

  “No,” she agrees. “But what came out of it was good. There were a lot of college parents there last night. People want to do something about that map of yours.”

  “Ours,” I correct.

  “Ours,” Vivi echoes. “Which reminds me, I have something for you.” She pulls out what looks like a baseball wrapped in pink tissue paper.

  “What is it?”

  “A housewarming present.”

  “I have a house!” I say. I don’t have air-conditioning or a bathroom or even a whole bed yet, but I have this space. And it’s mine.

  Slowly, I unwrap Vivi’s present. It’s a baby food jar. With a perfect white fluffy dandelion curled inside.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re brave enough to make a real wish now.”

  “Do I get to tell you and Knox what to do?”

  “Nope. This one’s just for you.”

  I turn the jar around in my hand. “Should I do it now?”

  Vivi nods.

  We go to the front window and fuss with the screen. When we get it out, I see how high up we are. “My parents are going to be real mad if I fall to my death my second night up here.”

  “Don’t lean out. Just blow.”

  Taking the dandelion out the jar, I look up at the sliver of moon. It’s hard to imagine a wish that feels big enough for tonight. Especially because I already have the things that I want. A home that feels like mine. Parents who are trying to listen. Friends who won’t leave because I don’t want the same things. The strength to be my quiet, complicated, ordinary self.

  So maybe that’s my wish?

  I hold the dandelion to my lips and blow as hard as I can. The little white parachutes float off into the dark, and I wish that I always remember this thing I know tonight.

  I am enough.

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank you to my agent, Elizabeth Bennett, always, but especially for this one. I wrote it only because you said I could write a middle grade book with such conviction that I had no choice but to believe you.

  Also, so many thanks my editor, Jonathan Westmark, who believed in my story about a quiet, introverted girl. I’m so thankful for all the work you did helping me get Lilla to sound exactly like herself. Truly, I am so appreciative of the whole Albert Whitman team. Designer Valerie Hernández and illustrator Jensen Perehudoff gave me the cover of my dreams before I even knew to dream it. Thank you also to Lisa White and everyone else who has worked to get Summer of Brave out into the world.

  I am, as always, ever grateful for One Direction. My writing playlist would be quite short without them. Obviously, “I Want to Write You a Song” is what Knox plays for Lilla at the audition.

  I should also thank the gifted education scholar whose advice (written on a poster I walked by every day for seven years) telling children not to waste their energy being well-rounded made me so thoroughly irritated I had to write a book about it.

  Mom and Dad, I will never be able to thank you enough for the outrageous confidence you’ve always had in me, even when I was quite small. Thank you for letting me make the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee my playground, so I could give that life to Lilla, Vivi, and Knox. The lemonade stand and the sled mowing down undergraduates are both real memories of mine. (I left out how I used to slide down that metal ramp in middle of the escalators in the union because they all have those little speed bumps now, so no one would believe it.)

  Thanks to Chloe and Sophie for being early readers on this, for sharing your childhoods with me, and for not letting the outrageous achievement culture that surr
ounds university families get to you.

  Perry. Thank you for everything, big and small, from lending me Cookie Mistake to being a safe harbor during this absolutely bonkers year.

  AMY NOELLE PARKS is a former elementary school teacher who now helps prepare future teachers at Michigan State University. When she’s not using One Direction lyrics as writing prompts (which is often), she’s helping future teachers recover from the trauma inflicted on them by years of school mathematics. Amy lives in Michigan with her husband and two daughters. She is also the author of the YA romantic comedy The Quantum Weirdness of the Almost-Kiss.