The Summer Experiment

by Cathie Pelletier

  Of course, I knew. That’s why, sometimes, I wished that we could stay eleven years old forever. Before the year ended, we’d both be twelve. And then we’d have only one year left to really be kids. A lot of things start to change when you turn thirteen.

  “You know what predicting a supernova means, don’t you?” I asked, and Marilee nodded.

  “We’ll be way beyond famous,” she said.

  “Overnight,” I added.

  We sat for a time thinking about that. I’m not sure how Marilee saw us becoming famous. But I imagined long black limousines pulling up to my house and having a hard time finding a place to turn around in our driveway. Maybe they would knock down our backyard fireplace in the process or run over Tina’s Little Tykes Push & Ride Racer. I saw bottles of nonalcoholic champagnes and wines being poured around the clock. Shirley Temples for everyone. They might even want us to wear designer clothes, just so Vera Wang or Donna Karan could say they dressed us. I mean, the second people ever in the whole history of the world to predict a supernova were two kids from northern Maine? And one of them is a natural blond? This is big. We would have to put in a guest bedroom for Anderson Cooper. In a week’s time, we’d be sick of Oprah calling us. “It’s her again,” my mom would say, sighing a big sigh as she handed me the phone. Mom always said that kids like Michael Jackson and Britney Spears had their childhoods stolen. Children should stay children for as long as they can, according to Mom, because childhood happens only once.

  “What do you really want more than anything in the world?” I asked Marilee. “Is it to be famous?” I heard her fidgeting in her jacket pocket and then she offered me a cough drop. I shook my head and waited as she unwrapped one and plopped it into her mouth.

  “Honestly,” she said, “I’d like for my mom and dad to get back together again.”

  “But I thought you liked Sarah,” I said. “I thought you welcomed her with open arms.”

  “My arms are open enough,” said Marilee, “since she’s nice and all and I have no choice in the matter. But, I mean, you only get two parents in your life, Robbie.” I nodded. Life can deal some kids a crappy hand. But at least her two parents were good parents and they both loved her no end. “Sarah could marry someone else and be just as happy,” Marilee added.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “But that’s not going to happen, Marilee.”

  “I know,” she said. “What do you want more than anything?”

  I didn’t have to think long about that one.

  “I want Grandpa to be alive again,” I said. It was truer than anything I’d said in my life. I wanted him to see me win the science fair. And afterward, he’d come up all beaming to hug me. “You’re not only my favorite blond granddaughter,” he’d say, “but you’re my smartest.” This is funny when you remember that Tina is only four years old. Maybe the biggest science project of all is learning to live without people you love.

  “But that’s not going to happen,” said Marilee. “Your grandpa is not coming back.”

  I knew it. So we sat there, side by side, thinking about our lives. I knew then that we wouldn’t tell anyone about the supernova, just so we could stay kids for as long as possible. But in my heart I named it the Robert “Bob” Carter supernova. That made me feel better, as if every time I looked up at Libra, I’d think of my grandpa. And when Henry Helmsby wins first place at the science fair, I’ll walk right up to him and say, “Congratulations, Henry, you deserve to win.” And I’ll shake the claw-like hand that is attached to his crab-like arm. I won’t mean a word of it, of course, but I’ll “cowboy up,” which is what Grandpa always told me I should do.

  “Marilee,” I said. “I don’t want to be famous.”

  “Neither do I.” I heard her let out a big breath.

  “Let’s go home,” I said then.

  We got on our bikes and pedaled past Frog Hill. All of the frogs were excited in Frog Pond. Maybe frogs know how to predict supernovas too. Above our heads the heaven glittered with stars. Up ahead in the distance, I saw the yellow light I’d left on in my bedroom. Soon, Marilee and I would be safe in bed and sound asleep. I might have a big mouth sometimes, but there are other times when I keep things to myself. Such as the fact that Grandma never once dated Sheriff Mallory. She just always said that to make Grandpa jealous. “But don’t tell her I know the difference, okay, Robbie?” Grandpa made me promise the day he shared that secret with me. “It keeps our marriage interesting.”

  Even though I know a lot of things for a country girl in the middle of a wilderness, there are some things I just don’t need to know. For instance, I don’t need to know what it’s like to be abducted by aliens. Or how it might feel to ride through the Milky Way on a spaceship, even faster than we fly on our four-wheelers past Frog Pond. I don’t have to think about life on other planets when there’s so much fun to have on Earth.

  All I need to think about is how I’ll soon be twelve and Mom will throw a big party for me. My whole family will sing “Happy Birthday,” and Grandma will hit high notes that will make Mr. Finley’s dog howl from a quarter mile down the road. And Billy Ferguson will finally kiss me, a real fast kiss, when the two of us meet in the creepy shadows of Mom’s lilac bushes.

  When spring comes again, I’ll run down to the poplar tree near Frog Pond and climb up to see if there are sky-blue eggs in the nest. And I’ll go back later on to count the baby birds. I’ll keep going back until the babies have all flown and there are just tiny feathers left to prove they were ever there.

  Mr. Einstein, the genius, once said that there is no difference between the past and the future. So, I thought about now, about the present. I thought of how much fun Marilee and I will have before we grow up for good, while we’re still country kids who live five hours north of Stephen King. And I thought about riding our snowmobiles next winter, flying across the snow-covered meadow, our breath just cold, gray puffs in the wintry air.

  That’s all I had to think about. So Marilee Evans and I pedaled home, tired and ready for bed. We pedaled our bikes across the meadow full of sleeping buttercups and nodding clover.

  We pedaled side by side.

  Friends for life.

  Acknowledgments

  Tom Viorikic, my husband, who patiently lives with each novel and is always my first reader.

  My sister, Joan St. Amant, my first muse and constant support. And her granddaughters, Lily St. Amant and Isabelle St. Amant, my great-nieces who are soon to be middle grade readers.

  My wonderful editor Steve Geck, with whom I have wanted to work for oh so many years. Also the fine team at Jabberwocky: my assistant editor Cat Clyne, production editor Jillian Bergsma, design lead Will Riley, and my publicist Heather Moore (and welcome to the planet Earth, Abigail Moore!).

  Many thanks to Dr. John Millis, PhD, who teaches physics and astronomy at Anderson University, and who came through for me when I had an “astronomy plot problem” that I needed to solve for this story.

  Thanks to those others who read early drafts, especially Kathleen Wallace King (who put the genre of middle grade into my mind) but also Larry Wells, Randy Ford, Rosemary Kingsland, Rosemary Monahan, Sarah LeClaire, and Cheryl Carlesimo.

  Don Chouinard and daughters Olivia Chouinard and Cassidy Chouinard, for answering questions about young minds.

  Emma Grace Pelletier, for her help with my “middle-grade” questions.

  To those who allowed me to use their names for this novel: Darlene Kelly Dumond (it’s really Two Rivers Café, and not The River Café); Faye Hafford, at the Faye O’Leary Hafford Library, here in Allagash; Wayne McBreairty, not “McBridy,” who does not manage canoe rentals; My great-nieces Caitlin Overlock, Shawna Cathie O’Neal, and Lexi Desjardins; Allagash Wood Products, the shop owned by my brother and nephew, Louis Pelletier, Jr. and Louis Pelletier III; and Chad Putnam, who really does drive for UPS; brother Vernon Pelletier and wife Sylvia M
artin Pelletier, who do not own a tree farm; Lila Jandreau, who faithfully delivers our mail to Allagash; Bill Flagg, who does Community Relations for Cary Memorial Hospital and does not own a grocery store; Sherry Sullivan, who does not own a pink Cadillac, but probably wishes she did; Andrew Birden, who really is the publisher of Fiddlehead Focus; Doody Michaud, the real Chief of Police in Fort Kent, Maine; Carl Hileman, for “Charlie Hileman;” My old college pal Larry “Fitz” Fitzherbert, who is a mailman from Fort Kent, not Allagash; and Angel Dionne for “Mrs. Dionne.” Great-nieces Sydni Pelletier and Lydia Pelletier.

  And thanks to Louis Glaser, Candyce Williams Glaser, Allen Jackson, and Nancy Henderson, for their kind support. And a special mention to Taylor Pond Evans and to Emma Masse, both young cousins with the writing bug.

  In memory of Evan McBreairty (1992–2013) for his daddy, Wayne.

  Also, in memory of my great-grandfather Nizarre Pelletier (1836–1924) whose story is falsely told to Robbie in this book as happening to George McKinnon, also my great-grandfather. The real story: Nizarre first married Mary Jane Hughes, who died in childbirth while he was away working in the woods for the winter. He later married my great-grandmother, Mary Jane Hafford. Their son, Thomas Pelletier (1886–1986), was my grandfather. He ran the ferryboat across the Allagash River for thirty-three summers, until the bridge was built.

  And here’s to the evening spent in Orono, Maine with these amazing women who read an advance copy of The Summer Experiment. We shared a lot of food, a lot of wine, and a lot of laughter: Laurie Carpenter, Naomi Bentivoglio, Janet Elvidge, Janice Graham, Louise Jolliffe, and Joyce Wiebe.

  About the Author

  Cathie Pelletier was born and raised on the banks of the St. John River, at the end of the road in northern Maine. She is the author of nine other novels, including The Funeral Makers (NYTBR Notable Book), The Weight of Winter (winner of the New England Book Award), and Running the Bulls (winner of the Paterson Prize for Fiction). As K. C. McKinnon, she has written two novels, both of which became television films. After years of living in Nashville, Tennessee; Toronto, Canada; and Eastman, Quebec, she has returned to Allagash, Maine, and the family homestead where she was born. Her forthcoming novel, A Year After Henry, will be published by Sourcebooks, Inc. in summer 2014.