by Susan Hughes
“So how does the oyster deal with this irritating, bothersome pest?” Ms Dean asked.
No one knew.
“The oyster creates more nacre. It covers the tiny irritating particle with layers of shiny shell. It keeps adding them until the particle is completely covered. These layers protect the oyster. The particle is still there, but it doesn’t bother the oyster anymore.”
That’s pretty cool, I thought. I nudged Harry.
“Nice,” he whispered.
“The layers don’t just protect the oyster,” said Ms. Dean, putting up a third poster. “Its layers also make something very special.” She stepped back.
The picture showed an open oyster shell, with an oyster body inside, and—
“A pearl!” exclaimed Ms. Dean triumphantly.
The pearl was round, shiny, and white. It was beautiful.
Oysters were pretty amazing.
“And now do you see why oysters remind me of spring?” Ms. Dean asked. “In winter, everything looks dead, but out of the hard ground burst spring flowers. Oysters look dead …”
I smiled. They look dead, but they aren’t. And inside their rough, ugly shells, they have oozy oyster bodies that make shiny white pearls.
Harry grinned at me and I knew he got it, too. Suddenly, spring felt a little closer.
2
An Announcement
That afternoon, soon after I got home from school, the rain finally stopped.
I ran outside and jumped onto my bike.
“I want you home at dinnertime,” Dad yelled out the window to me. “I have something important to tell you and Trevor.”
I rode through every delicious puddle. I skidded into every fresh mud slick. I made swervy tracks all the way up Harry’s driveway.
Harry and I rode our bikes all the way to Cooper’s Woods. On foot, we scouted for animal tracks. We hunted for snakes, and we turned over rocks, looking for slugs and millipedes. We climbed trees. We hiked to the edge of the fields and threw pebbles at the sagging scarecrow. When we saw Mr. Mutter feeding his pigs, we practiced spying on him. His dog, Barney, raised a lazy eyebrow at us. We raced back to our bikes and we rode some more.
Dad and Trevor were already sitting down to dinner when I came inside.
“Sorry,” I said, but Dad didn’t say anything about me being late. Trevor was talking about his woodworking project for school. Then I talked about oysters and pearls, and the snake, and the coyote tracks Harry and I had found in the woods. Dad didn’t say much at all.
When we were done our meat loaf and potatoes, I got up to put my bike away, but Dad said, “Sit down, please, Patrick.” He gave a little cough, cleared his throat. “I have an announcement.”
“An announcement?” I repeated. The word sounded so formal.
Dad looked strange. He grinned; he bit his lip and frowned—and then he grinned again. “Yes, an announcement.”
Suddenly, I felt nervous. I didn’t sit down. I didn’t want to.
Dad cleared his throat again. He said, “I asked Linda to marry me.”
Linda. His friend.
“She said yes.” Dad smiled like he was trying to keep it a medium smile, but it got away from him and spread across his whole face. “So she and Claire will be coming to live with us soon. At the end of August, before school starts, I hope.”
Claire, the pest. Who always bugged me.
Dad’s words stumbled along awkwardly. “I love Linda and I want her to be my wife. I hope we can all be happy here together.”
“You’re getting married?” I asked. “And they’re going to come and live with us … here?” I folded my arms.
Dad turned to me quickly. Nodded. “That’s right.” He kept nodding. “They’ll come at the end of the summer, and we’re planning the wedding for some time later.” He started grinning again. An ear-to-ear grin. “Maybe December.”
Claire, moving in here? It was impossible. There wasn’t enough room. She would be into my things. She would be loud and she’d hang all over me.
“Where will Claire sleep?” I said. “There isn’t room here for more people!”
“We’ll make more room, Patrick,” Dad said. “We’ll renovate. I’m going to renovate. They’ll be lots of room for all of us. We’ll all fit fine.”
But he was wrong. Trevor, Dad, and I already made a complete family. The house was fine already. Fine and full. Just enough people in just enough space.
Trevor frowned at me. Then he turned to Dad and smiled. “That’s great news, Dad. I’m really happy for you. Congrats!”
“Thanks, Trevor,” Dad said.
Trevor got up and went to Dad. He hugged him. Ever since Mom died, Trevor had tried to be perfect. Now he was doing it again. “Linda’s really nice, Dad. And Claire seems cool, too.”
Dad was grinning and hugging Trevor. “I’ll turn our den into a little bedroom for Claire,” he told me over Trevor’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure she’s comfortable here. There’s lots of room to share. You’ll see.”
I swallowed hard.
It wouldn’t be fine, no matter what Dad said or did. I didn’t want a stepmother, and I sure didn’t want a little pesky stepsister.
“I need to put my bike away,” I said. I left. And outside it was raining again.
3
An Idea
As soon as I woke up the next morning, I remembered. I remembered that everything was going to change forever.
I got to school and Harry asked, “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. I didn’t look at him.
“Nothing,” I said.
That afternoon, when we did a reading circle, Sarah took my spot on the carpet.
“That’s my place,” I snapped at her. She looked up at me, surprised.
“I always sit there. You can’t take my spot,” I said.
Julie was sitting next to Sarah. “Patrick, it’s not your spot,” she said, making a face. “You don’t own it.”
I glared at them both. I turned and stomped away.
At lunchtime, we played soccer. Martin was shadowing me. He was too close. He was almost stepping on me. He was breathing down my neck.
I leaned into him. Pushed him suddenly, hard, and Martin fell.
“What’s wrong with you?” Martin said angrily, rubbing his elbow.
“Nothing,” I said.
The next day, Wednesday, it was the same.
I tried to forget about it. Forget that Linda and Claire were going to move in. But I couldn’t.
It made everything bad. What good was spring, what good was summer, if Claire was coming in the fall?
Maybe I would run away. Maybe I would just leave. That would be a good idea.
Harry looked at me funny. “Are you okay?” he asked again on Thursday and Friday.
“Sure,” I said.
The weekend came and went. I didn’t want a stepmother, but more than anything, I didn’t want a little sister. One brother, my dad, and me. And Mom. We were already a family. Two more people couldn’t just squeeze their way in.
On Monday, another angry idea came. I’d get adopted by someone who lived all alone. Someone who wanted only one child. Who could be happy with just me. Maybe someone with a dog.
On Tuesday, another idea. If Linda and Claire were going to move into my house, crowd into my house, I’d move into their old house. I’d live there, and they could live here.
But why should I live all alone? It wasn’t fair.
Then on Wednesday, a new idea. A better idea, piling on top of all the other ideas. Maybe I’d go and live with Harry. Harry would be surprised, all right, but he’d let me walk right in. He’d let me stay. I knew it. That was what best friends did.
All day, I thought about it, and the next day, too. I imagined it. It felt good, except for one thing. I’d be welcome in Harry’s house, but what if I always felt like a visitor there, a guest? What if I never really felt at home? And, oh yeah, he’d be making room for a new baby soon.
> So I thought and thought some more, and, on Friday, I got it. The big idea. The shiny, shimmery, best idea. The pearl.
A tree house. I would build a tree house.
I would build a tree house! It would be my own space and I’d use it whenever I wanted to get away from everything down here. That morning, I let Sarah sit in my spot on the carpet. When Martin crowded me during soccer, I didn’t complain. In my tree house, I would stretch to the sky, spin around with my arms wide, and breathe in huge lungfuls of air. I’d live in the whole outdoors, all of it!
After school, I saw Harry. “Want to come over?” I asked.
“Sure,” he shrugged.
Harry and I tromped through the field near my house. We blew grass between our fingers, trying to make it sing.
“So … my dad and Linda are going to get married,” I told him.
“Oh,” he said, surprised.
“Not until winter. But they’re moving in with us at the end of the summer.” It was the first time I’d said it out loud. It made it seem real. It made it hard to breathe.
“Oh,” said Harry again.
He was looking at me. “Is Linda nice? She seems nice, the times I’ve met her.”
I shrugged. Sometimes, when Linda read books to Claire, she gave each of the characters a special voice. Some were squeaky, some were grumbly, some were goofy. Linda liked to make Claire laugh.
Sometimes, when we were all listening to my dad tell one of his stories, I could tell Linda was looking at me, just her eyes resting on me, gently.
Sometimes, when Linda served slices of chocolate-chip banana cake, I ended up with the biggest one.
But mostly, I didn’t know about her. I was trying to ignore her. “Nice? Yeah, maybe, but ...”
We blew on our grass some more. Harry made his sing. I couldn’t.
“And Claire? She’ll be coming, too, I guess,” Harry said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Hey,” Harry laughed. “Soon I’ll have a baby brother or sister in my family—and you’ll have a new little sister, too! We’ll both find out what it’s like!”
I scowled. “I don’t want to know what it’s like. I already know it’ll be too crowded,” I complained. “I don’t want them to come. There isn’t room for us all.”
“Right,” Harry easily agreed. He made the grass sing again.
Then I remembered the pearl, my idea, all shiny and shimmery, and I grinned. I punched Harry in the arm.
“But, Harry, I have an idea. An excellent, excellent idea. I’m going to build a tree house!” I exclaimed.
“A tree house?” Harry’s eyes lit up.
“Yeah,” I said. “A tree house! It’ll be great. I can live there. Or, if Dad says no, I can at least go there lots, when I need space. When I need to get away from Claire. It can be yours, too, if you want. And we can build it together; and we’ll get Trevor to help.”
“A tree house!” Harry repeated. A smile was spreading across his face.
“Will you help me?” I asked. “Will you help me build one this summer?”
“Will I?” Harry tossed away his grass blade and gave my shoulder a shove. “Are you kidding?” He grabbed me and shook me until I had to shake him back, both of us grinning like goofs. “Of course, I will,” he said. “What a great idea, Patrick. I will definitely help you build a tree house. Definitely!”
I laughed out loud. I knew I could count on Harry. Things were looking up.
SUMMER
1
The Tree
School was over and it was finally summer.
Usually summer was the best. Most summers, Harry and I swam in the pond and caught frogs along the creek. We hiked to the back of the fields and slid down the sandbank into the pit. We walked gingerly along the top fence rail, balancing with sticks, teetering. We lay in the hammock under the trees and read comics aloud to each other.
Most summers, Trevor and I drew a line in the dirt, challenging each other to knock down the pyramid of tin cans with one throw. Trevor showed me wrestling moves. Sometimes he hurt me by mistake, sometimes on purpose. Trevor taught me swear words as we weeded the vegetable garden. We told jokes as we fed the chickens and washed the truck.
When Dad came home from the hardware store at the end of each day, he made lemonade. We chewed on lemon slices while he barbecued outdoors in the breeze.
Most summers were lazy and hot. Most summers were the same, the days going on and on and never ending. Usually there was all the time in the world in the summer.
But this summer was already different. There was a big red circle around a number on the kitchen calendar. It was a day at the end of August. In just two months, Linda and Claire were moving in.
“I want to build the tree house as fast as we can,” I told Harry. “So that by the time they come, I have somewhere else to go.”
School was done, so Harry and I began our tree house project.
First, we had to find just the right tree. We wanted one that stood in the middle of many others. One that was tall—the tallest around, with many branches.
Harry and I walked through the forest, looking. We hiked along the paths made by the deer. We followed the riverbank and looked at the trees. Many were pine, green year round. They weren’t right for a tree house. They had too many needles, too many branches spiraling around the trunk.
Small trees had branches that were too thin to support a tree house. Short trees weren’t sturdy enough. Their branches weren’t far enough off the ground for a tree house that soared into the sky.
Crowded trees had branches that clashed and crisscrossed. I looked at them and it made my chest feel tight. It made me think of our house with all of us in it: Dad and Trevor and Linda and Claire—and me. It made me think of the red-letter day on the calendar. It was less than two months away now.
We searched and searched. We spent every day in the forest. I could picture the perfect tree in my mind, but two weeks went by and Harry and I still hadn’t found it. Maybe we never would.
We were on our bikes, riding beside Mr. Mutter’s fields. We didn’t know where to look next.
Mr. Mutter waved his walking stick at us. “What are you lads up to?” he asked, friendly.
“Hello, Mr. Mutter,” I said.
As Harry explained our project, I spun the pedals on my bike. I squeezed the brakes.
“Trees need sunlight. Their leaves use sunlight to make food,” Mr. Mutter told us. He leaned against the rail fence. Barney yawned, flopped down between Harry and me, and raised a lazy eyebrow. “When trees grow close together in the forest, there isn’t much space for their branches to grow out. There isn’t much elbow room.”
Mr. Mutter showed us, tucking his thumbs under his armpits and doing the chicken-wing flap. “But that doesn’t mean they give up growing. It just means they have to grow in a different way. It just means that their branches have to reach up to find the sunlight.”
He pointed between the trees. “If you want a tree that reaches out with its branches, try down there,” he suggested. “Go straight that way.”
It was Mr. Mutter’s land in that direction. Usually, we weren’t supposed to go there.
“Thanks, Mr. Mutter,” we told him.
He waved his walking stick. “Go on. Good luck!”
Barney sat up and wagged his tail at us.
Harry and I left our bikes. We climbed over the rail fence. We made our way through the trees, pushing at branches, stepping over logs and rocks.
We walked for quite a while.
I was excited, but there was still a knot in my stomach. What if we never found the perfect tree? A tree that was just the right height, with just the right branches, in just the right spot.
We kept moving, Harry in front.
I could picture the perfect family: Dad, Mom, Trevor, and me. Or now, at least, Dad, Trevor, and me. But just because you could picture the perfect thing, it didn’t mean it was really out there, or that you could have it.
Ahead, the trees were thinning out. There was more sky between fewer branches. We stepped into a clearing. It was like a small, secret meadow. Wild grass grew tall. Two lilac trees grew near a pile of boulders. An old cabin or homestead must have stood there. There was even a little pond with a cluster of cattails. Trees rimmed the clearing. The sun beat down.
We stood and gazed. And then we saw it.
The tree wasn’t where I thought it would be. It stood steady and alone on the edge of the forest. It wasn’t as tall as I thought it would be. Others deeper in the forest were taller. It didn’t have as many branches as I thought it would. It had three big, low branches and two higher ones. They extended out, into the sunshine, into the meadow. The tree had lots of space to grow.
We walked over to it. I touched its trunk, the bark furrowed and gnarled.
“This is it,” said Harry.
“Yup,” I agreed, and I grinned. Because perfect doesn’t always end up matching the picture in your mind.
2
Just Right
The next morning, Harry and I came back to the clearing. We climbed up into the tree as high as we could go. The world looked and sounded different. It even smelled different. There was room enough for everything up here.
Harry and I dangled our feet, leaning against the tree’s trunk. We watched as the tree’s shadow made the sunlight dance. We sat on every branch. We looked out at every view. We got to know our tree.
We climbed back down and walked around our tree. We tried to imagine what our tree house would look like, snug up there in the branches.
Then we got down to work, drawing up our plans. It was fun but it took a long time. One day, three days, five days so far. It was the third week of July. As I hurried out of the house, I glanced at the calendar. August was on the very next page.
“Stick around,” Dad suggested. He gestured with his mug of steaming coffee. “You can help me with some of those renovations.”
But I shook my head. “Can’t, Dad,” I said as I jumped on my bike. “Have to work on the tree house.”
