by Dar Williams
For my most tiny and colorful
tree frog, Stephen
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Titles
Copyright
What is it about the end of the school year that makes school almost fun? Is it the way you can just roll out of bed and get dressed in ten seconds — T-shirt, shorts, sandals — instead of half an hour? Or is it the feeling that school is officially over once the world looks and feels like summer? How was it that after everything that had happened in seventh grade, the wars between popular girls, teachers erupting in anger, and quiet kids finding all sorts of crude stuff written in permanent marker on their lockers, we could end with a sort of truce?
From what I’d heard, I’d gotten a break, because I had the best teachers this year, the least fed up with us, except for our math teacher, who’d had two temper tantrums, and the sewing teacher, who’d had one blowout and never seemed to like us again. Mostly, our teachers seemed to know that we were twelve years old and were surprising even ourselves with our bad behavior. They tried to work around it.
I also felt lucky that I’d helped with the lights and props for our school’s production of Fiddler on the Roof, in which my friends Sarah and Marin had acted. Sarah was in a couple of my classes, too, and she turned out to be the anti–seventh-grader, the eye of the seventh-grade storm. She didn’t even seem to notice the way all the kids were behaving, didn’t see all the badly drawn body parts on the bathroom walls, or the gangs of girls yelling insults at some shy boy and then running away, or the gangs of boys getting chased out of the pizza parlor by the owner.
And then, as the days got warmer and lazier, it wasn’t just Sarah. We all seemed to calm down. My English teacher, Mr. Chapelle, did things like send us out with tape recorders to interview people. It was an assignment that we all liked more than we’d expected. Sarah was especially brave about it. She chose to interview a truly nasty woman who worked in our library, and the whole class laughed as we heard Sarah asking one polite question after another while the woman got angrier and angrier, finally saying she had to go smoke a cigarette. Even Mr. Chapelle smiled at this.
It was in the last few days of school that we did the most amazing project. We had to tell a story. Mr. Chapelle said that it couldn’t be written down, and hopefully it would show “the power of a different kind of language,” whether it was the language of pictures, music, or spoken words.
I wanted to create a ghost story with the “language” of creepiness, which meant creepy music and special lighting, as well as a suspenseful story that I would read out loud. I dug around and found a photograph I remembered of a boy seeing that his hands had become bundles of knotty roots. It was from a book of pictures by Arthur Tress, who tried to photograph dreams and nightmares that children had had. He’d asked this boy to put on a coat that was longer than his arms, then stuffed branches into the sleeve openings and told the kid to just remember his dream. The final photograph made me shiver.
I wrote my own story about a boy who was cursed by a witch-troll for stealing a treasure out of a magic tree. Then I got a couple of flashlights and a recording of some scary organ grinder music. I also tied together a big bundle of roots and hid a little lamp inside them that I would turn on when the boy woke up underground in the witch-troll’s den. I wrote that the boy expected to wake up in his own bed, but (click on the lamp inside the bundle of roots) found himself alone in a shallow underground cave. I described how he felt even more terror as he heard the witch-troll approaching (turn on scary organ grinder music).
Mr. Chapelle let me get the whole thing ready in an empty classroom with no windows. I enjoyed stringing up the roots and setting the CD player so I could play it on cue. Mr. Chapelle said that if I liked putting together this story, I should get a movie camera. He said it was easier than ever to make a movie. Then he helped me set up the only other piece of technology we needed for my story: a little machine that would project the picture of the root-handed boy on the wall.
The class filed in with only a flashlight beam on the floor showing the way. It helped my nerves to hear everyone sounding a little freaked out already, having to find their seats in the almost-dark. I read the story slowly, which also helped to calm me, and I heard some very pleasing gasps when I turned on the lamp inside the roots. When, at the end of the story, the curse was complete, and the boy woke up in his own room with his hands replaced by the knotty roots, I turned on the picture of the boy, and I was thrilled to hear seven different shrieks from boys and girls — even Mr. Chapelle, I thought.
This guy named Curt followed my presentation. He did the coolest one, because it was so simple. He wrote a little fake opera about what had happened between his sister and his mom a few days before the prom.
For a “costume,” he plopped a pile of brown yarn on his head and became his mother, singing, “I have an idea. I have an idea. You can stay out as late as you want, but I will driiiiiive. Yes, I will driiiiive you!”
Then he dropped yellow yarn on his head and became his sister, singing, “No, no, no, no, nooooo! This cannot be! This cannot be! Eric will drive. He is nineteeeeen!”
And then the brown yarn for his mother was back on and he was singing, “Nineteeeen? Nineteeeen? You never told me this! Are you out of your miiiiiiiiiind?” Everyone was laughing.
Mr. Chapelle surprised us when he did the last story, a film he had made about his son’s trip to Mexico to swim with dolphins. His son was autistic, and there is a theory that somehow working with dolphins helps autistic kids communicate. Mr. Chapelle challenged himself by letting other people narrate the film. His brother, who had done the research about the dolphins, talked to us from the airport. Another passenger heard him speaking about it and wished them luck. Mr. Chapelle even had his son hold the movie camera as they got on the plane. He dropped it, and I could see how nervous everyone was, just by hearing all the passengers rushing over to help. It was great. It was a language that was bigger than words. I couldn’t believe Mr. Chapelle had chosen something so personal to show us, but it was probably the best lesson he’d ever given me. Everyone tried so hard to look bored in class, I couldn’t believe he’d believed in us enough to show us his story.
We had been pretty awful at times, as a class. We didn’t exactly deserve it. Mr. Chapelle ended the class by saying, “You have many stories ahead of you. Tell them with creativity, clarity, and integrity.” I made a note to look up integrity. I also decided that if I ever got the chance, I, Amalee Everly, would follow his advice and make a movie.
When Sarah and I headed home to my house that afternoon, we walked in to see not only my dad but also two of his friends waiting for me, looking very serious. It was like Mr. Chapelle’s assignment; their silence had a language of its own.
My dad had been extremely sick the year before. We thought, when it was all over, that it had been a simple virus that had turned into something else, but we never knew for sure. Had it come back?
Dad was looking out the window with a tired expression, as if he was trying to figure out how much the whole world weighed. His brown hair was always a bit wild, but now it made him look like he’d been pummeled in a wind-storm.
His best friend Phyllis’s long legs were stretched out, with her feet on another chair. She had her head in her hands as if she had a terrible headache. His also-best friend Carolyn paced back and forth, not looking up, her thin freckly arms folded.
“Is everything all right?” I asked immediately.
Dad turned to me and said, “I just told Phyllis and Carolyn some weird news.”
“A dying old lady would like to talk with you,” Phyllis said, without looking up. “And your dad thinks it’s a good idea.”
I looked at my dad to explain. So did Carolyn.
“Somebody wants to meet you,” he said. “Your grandmother. Sally’s mother.”
Sarah spoke up. “Your mother’s mother?”
We called my mother Sally. She had died when I wasn’t even a year old, after she had left my dad and me. Phyllis and Carolyn, along with my dad’s other friends, Joyce and John, considered themselves to be like my moms. Whenever we talked about Sally, it was like we were talking about an old friend we’d fallen out of touch with. We liked her, but we didn’t know her anymore.
We treated it like that because we didn’t have any choice. That’s what I thought, at least. There was no way to get to know Sally, so there was no use being sad about her. But Dad’s news was different. I had a chance to see a piece of history that was in my blood. There was a living person who might look like Sally or talk like Sally. I had a grandmother.
“Why didn’t you tell me Sally had a mother who was alive? Did you know?” I asked. Maybe Dad had only found out now.
Dad sighed. “I guess I knew.”
He guessed he knew? As far as I knew, I never had any living grandparents. How could he keep this from me?
Dad didn’t notice my frustration as he continued. “She wants to meet you, because she thinks she is dying.”
“But she’s a vampire, so don’t hold your breath.” Carolyn suddenly interrupted, arms still folded.
Phyllis peeked up and shook her head. “Carolyn, you aren’t helping.”
Did they all know about my grandmother?
Dad tried to explain Carolyn’s disgust. “Your grandmother is a pretty tough old bird. That’s what Carolyn is saying. The last time we spoke was right after Sally and I got married. We ran off and did it and then surprised your grandmother with the news. She didn’t take it well. She hurled a bunch of insults at us about how we’d ruined our lives, told us not to expect a penny of support from her, and, I’m sorry to tell you all this, told her daughter not to bother showing up again. After you were born, we tried to get back in touch with her, but it was too late. That’s the whole, awful story.”
“No, the story continues now with a morbid twist,” Carolyn said drily. “Because now she’s contacted your father to say she wants to see you, Amalee.”
“I’m telling you what happened so you can make an educated decision about whether or not to see her,” Dad said.
“I wouldn’t go,” Phyllis said. “She doesn’t deserve to see you.”
“No, let her see how cool you are, and tell her how glad you are that she didn’t interfere and mess you up like Sal — that she didn’t interfere with you,” Carolyn said.
“You think she messed up Sally?” I asked.
“She definitely played a part in Sally’s problems,” Dad said. “But you shouldn’t go just to tell her that or to be mean to her. I don’t think she has any idea how she acted. She would just say she was trying to teach us how to be responsible.”
“I’ll come along and tell her,” Carolyn offered.
Sarah laughed. Dad said, “It doesn’t have to be a big deal. She’d like to meet you. I don’t want to cut her off the way she cut us off. That’s why I’m even entertaining the idea of giving you the choice of whether or not to see her. She asked to see you. It’s up to you.”
Suddenly it didn’t seem so clear. I had a chance to meet a grandmother, but she might have a tantrum like my sewing teacher and say awful things about me — or, even worse, about Sally or Dad.
Back in my room, Sarah closed the door and said, “You have to take a tape recorder.”
“Hey! I don’t even know if I should go at all!” I protested.
“You have to go! It’s your grandmother,” Sarah insisted, which helped me feel less crazy. You’re supposed to want to meet your family, right? Sarah went on, “So what if she isn’t nice? Treat her like an animal at the zoo. That’s how I thought of the woman I interviewed for Mr. Chapelle’s class. Your grandmother sounds so mean, I bet no one’s ever dared to record her voice. It would be like capturing the call of the great auk.”
Sarah confused me sometimes, and this was a perfect example. “What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s an extinct bird. It looked like a cross between a penguin and a vulture. Lost. The last one was seen over a century ago and we’ll never know what it sounded like. But you have technology. You could take a tape recorder and capture the call of the poison-tongued grandmother. You’re not afraid of her, are you? You have nothing to lose.”
I went back into the room where Dad, Phyllis, and Carolyn had barely shifted position. “Let’s get it over with before I lose my nerve,” I said.
Dad paused, looking surprised. Then he got up from his chair and headed for the phone. “Let’s get it over with before we both lose our nerve.”
The next day, Dad, Phyllis, and I headed off to a small town in Connecticut, a couple of hours away from our home in upstate New York.
“She lived this close the whole time?” I asked, feeling angry again.
Dad sighed. “The actual distance didn’t seem to matter. Are you mad I didn’t tell you about her?”
I reminded myself that Dad was the kind of person who would protect me from hearing about a grandmother who I wasn’t allowed to meet. Then I felt angry at my grandmother and had to remember Sarah’s idea to turn her into a giant ugly bird teetering on extinction.
“Sounds like you had your reasons to keep it a secret,” I murmured. I was afraid I’d be overwhelmed by all this new information and feel like a wreck when I got to my grandmother’s house. I tried to focus on the small tape recorder in the front pocket of my blue Windbreaker instead.
The plan was that Dad and Phyllis would drop me off and wander around for an hour. Then we’d all go out for a late lunch. Dad said I could even get lobster if I wanted. I could tell he felt both nervous and miserable.
I watched the houses get bigger and farther apart as we drove into my grandmother’s town. Just as we pulled onto a street where every house was very grand in some way or another, we started slowing down. We were there. Her house wasn’t as big as a French castle or anything, but it was a pretty huge brick one. The long rows of windows had dark green shutters, and the bright white front door had white columns in front that went all the way up to the second floor. We drove into the white gravel driveway. This was it. I started stepping out of the car almost before it stopped. I kept on saying to myself, The sooner I do it, the sooner I’m through it.
Before I went to the front door, Dad got out and gave me a long hug. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered before kissing my head.
“You said this wouldn’t be a big deal, remember?” I insisted.
Dad bit his lip. “Absolutely,” he said, playing along. “She’s a stranger. You’ll meet a stranger and spend an hour talking with her.”
“Sounds like one of Mr. Chapelle’s assignments,” I said, secretly clasping the tape recorder. Dad wouldn’t be mad at me for taping our talk, I knew. I just didn’t want to make him more nervous by telling him my plan.
I heard Dad’s sneakers on the gravel behind me. “Why don’t I come with you after all?” he asked.
“No, Dad,” I answered. We’d already discussed this the night bef
ore. I didn’t want him to surprise her and risk making things more uncomfortable than if I went alone. And also … I suddenly realized this was my grandmother and it was my business what I said to her. And with that, I was ready. I walked to the door and knocked the brass knocker. It was heavy, but I felt strong.
A nurse with a name tag that said HEATHER answered the door. Dad and Phyllis drove off.
“Hi,” the nurse said brightly, “you must be Amalee. C’mon up. We just had a nap and some lunch. Can I get you anything?”
After hearing what a terror my grandmother had been, I almost felt sorry for her to hear this nurse talking about her as if she was a four-year-old. My dad had mentioned feeling the coldness inside the house, and he was right about that. The temperature itself was cool, the walls were all a very light, icy blue, and all the fabric on the polished wood chairs glimmered silvery blue or white. The sweeping, curved staircase was the color of frost. I searched the pictures and award plaques along the wall in the upstairs hallway for pictures of Sally, but I couldn’t find a single one. Why not? Where were the clues about Sally? I felt a mammoth tug of curiosity, and I realized why Dad was so nervous. Being nice to this dying woman meant I couldn’t ask questions about the daughter she’d cut off. Her daughter, my mother. I couldn’t ask my grandmother about my mother. For a wild minute, I thought maybe my grandmother would want to talk about my mother, only to me. She would share stories, secrets, pictures. But no, there were no pictures of Sally on the walls. I’d just seen that. Sally wasn’t welcome in this house.
“Here we are,” Heather cooed quietly, opening a door. I held my breath, pushing my mind back to the idea that this was just a random stranger as I braced myself to see her … but we were only entering a room on the way into the bedroom. “I’ll make sure she’s ready,” Heather said.
