What the Wind Can Tell You
Page 16
The stillness in Julian’s room tightened. I took slow breaths and felt Julian’s pulse beating in his hand.
Julian’s head leaned against mine.
And then the ceiling trembled.
Julian and I stood and watched as the top of our house lifted off. It tore free as though a giant’s hand had pulled it apart with one swift motion. The walls fell away and Las Brisas swept in.
A ripple of fuchsia clouds swirled down from above. They spun in spirals. Once they’d finished dancing, they settled like down feathers and warmed the horizon.
We walked toward them.
The ground sloped upward and Julian pulled me along. We climbed up and up and up. My legs burned, but Julian marched on. When we finally reached the crest of the hill, I spotted a quilt on the ground—Julian’s quilt. And I suddenly knew where we were: the hill behind the high school, where we watched the Fourth of July fireworks every year. On top of the quilt lay a red-laced baseball tucked inside a baseball glove.
Julian slipped his hand out from mine, bent down, and slid the glove onto his hand.
“Do you want to play catch?” Julian asked. He tossed me the baseball before I could answer.
Julian stepped to the other side of the quilt, balled up his right hand, and smacked it into the brown leather glove.
I took a few steps back, careful not to tumble down the hill.
Julian leaned forward and bent his knees. Taking a deep breath, I threw the ball. It went a little to the side, but Julian caught it effortlessly.
“Oops,” I muttered. “I’m not used to throwing a baseball.”
“No worries.” Julian lobbed the ball back to me. “Be sure to follow through. Icing on the cake, right? And use your whole body, not just your arm.”
I tried it again. I bent my knees, swung my arm back, and threw the ball. This time it slapped Julian’s glove when he caught it.
“Nice!” Julian said, tossing the ball back to me.
My fingertips felt along the baseball, feeling the stitches and the coolness of the leather. As I prepared my next throw, my eyes lingered on Julian’s glove. It didn’t look like the baseball gloves from gym class. The color was richer. It looked like a fat, leather garden glove.
“Julian?”
“Yeah?”
“Where did you get that glove?”
Julian straightened from his crouch and held it up.
“From Abuelito.”
“Abuelito?” The baseball fell from my hand.
“Yeah.” Julian stepped closer. He slid the glove off his hand and passed it to me. The palm was a deep brown, soft and stained from catching hundreds of baseballs. I slid my hand inside. The leather was heavy and smelled like summer nights. Every wrinkle in the glove told a story.
“Abuelito gave this to you?” I asked, slipping it off and handing it back to Julian.
Julian shook his head and smiled.
“No. Not yet. But one day he will.”
“You think so?”
Julian nodded.
I took a few steps back, picked up the ball, and prepared to pitch it again.
We played catch until it got too dark to see. When the pink clouds faded and the sky deepened to the color of hot coffee, Julian and I stretched out on his quilt, watching stars pierce the darkness with their blades of silver.
“Look, Belle! The Big Dipper!”
My eyes searched the sky. I spotted the four stars of the Dipper’s cup and followed the three on the handle.
A cool breeze brushed over us, carrying in the smell of fresh-cut grass and early summer nights. A cricket chirped somewhere close by. Lightning bugs danced and darted in and out of our view. Shooting stars swooped overhead. A few more stars twinkled.
I swept my hand on top of the grass, letting it tickle my palm.
“I’ll miss sharing Las Brisas with you,” Julian whispered.
“Me, too.” I searched the sadness in his face. My heart pounded and my cheeks grew hot. I wiped my eyes. “You’ve got an orchestra to prepare for. We should practice tomorrow, first thing.”
Julian nodded.
We lay in silence a little longer. Julian broke it first.
“I had fun fooling with Tía Lucy at dinner.”
“I’d told her about that trick, and she still didn’t realize.”
“It’s because I’m that good at it.” Julian wiggled his eyebrows and I laughed.
I swallowed hard and looked up at the sky, to the stars sparkling all around me.
“I love you, Belle.”
“I love you, too.”
Crickets creaked quiet notes. The stars shimmered softly. Lightning bugs hovered in midair.
“Julian?” My hand slipped into his.
“Yes?”
“Maybe I can make cards with pictures of places we’ve visited, and, I don’t know, some categories for new places you could go to. And then I can ask you about Las Brisas. It would take some time to get it right, but we could figure it out.”
“That’s a great idea.” Julian smiled.
I looked out over the hillside as darkness drifted toward us. Time was running out.
The grass grew damp with dew. The stars brightened and clustered. I focused on the warmth of Julian’s hand, the softness of his breath. The happiness in my heart. I took a deep breath, and then sat up and gasped.
“What is it, Belle?”
I saw it. A vision in the stars.
I saw the cenote. Julian sharing a kayak with Papa. Mama swimming beside me. I saw a stadium filled with people. The smell of sweat, the sound of sneakers squeaking on waxed wood. The halftime buzzer, Julian waving to me from the crowd. I saw a coral reef and beautiful fish circling a weightless wheelchair with a scuba tank attached.
The scenes kept changing, flashing, flickering. In them I saw sunsets and sidewalks, moon glow and mountaintops.
And Julian.
I saw Julian skiing snowy trails in a modified wheelchair. I heard his voice spoken through a computer. I saw his warm smiles and his deep brown eyes.
“What is it, Belle?” Julian asked again.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
But it was everything.
Epilogue
It begins as a hint, as soft as a good-night kiss, notes lifting into the air, whispers.
The tremor moves from Julian’s hand to his arm to his chest. Growing stronger still, like wind threading through fresh green leaves, pushing against branches, boughs bending and swaying until the whole tree is alive and dancing.
The grand performance of Julian’s orchestra has just begun.
Mama’s arm tightens around my shoulders. She gives me a squeeze. Her eyes don’t leave Julian, but she holds me tight and won’t let go. Papa’s on the other side. His hand slips around mine.
Suddenly, Mrs. Pemberly’s foot pounds the stage floor. She stomps again and again. Her hands whirl through the air, fingers snapping. The chime of Julian’s tambourine catches her rhythm. Dylan presses his lips against his recorder and lets out a note, like wind driving into a keyhole. It is long and strong. It arches higher as the ring in Julian’s tambourine drizzles down.
Sylvia comes in on her bongo. Her hands are stronger than Mrs. Pemberly’s feet. Sylvia’s fingers tap-dance along the rim, her palm sending beats into our bodies. Ba-bom, ba-bom, ba-bom-bom-bom.
Mrs. Pemberly shuffles and sways to the edge of the stage as Julian’s orchestra takes flight. They play together. They take turns. Solos become duets. They blend, they contrast, they create energy. They finish in a frenzy of beats and notes too chaotic to catch, but perfect in every way.
Jamie and her high school friends dance in the aisle. Anna’s eye catches mine and she gives me a thumbs-up. When the music finally stops, Julian, Dylan, and Sylvia bow their heads. I clap so hard that m
y palms turn pink, but Abuelito claps the loudest.
“Bravo, Julian!” Tía Lucy shouts as the crowd calls for an encore. The Chihuahuas bark.
Onstage, Julian wipes his brow. His eyes find mine and his smile deepens. His smile is so much like Papa’s.
Mrs. Pemberly walks to the center of the stage. The sequins in her skirt send rainbows of light across the audience.
“My musicians now invite you, their family and friends, to join us onstage. For our encore, please choose an instrument.” Mrs. Pemberly gestures to the baskets placed around the stage.
The girls on my basketball team grab egg shakers. Coach’s fingers fiddle with a ukulele. Papa grabs some spoons; Mama hands Abuelito a rain stick as she pulls out a xylophone. Tía Lucy reaches for a cowbell. Dr. Holland has a cymbal in each hand.
I make my way over to Julian. He slides his maraca out of his backpack and into my hands.
We hear the stomp of Mrs. Pemberly’s foot and stand at attention. When she stomps the floor again, Julian, Sylvia, and Dylan begin a new song. The audience joins in, slowly at first, mirroring their beats until we’ve warmed up.
And then the music takes over. It pulses, it grows. There are no words to their songs, but I hear them in Dylan’s melody, in Julian and Sylvia’s rhythm: strength, resilience, and love. I miss Las Brisas, but this—this is better.
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
Sarah Marie A. Jette
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
Sarah Marie A. Jette
Sarah Marie A. Jette
What the Wind Can Tell You
Sarah Marie A. Jette
What the Wind Can Tell You
Sarah Marie A. Jette
Sarah Marie A. Jette
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
What the Wind Can Tell You
Acknowledgments
A big thank you goes to Beth Brogna, for mentoring me in the teaching of writing. You encouraged me to look beyond the script and, instead, expand my students’ craft with writer’s tools, strong leads, and slowed-down time. Your lessons not only improved my teaching, you rekindled my love of writing.
I have endless gratitude for the time Siobhan Foley and Liza Halley spent reading my rough drafts, revised drafts, and rough revised drafts. Your thoughtful and honest feedback over these past few years was invaluable.
My mother, Yolanda Aliberti, is always willing to read through drafts, even with tight deadlines. Thank you.
I also need to thank my Lewiston public school teachers, who taught me to read and write, and who inspired me to love reading and writing. My Mount Holyoke College professors, thank you for honing my craft.
My editor, Melissa Kim, saw the possibilities in my submission—a draft which transformed and blossomed over many revisions. With your special gift, you guided me each step of the way. Thank you to Dean Lunt and everyone at Islandport Press, for your edits, insights, and the amazing cover. Thank you for believing in my book.
I am grateful that my three children, Sol, Cortez, and Frida, and my husband, Aaron, give me time and space to write—something my cats don’t seem to understand.
And most of all, thank you, Mateo, for those Sunday morning snuggles.
What the Wind Can Tell You
About the Author
Sarah Marie Aliberti Jette grew up in Lewiston, Maine, in a house filled with books. A graduate of Mount Holyoke College, she served in the Peace Corps in Mongolia, studied rehabilitation counseling, and now has the best job in the world: teaching fourth-graders. When she’s not writing, she’s crafting with her three children, sewing her own clothes, and snuggling with her cats. Sarah Marie lives in Belmont, Massachusetts. This is her first novel.