A blue blanket with tiny stars all over it.
A red balloon tied to a stick.
A ball of twine.
“Cricket!” he called. “Firefly! Are you out here?”
Peter was calling them! They raced each other down the shore to where he was waiting by the long rock overhang, the artifacts clutched to his chest.
“Guess what?” he said. “We’re going to build a raft.”
Just then, from inside the giants’ house, came the earthshaking tromp tromp tromp of the mother giant’s footsteps.
“Peter?”
The mother giant stood calling from the kitchen window, one hand pressed against the screen.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Cricket and Firefly.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. She walked across the kitchen floor toward the front door. The entire house vibrated slightly with each footfall. Tromp. Tromp. Tromp. Now she was on the porch. Now she was there, on the sand, right in front of them. If Cricket took one small leap, and Firefly drifted just a few inches forward, they could touch her. Yikes.
The mother giant touched the blanket in Peter’s arms.
“What are these things for?” she said.
“We’re going to build a raft.”
“And what’s the raft for?”
Peter didn’t say anything.
“Honey? What’s the raft for?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Peter, his voice small. “It’s none of your business.”
“Peter!”
The mother giant bent down so that she was the same height as Peter.
“What did you just say?”
She put her enormous hand under his chin and tilted his head up so that he was looking straight at her.
“Do you hear me?”
Peter didn’t say anything.
“Listen to me. I know you’re sad, but you still can’t talk to me like that.”
“No, you don’t,” said Peter.
“No, I don’t what?”
“Know how sad I am.”
The mother giant inhaled a long, long breath. “She’s going to blow,” Firefly whispered to Cricket, and they both prepared for another tornadic gust of wind. But instead, the mother giant put her arms around Peter and hugged him.
The mother giant kept her arms around Peter for a long, long time. Neither of them said anything. Finally, the mother giant sat back on the sand and held Peter’s hands in hers.
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know how sad you are. But I’m your mom and I’m here and I’m watching out for you.”
I’m watching out for you, thought Firefly. Those were like the words that Elder had said to her—I’ll be watching over you—and hearing them made her miss him fiercely. She looked up at the sky, but it was daylight. No stars were visible. Was he really up there somewhere?
The mother giant stood up.
“I’m going to be in the kitchen,” she said to Peter, “finishing that project for my client. Stay where I can see you through the window, okay?”
Peter nodded, and she bent down and kissed the top of his head. After the mother giant went back into the house, Peter stooped and pulled an empty plastic milk jug out from underneath the rock overhang.
“Look at this!” he said. “I found it yesterday—a perfect flotation device for the raft.”
He gathered driftwood from the shore and knotted it together with the twine, piece by piece. His knots were careful and firm.
“Why are you making a raft?” said Cricket.
“So I can make a quick getaway if I need to.”
“Why would you need to make a quick getaway?” said Firefly.
“Well,” said Peter. “My mom and dad keep talking about school, and I don’t want to go back to school.”
“Why not?”
“Because Charlie won’t be there.”
He picked up a stone from the shore and hurled it into the river, where—plunk—it sank immediately.
“We used to wait for the bus together,” he said.
He picked up another stone, and another, and another, and one by one he threw them into the river.
“And I’m not going back to school without him,” he said. “No matter what they say.”
“Good for you,” said Firefly. “The giants don’t know everything.”
“They’re not giants,” said Peter. “They’re my mom and dad.”
“Your mom and dad don’t know everything, then,” said Firefly.
It felt weird not saying “giants,” but if Peter wanted her to say “mom and dad,” she would try.
“That’s right,” said Cricket. “Moms and dads aren’t always right.”
“What about yours?” said Peter suddenly. “What are your parents like?”
Firefly parents? What a funny idea.
“We don’t live with parents,” said Firefly. “Fireflies all live together. In a hollow tree.”
“Crickets all live together too,” said Cricket.
Peter looked at them, one to the other, as if he was trying to figure this out.
“No parents?” he said.
They shook their heads. A strange look passed over Peter’s face.
“But who tucks you in at night?” he said. “Who makes you breakfast in the morning? Who helps you with your schoolwork?”
“The elders,” said Firefly.
She thought about Elder, her Elder. For a minute she wanted to tell Peter about Elder, how he had swooped underneath her and saved her life when she was a baby firefly, how he had taught her parachute formation, how they’d had their own secret code. But she didn’t.
“We don’t have school,” she said instead. “The elders teach us to fly, and once we know how, we’re free. Sort of, anyway.”
“Sort of?”
“We’re supposed to stay in the clearing,” she said.
“Why?”
“Well. Because of all the dangers out here.”
“What kind of dangers?”
Firefly wasn’t sure what to say. Peter stood looking at her, with his head tilted, waiting. Should she tell him the truth?
“Um, giants,” she said. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but it was the truth. “We’re supposed to stay away from giants.”
“Why did you leave, then?”
“Because I want to fly up to the moon.”
“And they don’t like that?”
“Nope. The elders say I’ll fall right out of the sky.”
All but one elder, she thought. Peter looked up at the sky. It was a long way up there.
“That wouldn’t be good,” he said.
“It wouldn’t,” agreed Firefly. “But if you giants can do it, then I can too. Right?”
“But we have spaceships.”
“And I have wings.”
It was true, Firefly did have wings. Peter turned to Cricket.
“What about you? Do crickets have school?”
“Yes,” said Cricket. “I’m supposed to be there right now.”
He pictured the School for Young Crickets. They were probably in Fear of Giants class at this very minute. Teacher was probably standing in front of the classroom, describing, for the billionth time, the day that the lollipop stick had come flying out of a clear blue sky and broken Gloria’s leg and wing. The little crickets were probably listening openmouthed, the way they always did. He could just imagine Teacher’s voice, the way it lowered as she got to the end of her story: And that, crickets, is why you should always avoid giants.
“Why aren’t you, then?” said Peter.
“Because,” said Cricket, and he shrugged a wing.
“Because they all laugh at him,” said Firefly.
“Why?”
“Because he wants to be a baseball player,” she said. “Excuse me, a baseball catcher.”
Oh no. Cricket closed his eyes. He waited for Peter to start laughing at him, just like all the crickets did. A cricket, wanting to be like Yogi Berra. It was ridiculous, when you thought about it. Who did he think he was? He waited for a giant gust of laughter to blow him backward onto his carapace, but no gust came.
He opened his eyes a slit and looked at Peter, who was smiling.
“I could teach you to play catch,” he said. “If you want.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
YOU DID IT!
The very next day they began Cricket’s How to Catch a Flying Object lessons. Peter marked off a distance of three yards on the sand with two pieces of driftwood. Firefly practiced straight-line flying between them until Cricket told her to stop because she was distracting him. He perched on top of one piece of driftwood, and Peter stood behind the other.
“You’re pretty small,” said Peter.
“You’re pretty big,” said Cricket.
“Pretty big?” said Firefly. “He’s a giant!”
Then she saw the look on Peter’s face. “Miniature giant, I mean.”
“Okay, Cricket,” said Peter. “What kind of flying objects do you want to begin with?”
“Baseballs!” said Cricket.
“Are you nuts?” said Firefly. “A baseball would kill you!”
“She might be right,” said Peter. “Let’s start with something a little smaller.”
He began by tossing Cricket little stones, but that didn’t work out so well.
He then tried tiny pebbles, but that didn’t work out either.
Then he tried maple seeds, but even when he crouched a few inches away from Cricket and tossed them as lightly as he possibly could, Cricket ended up flat on his carapace. His legs waved feebly in the air until Peter flicked him upright again.
“Wow,” said Cricket. “Catching a flying object is a lot harder than it looks.”
He held his front legs out and flexed his feet. He was an agile creature, able to leap nearly a foot in the air. But when it came to catch, his strong legs weren’t much use. Neither were his wings. They made music, and they helped him keep his balance, but when he tried to clap them together around a seed, what he ended up with was air.
“What about dandelion fluff?” suggested Firefly, looking at the tiny white fluffs drifting down to the sand on the gentle breeze. Some landed on the surface of the water, where they floated for a while before the river swallowed them up.
Peter looked dubious. Dandelion fluff was light, but so were maple seeds, and Cricket hadn’t been able to catch them. Still, it was worth a try.
Cricket leaned back. The first fluff that floated his way veered left at the last moment, and his wings clapped together on nothing.
“Pay attention!” yelled Firefly.
Cricket focused. Peter crouched next to them and watched.
“Incoming!” yelled Firefly.
A fluff came drifting down from the sky, straight toward Cricket’s upraised wings. He leaned back, wings held perfectly steady. Oops—the fluff twisted on the breeze and changed course. Cricket leaned a little to the left. Oops—another change of direction. Cricket leaned a little to the right. Wings up and outstretched, legs tensed and ready, forward a bit more, now backward, and—
“You did it!” shrieked Firefly.
She somersaulted backward in surprise. Cricket held his wings above his head and hardly dared to breathe. Had he actually caught the fluff? Slowly he brought his wings down before him and opened them.
Peter sat back on the sand and smiled.
“You did it,” he said. “You really did.”
Cricket looked at the dandelion fluff, trapped between his wings. He placed it on the sand. There it was, white and light. And he, Cricket, had managed to catch it as it drifted down. He looked up at Firefly, still somersaulting, and Peter, still smiling.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “I caught something.”
“First, dandelion fluff,” said Peter, “and next, who knows?”
“This day will go down in history,” said Firefly. “This is a day for the Museum of Giant Artifacts!”
“What’s the Museum of Giant Artifacts?” said Peter.
“Um,” said Firefly, “it’s a . . . museum.”
“A museum that’s supposed to be a secret,” said Cricket, giving Firefly a look. “Forget she said anything.”
“Too late for that,” said Peter. “What’s in this museum?”
“Giant things.”
“Like what?”
“Scary things,” said Firefly. “Things like the Jar.”
“The Jar?”
Peter waited for her to explain. But how could she explain the awfulness of the Jar to him?
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “Giants like to catch fireflies and put them in jars to die.”
“But you keep calling me a giant, and I don’t do that.”
“You’re a miniature giant. And you’re not like the others.”
Peter looked troubled.
“Just so you know,” he said, “I’ve never put a firefly in a jar.”
Cricket decided to change the subject.
“The museum has other things in it,” he said. “There’s a baseball. A baseball glove. And a picture of Yogi Berra, the world’s greatest catcher.”
“Is that where you got the idea of being a catcher?” said Peter.
“Yeah. Partly.”
“And watching you and your friend was the other part,” said Firefly. “He used to spy on you.”
“On me and Charlie?” said Peter.
“Yup,” said Firefly. “He used to sneak down here and spy on you two playing catch on the beach. That’s where he learned the song.”
“What song?”
“This one,” said Firefly, and she sang. “Take me out to the ball game. Take me out with the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack—”
But Peter was shaking his head, motioning for her to stop.
“Don’t sing that,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“But it’s the song you and the other miniature giant used to sing,” said Firefly.
“I already told you to stop calling him a miniature giant!” said Peter. “His name is Charlie.”
He jumped up from his crouch—the ground shook beneath Cricket, who held on to the shifting sand beneath him with all six legs—and ran down the shore—thump, thump, thump—to the big rock, where the half-finished raft was stored. He stood on it, looking out at the river.
“He’s not going to leave, is he?” said Firefly.
“I don’t know,” said Cricket.
“I don’t want him to leave.”
“Me either.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I think,” said Cricket, “that he’s missing his friend.”
Cricket thought hard, and he made a decision. He gathered his legs beneath him and leaped down the sand to Peter.
“I’m sorry about Charlie,” he said.
Peter said nothing. Cricket forged on anyway.
“Do you miss him a lot?”
“He was my best friend.”
Cricket thought about this. It would be terrible to miss a best friend. He remembered all the times he had spied on Peter and Charlie, playing by the river.
“I know I’m just a cricket,” he said. “And Firefly is just a firefly. But if you want, we can be your friends.”
Peter didn’t turn his head—he was still looking out at the river—but he took a deep breath. Cricket braced himself for a gust of wind, but nothing happened. Then Peter turned and nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHE JUST WANTED TO KEEP GOING
The next morning Cricket stretched his wings and all six legs and leaped off Vole’s table onto the floor.
“Let’s go see if Peter’s up,” he said.
“Race you to the raft!” said Firefly, and they took off.
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br /> They were well matched. Each had a special strength: Cricket could leap nearly a foot in the air, and Firefly could arrow herself straight ahead.
Cricket won, but just barely. Meanwhile, Firefly got up so much speed that she soared right past the big rock where the raft was stored and straight out over the river. She let herself be carried on an updraft, glancing down at the trees and water and boat receding below. Was this what flying up to the moon would feel like?
She just wanted to keep going.
Cricket shaded his eyes with a wing and watched Firefly, soaring high above the river. Was she ever going to turn around? What did it feel like, to be blown around in the sky like that? Maybe it felt the same as when he gathered his legs beneath him and then sproing! sproing! sproing! leaped along the ground.
He watched as Firefly kept going, higher and higher, and for a minute he was filled with a terrible fear that she was never going to come back.
Then, at the last minute, just as he was losing sight of her so high up, she pivoted in the air and came swooping back down.
“Did you see me up there?” she asked, out of breath. “Can you believe how high I was?”
Then she rested in the air just above Cricket to wait for Peter. They didn’t have to wait long. There he was, his hands full of more giant artifacts: a yellow rubber duck with a painted-on smile and a big plastic bubble from a packing box. He pulled the raft out from under the rock.
“Another flotation device,” he said, poking the big plastic bubble with a piece of driftwood.
SLAM.
The father giant emerged from the front door of the giants’ house. He stretched his giant arms and lifted his face to the sunny morning sky. Then he looked down the shore where Cricket bounced up and down on the big plastic bubble and Firefly did loop-de-loops above him while Peter tied more driftwood together.
Oh no! The father giant wasn’t heading their way, was he?
This was the time of day when he got into his car and turned on the engine and crunched and roared his way down the road and disappeared around the bend. This was when the mother giant usually leaned out the front door and called to Peter that she was going to be working on her computer in the kitchen, or on a conference call, and to stay where she could see him from the kitchen window.
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