“In case what?”
Mom coughed nervously, like she’d said more than she meant to. “Her blood counts have been really low lately, Isa. She doesn’t have the antibodies to fight off infections.” Her hands left my back and settled in her lap. “Remember?”
I did. Junie had recently recovered from a bad respiratory infection. Afterward, she came home for a handful of days before returning to the hospital for chemo. The whole ordeal had scared us silly. I did not want anything like that to happen again.
I turned around. “Couldn’t I just skip one day of school? Take a sick day, or something? My attendance is practically perfect.”
“Exactly, Isabel. Because you’re perfectly healthy,” she replied brusquely. “Enough of this, please. Go get ready for school.” She’d been so tender a moment ago, but now she just dismissed me, like my feelings meant nothing. I was healthy, therefore not important enough to worry about.
I gritted my teeth. “I promise to make up all my work. I’m sure my teachers wouldn’t mind.”
Mom exhaled. “We’ll see . . .”
I wanted to grab her, shake her, but also just hug her. There were people at the hospital who would understand—child life specialists, social workers, nurses, doctors. I knew they were always available to help, but right now I only wanted my mom.
“Could you bring me tonight after practice? Please?” I begged.
She stiffened. “For one thing, it’s nearly an hour drive.”
I shook my head. “It’s forty-three minutes, tops. Thirty-eight if we speed on the highway. That’s nothing! We drove seventeen hours when we moved here from Georgia.”
“Listen, it’s difficult for her to have visitors when she’s sick.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’m family!”
“Don’t be selfish, Isabel,” she snapped.
My whole body prickled, inside and out. Not the tingly sensation I felt when I was near the chance seedling, but the burning sensation of anger.
“I know you miss her,” Mom said, softening as she watched the red creep into my face. “We all miss her.”
Something inside me cracked. “Don’t talk about her like that!” I shouted.
“Like what?”
“Like she’s already dead.”
“Isabel Abernathy Fitzwilken!” My mother lunged forward and shrieked in a voice I’d never heard before. It exploded out of her without any warning, from somewhere deep inside, pierced with pain and fear and a million other scary things. I nearly fell off the bed, not so much from the ringing in my practically deaf ears, but from shock.
“Don’t you dare say that word!” She thrashed at the blankets. “Don’t say it! Do you hear me? Don’t you dare! Ever!” The hand that had been rubbing my back was raised in the air, like she might slap me. She took a shuddering breath and quickly lowered her arm. She looked down at her fingers, horrified and confused.
I stumbled out of the room. Mom hadn’t hit me, but my cheeks throbbed just the same. I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. I gripped the counter to steady myself. My chest tightened, as if my ribs were constricting my heart and lungs. I waited, afraid and also hoping that Mom would follow me.
The house creaked like old houses do, but that was it. There were no feet on the stairs. No one calling out to apologize, or see if I was okay.
I stared at the telephone. I considered calling Dad at work. I could tell him that I’d upset Mom badly, but that she’d upset me too. He used to be a good listener. When we played catch in the evenings, he always gave me advice and calmed me down if I was riled up about something. But we hadn’t had a real talk in ages.
My watch beeped innocently. After yesterday’s trip-and-fall fiasco, I’d set a new alarm, giving myself extra wiggle room in the morning. I wiped my face dry with the back of my hand. Even though I’d packed a lunch, I felt around inside the tin can for lunch money. To my surprise, Dad hadn’t forgotten. There was even a note written on a scrap of paper.
Sorry about yesterday, sweetheart. Here’s a little something extra—think of it as an emergency lunch money fund in case I forget again. (But I’ll try really hard not to!) Game of catch soon? Love, Dad
That small promise picked my bruised heart up and dusted it off. I slipped my backpack over my shoulder. My watch gave another warning beep. The bus would turn down Melwick Lane in ten minutes.
I ran to the mudroom, laced up my new sneakers, grabbed the umbrella, and rushed outside.
***
The charcoal sky drizzled and spat. Thick, cottony fog enveloped the orchard. Safe and dry under my umbrella, I approached the tree. The canopy dripped with rain. The bark glowed, colors shifting and melting together like a watercolor painting come to life.
“Good morning,” I said. The branches stirred, like they were glad to see me, then proudly displayed several tiny violet buds. They weren’t nearly as large or impressive as yesterday’s shoefruits. Not yet, at least. Maybe the rain was stunting their growth? Maybe they needed more sunlight? They would bloom when they were ready, I supposed. You couldn’t rush these things. I would have to be patient.
Secrets were hard. But waiting for a secret to bloom was even harder.
Chapter 8
I made my way carefully down the hillside behind the orchard, retracing yesterday’s leaps and bounds and tumbles. I was a little disappointed the tree hadn’t bloomed yet, but I was relieved to find most of my lost lunch money. The dollar was plastered to a rock, a slug draped across the president’s face like a slimy mustache. I nudged it away and did my best to dry the damp bill. I found a few coins in the grass and made sure to check my pockets for holes before placing them inside.
Kira jogged toward me, her endless hair wrapped into a bun the size of a cinnamon roll.
“Bus buddy!” she sang, waving like a fool beneath her umbrella. “You came to my bus stop again!” A mile-wide grin stretched across her face.
Be nice, my heart reminded me. A lopsided lip twitch was the closest thing to a smile I could muster. At least it wasn’t a frown. “I lost something around here yesterday,” I said, kneeling down to pluck a dime from the wet grass.
“More shoes?” She giggled. “Which reminds me, did you buy those fancy cleats at the mall? I’d love to get a pair too.”
“None of your business,” I snapped, guarding the secret of my tree, forgetting to be nice.
Kira made a surprised hiccupping noise like she might cry.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m . . .”
“I know.” She sniffled and waved her hand, like my meanness was a fly she could shoo away. She lifted her chin. “It’s okay. My mom said I shouldn’t take it personally.”
It was strange to think of them talking about me. “Take what personally?”
“When you act like that. Mom says it’s not because you don’t like me. It’s just that you’re . . .”
“What?” A world-class jerk? An antisocial weirdo? A loner who talks to squirrels and trees instead of perfectly nice humans? I steeled myself for her response.
“Feeling blue?” It was more question than insult.
Up the road, the school bus wound its way toward us. Usually it kicked up a cloud of dust. Today the sky wept, pressing the dirt to the ground. I clutched my umbrella.
“I’m feeling a lot of things, I guess.” I tried to picture the colors of all the things in my life.
The ache in my chest. Blue, like Kira said.
Mom’s anger. My cheeks. Red.
The buds on the tree. Purple.
The orchard and meadow grasses. Green.
The uncertainty of Junie’s health. Gray.
Altogether, a total mess. Blue and red smeared with purple and green and gray. One of Junie’s finger paintings gone wild.
“I’m mostly flusterated,” I said, for lack of a better word.
“Huh?”
“Never mind. It’s a word my sister invented. I just . . . I need to see her.”
Kira twirled her umb
rella while she brainstormed. “So go see her. She’s at the hospital, right? It’s not like she’s on the moon or something.”
Junie-to-the-moonie. I felt a dark-colored pang of something I didn’t have a name for.
“My mom said no. Not today at least. Besides, I have no way to get there.”
“We could drive you,” Kira offered.
“Really?”
“Sure. But my mom would probably tell your mom.”
“It’s better if she doesn’t know,” I said.
Kira tapped a finger to her chin. “Why don’t you take the bus?”
“The school bus?”
“No, silly. The county bus. The 83 goes to the hospital.”
“Really?” A little river of happiness trickled into my voice. Mom thought she knew what was best for me and Junie, but she was wrong. I would take matters into my own hands, even if it meant keeping another secret.
“There’s a stop across from the post office. I know because I mail a package to my dad each week. I see the bus all the time. You could walk there after school.”
My hand was in my pocket, silently counting the coins and rumpled bill. Shining golden yellow, forcing back the blue. With Dad’s emergency lunch money fund, I had enough to see Junie.
The school bus came to a stop at the curb. I felt badly for snapping at Kira earlier. She was only trying to help.
“Kira?” I turned to her before I climbed the steps.
“Yeah?”
“Want to sit together?”
A giddy squeal. “For real? Bus buddies?”
I nodded. My heart said, See? Was that really so hard?
***
If I was useless at school yesterday, today I was on fire. And not in a Bunsen-burner-gone-wrong kind of way. I was energized and engaged in the nerdiest and best of ways. I’m pretty sure I aced my math quiz, and I volunteered to read aloud in English class, which always carried the risk of possible humiliation. But I didn’t care. I was going to see Junie and that made everything perfecterrific. Also, I wasn’t carting around my usual lunchtime dread, since I had a sandwich waiting in my bag, and I was pretty sure Kira and I would sit together.
I was a little surprised when Ms. Perdilla came by my desk looking concerned after science class. I’d taken notes and even raised my hand with correct answers a few times.
“Isabel, could you stay for a moment? We need to talk.”
I thought fast. “Ms. Perdilla, I’m really sorry about the Bunsen burner yesterday. I honestly didn’t mean to turn it on. Kira’s hair is fine. It was an accident and . . .”
“I know.”
“You’re not mad?”
“No, I’m not mad. Although in general, try to avoid setting your friends on fire.”
“She’s not my friend,” I said out of habit, even though it didn’t feel totally accurate anymore. “But, yeah, I’ll work on that. The not-igniting-people part. Sorry again.” I turned to leave.
“Isabel, that’s not why I asked you to stay.”
Stay. That word. It tugged, it pulled. Like roots.
Ms. Perdilla’s eyes were gentle. “Have you given any thought to your research project topic?”
I could tell it wasn’t her real question, just something to say.
“Not really.” Then the secret of the tree started smoldering somewhere inside. Hot and itchy. I needed to come up with something quickly, or I might spill the beans. “Anthozoa?” I said, remembering that weird flower-animal word Mr. Clarke taught us.
Ms. Perdilla looked surprised. “Funny you should mention that. Casey already signed up to do his project on anthozoa. Coral and anemone, to be exact. You could partner with him if you like.”
“That’s okay. I’d rather work alone.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything else. The silence stretched out long and slow, like a snake uncurling on a warm rock.
“Maybe something about trees.” The words snuck out, practically on their own. I slapped my hand over my mouth, horrified.
“Trees? That sounds interesting.” Ms. Perdilla perked up. “You live next to Melwick Orchard, right?”
A lump formed in my throat. I nodded and tried to swallow it down.
“Orchards are similar to reefs, actually. Fruit trees and corals create wonderfully diverse ecosystems where an astounding diversity of life can thrive. You’re lucky, Isabel. Living near those trees is like having a classroom in your own backyard. I’m sure there are all kinds of fascinating things to study, right at your fingertips.”
If she only knew. I pressed my lips together so nothing else could slip past them.
“I used to adore those Melwick apples.” She smiled wistfully. “Gave extra credit to kids when they’d bring me one. Something so unusual about them.”
“What do you mean?” I’d never paid much attention to the stories about our orchard, but now I was more curious than ever.
“Some were sweet. Others were tangy. Some were even salty.”
“Salty apples?” I grimaced. “Yuck.”
“Strange, yes. And yet exquisitely delicious.” Her eyes closed as she savored the memory. “It’s hard to describe. Somehow a Melwick apple could take on the flavor of whatever you were craving at the moment.”
“Really?” Thank goodness I’d eaten breakfast, otherwise my stomach would’ve been making quite a ruckus.
“They were like flavor chameleons. I swear I once ate one that tasted just like a honey-baked ham. Such a shame how those apples stopped growing. Nobody knows why. Do you?”
Her question jolted me. “Me? No. I don’t know anything about those trees,” I said, which wasn’t entirely true.
Ms. Perdilla nodded. “I’m sure you’ve heard the local lore. Tall tales. The sort of stuff that makes good small-town chatter. Everyone has their theories about the Melwick land. Might be worthwhile to dispel those rumors with some hard science.”
Could science explain what was going on? All evidence seemed to suggest otherwise. The secret grew hotter and itchier. I regretted even uttering the word tree.
“How about it?” Ms. Perdilla pressed.
Change the subject. Hurry. I scanned the room for something. Anything. Help!
A poster on the wall caught my eye: The tadpole life cycle. “Actually, I might do my project on frogs or toads. Or maybe some kind of salamander. One of those animals.” Phew. I squelched the secret, for now.
“You mean amphibians?”
“Sure.”
The poster had six colorful bubbles connected by a series of arrows. It read: “I am an egg! I am a tadpole with gills! I am a tadpole! I am a tadpole with legs! I am a froglet! I am an adult frog!”
Suddenly I was reminded of Junie, which felt good and bad at the same time, like an apple that tasted both bitter and sweet. “My sister calls them unfittians. She loves animals, but she can’t stand them.”
“Why is that? Why doesn’t Junie like amphibians?” Ms. Perdilla’s voice felt like a gentle breeze at my back, guiding me forward.
“They kind of freak her out. And not because they’re squirmy or slimy like you’d expect.”
“No? Then why?”
“It’s because they don’t fit anywhere. Get it? Unfittians?”
“Yes, I get it.” Ms. Perdilla walked over to her desk and sat down in her chair. There was a stack of homework on the desk that needed grading, and a paper-bag lunch that probably needed eating, but she was in no hurry to do anything but talk with me. “Your sister sounds like a very clever girl.”
“She is. She’s young, but she’s smart. Not like bookworm smart, but kind of kooky smart.”
“I know exactly what you mean. I call it creative intelligence.”
I liked the sound of that. “Her brain puts all these bits of words together and makes new words.”
“Just like Frankenstein.”
My mouth crinkled into a squiggly line. My eyebrows scrunched to match. I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Victor Frankenstein
took different body parts, put them together, and gave them life. As something new.”
“Didn’t he make a monster?”
“Okay, yes, technically. But it’s the concept that really interests me. And in his defense, the monster wasn’t really so bad. Just misunderstood.”
I unscrunched everything. I made a mental note to remember Frankenstein. FrankenJunie. She’d think it was hilarious.
Ms. Perdilla leaned back. “Tell me more about why Junie thinks amphibians are unfittians.”
“You’re a science teacher. You probably already know everything about them.” I gazed at the poster again.
“I’m always learning. Besides, I’d like to hear your thoughts. And Junie’s. A new perspective is always enlightening.”
“Well, they don’t really live in one place. They can be in the water or on land. Junie says they should be here or there, but not both. Because it isn’t right. It’s not natural.”
“What’s not natural?”
“Being in between. Like that tadpole with legs.” I pointed to the diagram.
“I see. Why do you think she feels uncomfortable with the idea of being in between?” Jeez. Ms. Perdilla should have been an interrogator or spy instead of a middle school science teacher. She could really make people talk.
“Probably because we’re always moving around for Dad’s work, when all we want to do is stay put.” I looked down. “That’s also why she doesn’t like being sick. Not that anyone likes being sick, but I think it makes her feel out of place. She’s constantly going back and forth between the hospital and our home.”
Ms. Perdilla nodded, and I kept chatterboxing.
“Also, Mom said being sick forced Junie to grow up quick.”
“Making her part child, part adult. Almost like she skipped a few steps. From tadpole right to froglet, without enough time to properly adjust.” Ms. Perdilla was smart. She just got it.
“Exactly. And some medicines make her feel part awake and part asleep.” Part alive and also part, well, I wouldn’t utter that word out loud. I wouldn’t even think that word. Not after the way Mom reacted when I said it.
The Magic of Melwick Orchard Page 6
