I laced up my sneakers, then ran back to the kitchen. We always saved our pizza and bread crusts—which Junie nicknamed bones—to feed to the local birds wherever we lived. In New York City it’d been pigeons. In Louisville, crows. Magpies in Calgary. Geese in Philadelphia. Swans in Atlanta. Seagulls in San Francisco. And here in Bridgebury, ducks. Without Junie around to contribute her portion, the millpond mallards would have to make do with a lighter meal tonight.
“Got ’em!” I said, racing out into the yard.
Up ahead, Dad was peering through the cracked workshop window at the dusty tools and unfinished projects inside. He turned and marched up the grassy hill. He paused to inspect the paint-flecked pickets of the fence at the top. He shook his head, then began to turn right.
“Let’s take the back way!” I shouted, trying to catch up with him. I wished my new sneakers were imbued with a little extra magic. A turbo booster would’ve been real handy.
I ran to his side just as he reached a break in the fence where two footpaths diverged. Both routes met again down by the pond, but one led up the sloping hillside to the east, within eyeshot of the clearing. The other would steer us along the western perimeter of the orchard and a safe distance from my tree.
He took another step to the right.
I grabbed his shirt, nearly tearing the sleeve off. “The back way!”
“Whoa! Okay. The back way it is. But why?”
My mind spun. Letters shot out of my mouth. “PTCD! PTCD!”
“What?”
“PTCD!” I shrieked.
“Isabel! What on earth are you saying?”
“Post-traumatic chicken disorder! Remember?” I lifted the cuff on my jeans to reveal a scar on my leg. “The back route avoids the henhouse.” When we first moved to Bridgebury, Junie begged me to take her to Mrs. Tolson’s farm to see the animals. Big mistake. We’d barely gotten around to petting the sheep and piglets when a flock of crazy hens swooped in and chased us out, flapping and squawking and pecking at our ankles.
Dad tapped me gently on the head with his glove. “Good thinking. You’re always looking out for us.”
Yes, indeed. I was Isa, Protector and Defender of Sick Sisters and Distracted Fathers! Nincompoop nurses and cruel poultry, beware!
We set off westward, toward the sinking sun and safely away from the clearing, because I was also Isa, Protector of Magic Seedlings.
***
The ducks quacked happily as we tossed chunks of crust into the water. I wished we had more to feed them, but they didn’t seem to mind. They were just grateful for the attention. I glanced over at my father. I felt the same.
Dad gave the last piece of crust to the smallest duckling. A runt, maybe, who kept getting pushed aside by the larger ducks. “Everyone deserves a chance. Especially the little ones,” he said quietly. Then he turned to me. “What do you say we throw something else?” He held up a softball. “A few window-breakers, perhaps? Without the destruction, preferably.”
My heart swelled so much it just about busted through my ribcage. It had been such a long time since Dad and I played catch together. Since anything felt close to normal. Now I wanted to drink in every second, the way Kira drained a juice box to the last drop with her bendy straw.
“Is your team ready for the season?” he asked, tossing me a pop fly.
It sank into my glove with a satisfying thump.
“I hope so.” I threw a curve ball, which curved the wrong way. He still managed to catch it and toss it back, arrow-straight. “Practice was canceled this week because of rain, so we’re behind on some drills.” The fastball I threw next lazed through the air, anything but fast. I didn’t tell him I’d also skipped practice to see Junie. “Our opening game is against a team called the Carolton Minnows. Wimpy, right?”
“Minnows don’t sound very intimidating, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t prepare.”
He ripped a grounder across the grass. It was called a wormburner, a word that could trigger one of Junie’s giggle meltdowns without fail. I crouched to scoop it up.
“Names can be deceiving, Isabel. Don’t underestimate your opponents. Whatever happens, you always have to try your best.”
I wished I could tell him about taking the bus by myself, about being brave. About making changes, like remembering names instead of numbers. About making friends. I was trying. I wanted him to see that. To see me.
I threw the ball.
He caught it and shook his head. “If you don’t take practice seriously, those minnows might become piranhas.” He started reciting his pitching pep talk. “Remember, don’t pay attention to the batters. They’re just distractions. Focus on home plate. And don’t forget to watch your catcher. Trust her. Even if you think you know better. She can see things you can’t.”
“I know, Dad.” A full-blown lecture was brewing and I just wanted to enjoy this time with him. “Our first game is in three weeks. Will you and Mom be there?”
He looked out at the horizon. “There’s a lot going on right now, but we’ll try.”
Not the answer I wanted. I lobbed the ball, nice and straight. Finally. Maybe a little harder than necessary. “You’ll try your best?” There was a tiny note of sarcasm in my voice.
“It’s all we can do.” He stared at me without blinking, then turned and studied the orchard in the distance. “We should get going.”
“Just a few more,” I pleaded.
“It’s getting dark.”
“Please.”
“Come on, Isa. Time to go. We’ll play again soon.”
“Soon?” I didn’t have much faith in that word. Lately its definition could be as stretchy as a rubber band. I was standing right in front of my father, but I could feel him slipping out of reach.
“Wait,” I said. “Did I tell you? Coach Naron is going to start me!” I blurted desperately.
He looked at me. “She is?”
I hadn’t meant to tell a lie that big. I needed to fix this mistake, quickly. But then his eyes brightened and my throat tightened.
“Wow,” he said. “A Fitzwilken starting on the mound again! Hasn’t happened in a while. Since . . .”
“Since you, Dad.”
“Right.”
I could see the lie taking root. “So you’ll be there? To watch me pitch?” Instead of backtracking, I watered that seed of dishonestly. I let it grow. It was reckless and downright stupid. But there was something in his expression that I couldn’t let go of. “Dad?” I waved the ball. Tossed it.
“Opening game. Wouldn’t miss it. I promise.” He caught the ball and sent it back as a high arc in the plum-colored sky.
My heart followed. Soaring up, then down. The ball landed perfectly in my glove, like an egg in a nest. But my heart landed somewhere on the ground with a smack. I grimaced and swallowed hard, trying to make the bittersweet taste of the lie go away.
“You all right?” Dad asked.
“Bug flew in my mouth,” I fibbed. Again. Heck, might as well go for a new record.
“Let’s go back to the house and get you some water. Need to keep my star pitcher hydrated.” Dad took off his glove and tucked it under his arm. I did the same.
We walked home, side by side, grazing the tips of the overgrown apple branches with our palms. A chorus of peepers began warming up for their evening recital, a far cry from Gregory’s misfit orchestra. By the time we reached the break in the fence, constellations sprinkled across the sky. Standing on top of the hill, the moon looked so close. I wanted to reach up and pluck it from the darkness and cradle it in my leather glove.
Dad knocked a crooked fence picket upright with his knuckles. He yanked out a few pesky weeds. He tightened the loose gate latch in the moonlight. “Lot of fixing to do,” he said. Then he reached out and clasped my hand. He squeezed it three times.
I. Love. You.
I should have told him the truth, then and there. I wasn’t the starting pitcher, not yet at least. I’d visited Junie by myself. I’d made
a new friend. Two, actually, if you counted the chance seedling. Three, if you counted the squirrel.
But I didn’t say anything. I only held on tight and squeezed his hand back. One, two, three. Too afraid to let go. Too afraid of ruining the moment, and becoming invisible again.
Chapter 17
Hours later, that same milky moon flooded my room, washing everything in a thick coat of pearl. But that’s not what woke me up. It was a noise. Not peepers or raccoons banging around by the trash cans or the haunting hoots of an owl.
It was music.
Strange humming and ringing, carried by the night wind in soft breaths. I bolted upright in bed. Was I having another one of those weird dreams? I pinched my arm. No. I was awake and the sound was real.
I scanned my bedroom, searching for the source. The alarm clock next to my bed was quiet. I got up and pressed my ear against the wall to see if the music was coming from my parents’ room. Nope. Just Dad snoring.
My backpack lay in a pool of moonlight on the floor. My eyes went right to the zipper. To what wasn’t attached to it. The bell.
A wonderful realization: The tree had bloomed!
A not-so-wonderful realization: If I didn’t shut it up quick, this crop would wake the entire neighborhood. And the secret would be a secret no more.
***
I didn’t bother with shoes or ninja-stealth. I just ran. The dew was surprisingly cold. My toes may have been numb, but my mind was sharp, my legs quick. Approaching the clearing was like diving headfirst into an orchestra pit. The wind swept notes into the air like brush strokes on canvas. I never realized sound came in so many colors.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I spied hundreds of buds along the tree’s branches, clustered in rows like lily of the valley blossoms, only bigger. As they ripened, papery casings split open and bells emerged. Ringing, tinkling, chiming! I spun around, wet toes in tall grass. Drenched in song and moonlight and hope. The tree swayed with me, its leaves pulsing and glowing like the bioluminescent jellyfish Ms. Perdilla once showed us in class.
My ears were so full they didn’t hear Kira approach. I nearly leapt out of my skin when I felt her hand on my shoulder. She was wearing a fuzzy robe and slippers soggy with dew. And a smile from ear to ear, just like me. We let the tree sing for a few more minutes, dancing together and adding our own chorus of laughter, in perfect harmony.
“I could hear it from my bedroom,” Kira shouted.
“Me too. Which means if we don’t start harvesting now, the whole town will be out here wondering what’s causing such a ruckus.”
I was thankful we didn’t live on Drabbington Avenue or in one of those sardine-can developments where you shared a backyard the size of a postage stamp with your neighbors. Still, one call from ornery Mrs. Tolson, and we were done for. She’d probably sic her evil chickens on us as punishment for waking her up.
Kira pulled two plastic grocery bags from her pockets.
“At least one of us came prepared,” I said gratefully.
We started picking the lowest-hanging bells, filling the bags quickly.
“I think they call this a bumper crop,” Kira said, reaching for a fresh cluster of silver bells.
As soon as we’d silence one bunch, another would bloom. We hadn’t even started climbing yet. This was going to be a long, loud night.
“At this rate, we’ll never get them all. Someone is bound to hear.”
“Well, I can’t move any faster!” Kira’s long arms windmilled frantically as she picked and stuffed, picked and stuffed.
“Me neither.” I paused to wipe sweat from my brow.
The wind grew stronger, amplifying the music.
“Shhh!” I commanded. “Shhhhhhh!”
Another gust. The wind refused to be hushed.
“What are we going to do? We can’t keep up like this!” Kira squawked.
Then the tree sort of shivered and the music hit a crescendo. I dropped my bag to the ground. The branches shook, and the bells fell. All at once. Every one.
An enormous silence followed. Clouds moved across the sky, swaddling the moon and wrapping us in a soundless and pitch-black night. I wished the seedling would start glowing again, but it had turned as dark as the sky. I couldn’t see a thing. I wanted to call out to Kira, but the words wouldn’t budge. Finally, the clouds shifted, and the moonlight illuminated the orchard below.
“Phew. There you are.” I glanced over at Kira. She was standing, frozen, a few feet away. The sudden darkness must have spooked her a little too. “I was worried you’d disappeared,” I said, sort of half laughing. “Usually I’m the invisible one.”
Kira didn’t laugh back. She turned to face me. “You’ve said that a few times before. But you know, Isa, you’re not invisible to me. I always see you.”
A little lump formed in my throat. It was quite possibly the nicest thing anyone had said to me in a long time. “Thanks,” I mumbled, determined not to cry. “I, um, I see you too.”
A twig snapped and we both jumped. Something moved along the edge of the clearing, shaking the branches of one apple tree, and then another.
“Hello?” I called out. The seedling’s bark flared bright green and yellow, like a warning. The meadow grasses quivered. Another twig snapped. “It’s coming toward us,” I said.
“Maybe we should climb the tree? To get out of the way?” Kira whimpered, huddling against the trunk.
Suddenly the grass in front of us parted and a tiny head popped up. Not a fearsome beast or creepy creature. Just the scrappy little squirrel with the notched ear. His glassy black eyes blinked at us.
“Seriously?! We thought there might be a monster out there, and it was just you?” I wagged my finger in the squirrel’s direction. “Ugh! You scared us, you sneaky rascal!”
The squirrel stood up on his hind legs, aghast. Who, me?
Kira groaned. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, you start talking to a rat.”
“He’s not a rat. He’s a squirrel. And he’s partially responsible for this.” I turned around and gave the tree a little pat. “Remember the story I told you? Planting the old sneakers was his idea.”
The squirrel puffed up his chest proudly. It was impossible to stay angry at him; he was too cute.
“Did the music wake you up?” I asked, kneeling down.
The squirrel scratched his notched ear, then nodded his head. He pawed a few bells lying in the grass, sniffing around for something to nibble.
“Sorry, no nuts today.” The squirrel looked up, disappointed. A moment later, he turned and dashed away through the orchard, snapping twigs and rustling leaves as he went.
“Um, okay. Nice to see you too,” I called after him. “Jeez. I didn’t even get to say thanks.”
“For what?” Kira balked. “Scaring us silly?”
“No. For helping me believe in . . . you know . . .”
“You mean magic?” Kira said, using the word with ease.
I eyed the glittering harvest scattered in the grass. It had taken me a while to warm up to the idea, but now I embraced it. “Exactly.” I reached down to grab one of the bells. It shriveled and disintegrated. Only pale, silver dust remained. Kira gasped.
“This happened before, with the shoes,” I said. All around us, bells were starting to disappear. I tied up my bag so no others would fall out. It jangled nicely. “I think we have plenty. We don’t really need thousands of bells anyway.”
“You’re probably right.” Kira looked into her own bag. She retrieved a round copper bell as big as a softball. “Come to think of it, what are we going to do with the ones we have?” She took a few steps backward, then tossed the bell in my direction. It soared through the air with a tinkling whistle.
I caught it, then lobbed it back.
“You’ve got a good arm,” she said, making the catch.
“Thanks. You too.” I suddenly felt uneasy. I hadn’t guessed her softball position before, and we hadn’t had practice togeth
er since then. There was a chance we might be in direct competition for the opening game. “Kira, are you a pitcher too?”
“No way! Are you crazy?” she bellowed. “I could never stand up there on the mound like you. Everyone watching me. Way too stressful. Pitching requires serious focus. Plus bravery. And consistency. Not to mention talent. And strength. Mental and physical. And . . .”
“Wow. Thanks for that boost of confidence.” If I was going to be our team’s starting pitcher, I was going to need a lot more practice.
“I’m the catcher, silly,” Kira said.
“Oh! That’s awesome.” I remembered Dad’s lecture from earlier that evening. Pitchers and catchers needed to work together. Kira and I could do that. I took a few steps back and threw a curveball, or curvebell, in this case.
To my dismay, the bell turned the wrong way, rising upward. It vanished into the tree’s underbelly. I thought it was lost for good. Then the canopy made some crinkly, crunchy sounds, and the bell, chiming softly, sailed back down, directly into Kira’s open palm. “Huh?”
“Was that you, or the tree?” I asked.
“I think it was a little of both. Let’s try again.” She pitched the bell straight up. For a split second, I was worried it might break the tree’s crystal leaves, but the branches quickly shifted and stretched. In the moonlight, it was hard to tell exactly what was happening, but it looked as if a cluster of leaves cupped the bell, then released it back down toward me. I caught it.
“Nice throw,” I said, staring up.
“Just when I thought we reached peak weirdness talking to a squirrel and harvesting bells in the middle of the night, we start playing catch with a tree!” Kira said gleefully.
“Hey, anything is possible.”
The tree pulsed with color, showing us that it agreed.
“That gives me an idea,” Kira said. “Let’s make up some pitching hand signals. If we’re paired together during practice, we’ll have an edge.”
The Magic of Melwick Orchard Page 13
