I felt a faint electric pulse. Once, twice, three times. Then it faded away. As quickly as it had appeared, the chance seedling disappeared. I choked back a sob.
The apple trees swayed in the breeze, as if to say, There, there. Don’t be sad. I looked around at their flowering branches. My beloved seedling was gone, but the orchard was full of new life. I touched the ground once more. My heart squeezed, not so much from pain but from gratitude.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“What are you doing?” Dad asked.
“Looking for magic,” I answered, knowing it would sound crazy.
“Sweetheart, there’s magic all around.” The apple trees rustled in agreement.
We walked across the clearing toward the swing that he had built months ago. I sat down and he started to push me. I soared, Junie-to-the-moonie high. I had a pretty nice view from up there. Not quite a bird’s-eye view. More like a squirrel’s-eye view.
“Isabel, if all these blossoms yield fruit . . .” Dad started to calculate the numbers in his head. “We’ll have a record harvest.”
“The Melwick apples are pretty famous. I bet folks would come by the busload just to taste one.”
“You’re right. Imagine that!” A boyish, hiccupping chuckle. “We could make a fortune.” Dad slowed the swing to a stop. He came around to face me, kneeling down so our eyes matched up perfectly.
“As long as we don’t get too greedy,” I warned. “An orchard like this needs a lot of attention.”
“You’re right,” he said solemnly. “If we take care of these trees, they might just take care of us.”
I didn’t say it, but I already knew that.
“Does this mean we can stay?” I asked.
He studied the orchard. Bewildering. Beautiful. And now bountiful. “It does.” He laughed. He scooped me up and twirled me around. “Let’s go tell your mother the good news!”
On our way back home, I filled my softball glove with apple blossoms.
“Nel! Call the bank! Cancel the meeting,” Dad hollered from the front porch. “We’re not selling the house! Come outside. You won’t believe it!”
Dad swept Mom off her feet as soon as she opened the door, catching her in an embrace full of contagious, bubbly hope. He was talking a mile a minute, almost as fast as Kira. Mom shook her head in disbelief. I tossed the flowers into the air, like confetti. They both wrapped their arms around me. A family knot, tied up tight. Together. Only one thread was still missing: Junie.
Chapter 36
Four months, six days, five hours, and nineteen minutes after Dad and I discovered the apple trees blossoming, another miracle happened: Junie turned seven years old.
On the day of her birthday party, Mom was busy in the kitchen, humming as she whipped up cupcakes by the dozen. The recipe was a hit at Muriel’s bakery, where Mom had taken a job as head pastry chef, thanks to a little help from me.
Dad came in from the orchard with a bouquet of wildflowers. His crooked ties and stiff suits were long gone. Now he could wear his flannel shirts and grass-stained jeans every day. A few leaves and twigs were stuck in his hair. Mom plucked them out, grooming him lovingly like a gorilla at the zoo. He leaned in and tried to steal a smooch and a swipe of frosting from the bowl on the counter. Mom swatted him with her spatula, then smiled, planting a kiss square on his lips.
I filled the old tin can with water and placed the wildflowers inside. It had been empty for a while, but not because we didn’t have lunch money to put inside. Once our land bloomed with the promise of profits, the bank was suddenly more than happy to give us a loan. Most of the money went toward Junie’s medical bills, but we still had some left over. And judging by the bushels of apples ripening on the trees each day, we wouldn’t have any problems paying it back in the fall.
Now the tin can made a perfect vase to display the orchard’s finest flowers, of which there were many. In fact, as part of our science project, Kira and I had decided to catalog some of the more unusual plants on the Melwick land. We didn’t mention the chance seedling in our report, but we did discover seventeen different varieties of wildflowers, some of which were extremely rare.
“Where would you like these, darlin’?” Reggie asked, picking up a tray of crustless sandwiches. The bones had already been delivered to the ducks by Kira and me that morning, on our way to a pickup ballgame with the kids on Drabbington Avenue. The weekend games were a great way to keep our skills sharp over the summer, and make some new friends in the process. Even though our school softball team hadn’t advanced to the playoffs, I still considered the season a success. Mom and Dad made it to most of my games, even the opener, where they cheered extra loud as I stepped up to the mound and threw the very first pitch (a window-breaker, of course).
“Sandwiches go on the buffet. Thanks, Reg,” Mom said.
When Dad realized he needed help tending the orchard, Reggie had been the first to apply, and I gladly gave him a glowing reference.
“Did you girls get the balloons?” Mom asked.
“Yes!” Kira and I called in unison. She pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, then tied brightly colored streamers to seven giant helium balloons. I spread a roll of parchment paper borrowed from the bakery across the floor and began painting a birthday banner. I attached the paper doll named NED, who now sported a funky purple mohawk and a matching purple tutu.
Ms. Perdilla and Coach Naron set the dining room table with plates and napkins printed with happy green frogs. Junie had had a change of heart about unfittians, and seemed particularly sympathetic lately to all things in-between. Edith turned some knobs on the radio, filling the room with music. Dr. Ebbens danced to the beat. Muriel sprinkled powdered sugar, white as her hair, over a tray of special-occasion sticky buns. Even our neighbor, Mrs. Tolson, joined us, carrying a platter of deviled eggs.
“Did you find a pin?” Dad asked me.
“Not yet.” The original wishing pin was long gone, but as soon as I finished painting my banner, I’d turn the entire house upside down to find something sharp enough to do the balloon-popping honors.
“We don’t need one,” someone said.
I recognized that voice in an instant. “Junie!” I dropped my paintbrush. I raced to the door and caught her in a squg.
Mom peered out from the kitchen. “Surprise!”
Everyone cheered.
“Come meet my aunt and uncle,” I said to Kira. Uncle Lewis and Aunt Sheila had come to town for a weeklong visit and had agreed to take Junie to her gymnastics lesson that morning so we could get the party ready. I hugged them and introduced Kira like she was part of our family.
“The birthday girl has arrived!” Dad said, picking Junie up. She was still pint-size and bony, but her cheeks were slowly returning to their former state of pinchable pudginess. Her hair had started to grow back spikey and wild, which made her look like a blonde hedgehog. She was awful cute. I loved her something fierce.
No matter how hard I’d wished, my tree couldn’t cure Junie. Thankfully, medicine could. Daily doses of love and an occasional story about magic helped too. Day by day, Junie got stronger. She came home in June, which seemed fitting. There was a lot of flusterating waiting along the way, and we knew that she would need continual checkups to make sure blast-o-ramas like Willie, Pablo, and Henry never came back. But according to the doctors and nurses, Junie could finally be called NED.
The doorbell rang. Gregory and James entered and waved. Gregory was still undergoing chemo, but he was well enough to come home between treatments. “The full orchestra couldn’t make it today, but I think these will do for a birthday serenade.” He jingled a handful of shiny bells. “They make the most amazing sound. Ever since someone donated them, our orchestra has gotten so much better. We’re a total hit.”
I winked at Kira and she winked back.
“Now that the guest of honor is here, I think we should get started. Everyone help yourself to food. Junie, look! Muriel and I made your favor
ite cupcakes. Have as many as you like.”
Before Junie could stuff her face with treats, Dad helped me carry a large present over to her. We set it down carefully. “Open it!” I said, clapping with excitement.
Her eyes were wide as she peeled back the wrapping paper. Dad and I had finally finished building the dollhouse, and it looked pretty darn good if you asked me.
Junie agreed. “A home of my very own. Thank you! Thank you!” she sang.
“Oh! One more thing. Isa, did you find that pin?” Mom asked.
“I told you, we don’t need it,” Junie said. “I used to pop balloons to make wishes,” she explained to Gregory. “But not anymore.”
“Why?” he asked.
She turned to look at me. “Because I got my wish.”
We all had.
For the first time in a really, really long time, everything felt perfecterrific.
***
After the party, Junie, Kira, and I went outside to explore. The three of us wove through the trees, braiding the orchard with ribbons of laughter. Apples grew on every bough. Soon they would ripen and turn red, and we’d have a bumper crop. My mouth watered imagining taking a bite of my very first Melwick apple.
We played in the clearing, showing Junie for the millionth time where the chance seedling had stood. It was hard to believe that it had ever been real.
I watched my little sister’s healthy grin as Kira pushed her on the swing. I knew Ms. Perdilla had been right: there were many unexplainable things in this world, like mysteries and miracles. Anything was possible, after all.
When we felt tired, we rested in the grass together, not minding the crickets and ants trekking across our bare shins or the sun beating down on our cheeks and noses. We were just happy to be.
***
As the sun waned in the sky, we heard the tinkling music of a bell echoing over the rolling hills. Mom had found the large copper bell in my backpack one day and often rang it like a dinner bell to call us in from the fields because its song could travel much farther than her voice.
“Let’s go!” Junie leapt up. The prospect of another round of birthday cupcakes had her running as fast as her skinny legs could carry her.
“You coming?” Kira asked.
“Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”
The wildflowers whispered. The crickets chirped. The grasses rippled. I crossed the clearing. I knelt and touched the ground, remembering the seedling. Missing it deeply. My fingers grazed something hard and round in the grass. A small unripe apple, perhaps. Probably knocked off its branch by a deer or a strong gust of wind. I picked it up.
It wasn’t an apple at all. It was an acorn. Smack dab in the middle of the clearing. My heart sped up. I turned the acorn over in my palm. A cloud passed overhead. When the sun broke through again, I could’ve sworn that tiny acorn shimmered with just the faintest hint of blue. My fingers tingled as I slipped it into my pocket. For safekeeping.
The apple trees swished. A twig snapped. “Just another minute,” I said, hearing the sound and thinking Kira was still there, waiting for me on the edge of the orchard.
I looked up. Kira was gone.
All I could see was a bushy tail disappearing through the trees.
Acknowledgments
Like a magical tree, this story grew in unexpected and wonderful ways. I extend heartfelt thanks:
To my parents, after whom the Melwick Orchard is lovingly named, for teaching me that anything is possible. I’m so grateful that you made books such an important part of my childhood, and that you continue to squeeze my hand in sets of three. To Robert, for being my favorite fiend and showing me how much love siblings can share. To the cousin club, for giving the best squgs. To my family and friends, near and far, for all of your encouragement and support–grazie mille!
To my agent, Christa Heschke, and the team at McIntosh & Otis, for spotting this manuscript in the slush pile, nurturing it, and making sure it found the right publishing home. To Laura Diehl, for creating cover art that perfectly captures the mood and whimsy of this story. To everyone at Carolrhoda Books and Lerner Publishing Group, particularly my incredible editor, Alix Reid, for your enthusiasm, patience, and reminding me to have fun during the revision process. This book is one hundred percent more awesomesauce thanks to your guidance. To Amy Fitzgerald, Kayla Hechsel, Libby Stille, and Lindsay Matvick, for helping to usher this book into the world.
To all of the marvelous teachers and librarians who pushed me to see and think and create in new ways. To my friends and colleagues at Cornell University, the University of Calgary, and Studio G Architects for cheering me on as I shifted course from a career designing buildings to writing books.
To Christy Griffith, Krissy Dietrich Gallagher, Francesca Agostini, and their families, for bravely sharing their stories, along with Dana-Farber, Boston Children’s Hospital, St. Jude, and Johns Hopkins for providing answers to my medical questions. In some instances, I took artistic liberties to aid the story’s plot; any inaccuracies are my own.
To the orchards of New England, where I gladly tasted apples (and far too many cider donuts) in the name of research. Peter Wohlleben’s book, The Hidden Life of Trees, was a fascinating resource, as was Michael Phillips’s The Apple Grower.
To the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators for teaching me the ins and outs of publishing, and for welcoming me into such a vibrant and supportive community of writers, readers, and book-loving superheroes. To the Big Sur Writing Workshop, where the first chapter of this book was born, and the Writers’ Loft where I continue to learn.
To the Lucky 13s: Austin Gilkeson, Jessica Rubinkowski, Julie C. Dao, Heather Kaczynski, Mara Fitzgerald, Kevin van Whye, and Jordan Villegas, for keeping me sane during the submission roller coaster, with extra special gratitude to Kati Gardner for such thorough and thoughtful notes. High fives to my fellow Electric Eighteens—I am thrilled and honored to join you on this debut author journey.
To Sally Hinkley, Sarah S. Brannen, Craig Bouchard, Susan Link, and all the Mixed Bag critique group members for your feedback on the earliest draft, and to Jenny Bagdigian, Stephen Anderson, Carol Gordon Ekster, Joy Wieder, Brian Schmidt, and Margaret Bridges, for your ongoing help with each new project.
To Rainbow Children Home in Pokhara, Nepal, for changing the direction of my life.
To my sweet Joys—you live up to your names each day. I began writing a story of sisterhood before I ever knew I’d have little girls of my own. Watching you grow is sheer magic. I love you a bushel and a peck!
Last, but certainly not least, to Stefano, most perfecterrific husband and father, for your steadfast love and support, your sense of adventure, and your delicious cooking. Thank you for never letting me give up on this dream, even when I doubted myself. Ti amo. Per sempre tuo.
About the Author
Rebecca Caprara grew up in a small New England town surrounded by apple orchards. She graduated from Cornell University and practiced architecture for several years, before shifting her focus from bricks to books. An avid globetrotter, she has traveled to over fifty countries, and has lived in Italy, Singapore, and Canada. She is now growing roots in Massachusetts with her family.
The Magic of Melwick Orchard Page 23
