My Mixed-Up Berry Blue Summer Page 3

  “Anyway, I’ll jump someday.” I shot Tina a grateful glance.

  “I’m going out to help Dad.” Sam bonked Tina on the head. “Tag, you’re it, for Tim duty.”

  Tina sliced up two pieces of strawberry pie, then washed Tim’s hands and face. “You go and play,” she said to him. “I’ll find you in a minute.”

  We took a long swig of lemonade and came up for air at the same time, which made us giggle.

  “You’re lucky you don’t have brothers,” she said. “Summer is more work than school.”

  “I made six dozen cookies last week.” I wanted to make peace. “But it sure beats listening to grownups lose it.”

  “Yeah, my parents have been acting a little weird lately, too.”

  Truce, maybe.

  Tina balanced a bite on her fork. “Where did you see Sam?”

  “Promise not to tell?”

  She nodded.

  “Luke and I found a great new spot with wild blueberries. They’re not ripe yet, but I’m going back in a week,” I said. “The berries are right on the edge of a cliff, along the trail up from the old camp. It’s a cliff-jumping spot. When we were there, Sam and some other guys came.”

  “Did they all jump?”

  I nodded.

  “I’d never do that—I’m too afraid of heights,” she said.

  “Me, too.” But remembering the cliff’s edge didn’t make me stiffen as much as remembering the hateful words her brother had said. I couldn’t tell Tina, not now that everything seemed regular between us again. I ate another mouthful.

  “What do you think?” Tina asked, her lips red with berry juice.

  “It’s great, as usual,” I said. The crust was the best—flaky and rich, and it held together nicely because of their homemade butter. “I may have to ask for some of your butter.”

  “I was talking about my lips!” she said, making a kissing face.

  I grinned and smeared some strawberry filling on mine.

  “Beautiful, dahling,” she said.

  When it was time to go, I waved to Tina, feeling lighter than I had in a long time. I pushed my kickstand up and strapped on my helmet. A light rain had started. Just as I turned the farm stand corner, I heard Mr. Costa say, “Yeah, we’re going to take it back.”

  I couldn’t see who he was talking to, and I didn’t turn around. My insides just congealed a little, like a pie left out overnight.

  Chapter Five

  WHEN EVERYTHING GETS muddled up inside my head, there’s nothing better than making pies. Mom came back from her evening sail and set me up with flour, butter, and the big bowls. The strawberries were sliced and ready to go. Rhubarb stalks were washed and stacked next to a bowl of peaches.

  “What’s it going to be, pie maker?” Eva said, putting away the last dinner plate.

  I washed my hands, my back to her. “Maybe strawberry- peach or peach-rhubarb.”

  “Whatever kind you make will be perfect,” Eva said.

  I turned to Mom, annoyed. “How many should I make?” I dipped my hands in the flour.

  Eva went into the office, and Mom looked uncomfortable. “As many as you feel like,” she said. “I’ll do more later. We’ll be doing the accounting, OK?”

  I began to fill the measuring cup, but Mom lingered, watching me. I was sorry she wouldn’t be helping. I had made my first pie when I was six with leftover dough scraps she had given me. I used to pat the dough down, sprinkle it with cinnamon sugar, and Mom baked it for a snack. But that time, I had shaped the dough into a cup like a tart and begged for a few apples for filling.

  “No worries, right, June bug?” Mom asked.

  I smiled. She hadn’t called me June bug in a long time.

  “I know things are hard right now,” she said. “Everything OK with Tina?”

  I nodded. I didn’t say anything about Mr. Costa.

  “Change is hard sometimes, but good, too,” she added. “Eva’s just excited, hoping the rest of the world understands us.”

  “What if Vermont is not ready?” I asked. Or me, I thought. But I felt a little bad for ignoring Eva again.

  “Don’t worry about it. You just do what you do best.” She ruffled my hair. “Making pies.”

  I dumped in eight cups of flour to start a quadruple recipe of pie crust: two cups flour, thirteen tablespoons of butter, a teaspoon salt, and a quarter cup water times four. Once I had guessed the measurements, but I had learned to do it precisely to avoid sticky or dry crust.

  I clicked the knives against each other, cutting the butter into the flour. Pie making can be good thinking time. Right now I didn’t know what to think except that I wasn’t interested in change, not the Eva kind.

  I worked the dough with my hands, stealing a smidge of salty, flour-coated butter. Finally the dough held together, and I formed four balls.

  “Knock, knock,” Luke said through the screen.

  “Want to make pies?” I waved my floured hands.

  “Why not? My dad’s not needing me.”

  I handed Luke a rolling pin and we began rolling dough under wax paper.

  “I went to the Costas’ today,” I said.

  “And . . .”

  “Well, Mrs. Costa’s real butter makes a difference in her crust.”

  “Not surprising,” he said. “What else?”

  “Moonbeam practically glows, Tina keeps him so clean,” I said. “She’s entering him in the fair.”

  “Any trouble?” Luke swung the rolling pin like a bat.

  I pretended he was scaring me. “No.”

  Then I was quiet for a minute and told him what I had heard Mr. Costa say. “They seemed friendly like always,” I said. “I just can’t see them being nice and then hating Mom and Eva inside.”

  Luke began working on the next ball of dough. “We saw a lot of those ‘Take Back Vermont’ signs in Burlington. It could have been anyone.”

  “A lot?”

  “We also saw some ‘Keep It Civil’ signs.”

  “I just want the whole thing to disappear.” I pressed the crusts into the pie plates and began measuring the sugar and the flour for the fruit. This is the part that takes talent. I tasted the strawberries. They were sweet but a little tart. The rhubarb is always sour, so I added a little more sugar. Lemon never hurts either.

  As soon as the sugar and flour were mixed in, the juices started flowing. I scooped the fruit into the shells and licked my fingers.

  Luke smeared his whole palm in the bowl and began licking his hand. “Got anything else to eat around here?”

  “Is that you, Luke?” Mom called from the office. “Did your dad forget about dinner again? I was thinking you guys might like the leftover sandwiches from the shop. We didn’t sell too many today.”

  “We’d love ’em,” he said.

  “I’m almost done.” I sealed one of the pies with my two fingers and thumb. I fluted the edges of the last ones and placed them in the oven.

  Outside, the evening was warm. A breeze kept most of the mosquitoes away.

  “Race you to the shop,” I said. Luke took off and passed me in a second. It felt good, flying through the darkness toward the shop’s light.

  Inside, we found five sandwiches. “That means Mom sold only about ten sandwiches today,” I said, surprised. There were even cookies left over, so I grabbed one.

  “More for me!” He scooped the sandwiches into his arms.

  We sat on the dock, looking out at the lake. The sky was turning pink and purple as the sun set. It gave the trees a warm hue, setting Luke’s island aglow. Luke unwrapped a ham and cheese, and I thought about him not eating dinner with Joe. I guess if a sculpture idea grabs you, you don’t remember dinner. If I had a dad, I’d make him come and eat with me.

  “Sometimes,” I said, taking a bite of a cookie, “I wonder if I eat like my father.”

  Luke looked at me chewing. “You mean like a pig?”

  I punched Luke in the leg. “No, like if he chews fast or takes a drink betwee
n every bite, that kind of thing.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  I looked at him. Luke’s mother probably ate French cuisine every night at the Quebec hotel she managed. “Do you think my father likes pie?” I persisted.

  “Everybody likes pie,” he said. “Especially yours.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know if he’s ever eaten one,” I said, feeling sorry for myself. All I knew—all Mom knew—was my father was a New Yorker and a sperm donor. I kicked the water.

  Luke’s hand covered mine then, on the dock. I felt a flush of heat, like last time by the cliff. I’m on your side, his hand told me.

  Maybe I was imagining things. Next thing I knew, he was pulling me into the lake.

  “Hey!” I said, whipping my wet hair out of my eyes. I splashed him, and he splashed back until we both had to duck under.

  The lake was black, like a cool coat around me. I wasn’t afraid of the dark bottom, and I relaxed in the water’s quiet embrace.

  When I came up for air, Luke was by the dock. A low gong had sounded across the lake. Joe must have finished for the night.

  “Gotta go.” Luke put the rest of the sandwiches in the dinghy, and I untied the boat for him.

  I watched him row. Luke and I, we were in the same boat with these missing parents. I headed back up to the house.

  “I just don’t think getting married right after the law passes is such a good idea.” Mom’s voice pierced the night. Instantly, I sank below the open kitchen window, against the side of the house.

  “Why not? We should celebrate our relationship.” Eva’s voice rose. “It’s the right thing to do. And there’s June to consider.”

  “That’s who I’m thinking of,” Mom said. “Someone has already threatened to take her away.”

  My breathing sharpened. Every muscle stilled.

  “You’re exaggerating.” Eva sounded exasperated. “The note said ‘shouldn’t have children,’ not—”

  “That’s where it starts . . .”

  “All the more reason to make it legal, then, to make her our child,” Eva said.

  “June does not need us to draw attention to our relationship right now,” Mom said.

  “You sound ashamed of us—”

  “Ashamed!?” Mom’s voice was tight with anger. “Eva, I’m being practical, realistic! By getting married in a civil ceremony, June could be teased or worse by her classmates. Just like last spring at the game.”

  “She went to Tina’s today. They’ll be friends again in no time.”

  “That’s just one friend,” Mom said. “And what about the business? We’ve already lost customers. Let’s let this blow over.”

  “Why? Getting married now won’t change anything—it’ll still be a ‘lesbian shop.’”

  “Maybe it’s OK in your Burlington job, but not here!” Every word Mom spoke came out hard. “These are my neighbors. I will not hide, but I don’t need to parade my politics in front of them.”

  It was silent then in the kitchen, and I pressed my eyes closed. Could someone really take me away from my mom? Could it be true that not as many people wanted our sandwiches and cookies and pies because Eva had moved in? And as much as that scared me, the silence in the kitchen scared me more. I’d never heard Mom and Eva fight before. I began shivering.

  And then an unmistakable smell filled my nostrils.

  “The pies are burning!” Mom shouted. “June!”

  I rushed in the kitchen, but it was too late.

  “How could you forget them?” Mom pulled the four scorched pies from the oven. The fire alarm screamed, and Eva reached up to take the battery out.

  “You even forgot to cover the edges. These are useless.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I couldn’t remember the last time I had made a mistake.

  “June, I don’t want you to enter the fair,” Mom said decisively.

  I stared at her. “I won’t burn them again, I promise.”

  “It’s just not a good time, June, for you to be—”

  “You said I was ready.” I looked at Mom in disbelief.

  “Let’s talk about it another day,” Eva said, resting her hands on Mom’s shoulders. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Mom shrugged Eva’s hands away. “Not me—I’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re going to have any sweets to sell in the shop tomorrow.”

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “Not tonight, honey.”

  Up in my loft, I pulled the covers over my head. And even though the kitchen was not far, it felt like the space between us had expanded. Mom wanted to be alone, and that scared me.

  Chapter Six

  THE SMELL OF burned pie seemed to linger for days. No breeze kicked off from the lake to blow things over, and the water lay as flat as I felt. I mean, who cared if I wasn’t registered for the fair; maybe I wasn’t the best pie maker. I was absolutely becalmed, and no one seemed to notice.

  Everything was fine before Eva. I pulled my blanket tight around me and stared out at the water. How could she accuse Mom of being ashamed? No one would take me away from here, away from Mom. We were Vermonters, not Eva. She was barging into our lives, pushing her politics. If only she hadn’t said anything at that softball game, then Lauren’s mom wouldn’t have yelled, “Don’t talk to my kid—stay out of our lives, stay out of our bedroom!” I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the angry words out of my mind. I didn’t like hearing the argument last night, either. A tiny hope flourished that maybe Eva would leave, but I immediately felt guilty for wishing it.

  When I opened my eyes again, it had started to rain. I watched the widening circles each raindrop made on the lake, overlapping and dimpling the surface. Everything was gray but also refreshed. Maybe the rain would wash away the smell of burned pies.

  But it wouldn’t change one thing. I stood on my chair and pulled down a cardboard box from the top of my closet. Its edges were worn and the flaps were permanently creased. It was easy to open. I did it gently, as I had many many times. I picked up the card first, with pink and purple balloons and the words Happy Birthday in block, little-kid letters.

  Dear June, welcome, my daughter. I am writing this on your Birth Day to tell you that I wanted you—I chose to have you on my own because I have so much love to give you. I love you, your mother.

  I fingered the hospital bracelet, the tiny footprint on the paper with the pink bow. She told me that she wrote the card right after I had my first feeding. When I was little, I asked Mom to go over everything in the box, every night.

  I pulled out It’s so Amazing! and flipped through the pages of cartoons describing eggs and sperms. I used to look at it alone, reviewing the ways families are made. It was the only book that talked about the way I was born. The other book in the box was Heather Has Two Mommies. I used to ask Mom to read it over and over. She had been trying to explain that she wanted one of the “special friends” she went out with to have a more permanent part in her life. Now it meant only one thing: I would never have a father.

  I opened the brown envelope. Margaret Jane Farrell was written at the top of a faded copy of a long form. Age: 39. Reason for admittance: donor insemination. And then, the information about the sperm donor Number 58362. Birthplace: New York, New York. Education: Columbia University. Age: 26. No known diseases.

  I looked out the window as the rain gathered on the glass. Somewhere, a man was taking subways in New York, going to work. I imagined him wearing glasses, his dark head bent over newspapers. His ears must be small like mine, because Mom’s were different. Maybe he was married. Maybe I had brothers or sisters out there.

  Mom had wanted a family. And so my mother had chosen him, and me. And now she had chosen Eva. Or had she changed her mind?

  I turned on my flashlight, placing a green lens over it. I looked through the binoculars to Luke’s house. No light yet. I shifted my view to the marina shop. Mom was already there. Downstairs, I heard shuffling and clinking cups. I waited until a door opened and closed.
A car started up. Eva was going to work.

  I sighed. I probably needed to help Mom at the shop today. But maybe Luke was around. I put on my bathing suit, grabbed a banana, and headed down to the lake.

  ***

  PADDLING IN THE rain is different. I checked the sky: light gray, soft rain. Good, that meant lightning was unlikely. I lifted my face and let the rain mat my hair to my forehead. Bathing suits are perfect for rainy days. My paddle sliced the water, swirling eddies behind the canoe. The rhythm of each stroke was a familiar song.

  I tied up my boat to Luke’s dock and walked toward the sculpture on shore. Until you got used to it, the large eye tangled in wavy metal rods was unnerving. But I liked Joe’s art. It looked like the eye of the sun watching the horizon line, peeking through skinny trees.

  “Hello!” I called.

  “Over here!”

  The studio, of course. Joe was standing in the open door of the garage he had built on the island. It was funny to see a garage on an island with no cars or roads, but of course the inside was not for a car: it was full of large and small bits of metal and machinery. When Joe was in the middle of something, sparks would be flying and you had to stand back. But sometimes you’d find him at the butcher-block kitchen counter, drawing sketches of what he was imagining next. Those moments were the ones I liked, when Luke and I would sit around, listening to him philosophize.

  Today he was leaning an eight-foot sculpture toward him while Luke walked around it with bubble wrap.

  “Sold something?”

  “Just taking a few pieces to the gallery.” Joe pointed to the base of the sculpture. “Luke, make sure you get some around the feet.”

  The metal spikes ended in waves and right angles at the top. It looked like lake weed that had been run over by a motorboat. “What’s this one called?”

  “Pathfinder.”

  Luke grinned. “I wanted to name it Twisted Sister.”

  “That makes you Crazy Brother.” I dodged Luke’s poke. “Can you swim today?”

  “Luke has to help unload in Burlington.” Joe turned to me. “Do you want to come?”