My Mixed-Up Berry Blue Summer Page 8

  “There isn’t any age restriction on the pie competition,” Ms. Banks said.

  “And she won on the merit of her pie,” Mrs. Costa said.

  The three judges looked at one another again, and back at the rule book. They all nodded. The first judge took up the microphone again. “Then it’s decided. First place goes to June Farrell!”

  The noise in the hall almost knocked me over. I just stood there, grinning and grinning. I held up my blue ribbon for Mom and Eva to see.

  As soon as I stepped off the stage, Luke, Tina, and my moms crowded around me.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Mom asked.

  “I needed a parent signature,” I said. “And you had said I couldn’t enter.”

  “She was resourceful, MJ, you have to admit,” Eva said. “We’re so proud of you, June.”

  The judge and a reporter came up, then.

  “Let me shake the hand of a champion pie maker,” the judge said. “I just didn’t expect someone so young.”

  “How old are you?” the reporter asked. “I’m with the Free Press, and we want to do a story on the winner.”

  “Twelve,” I said.

  “Is this what you’d expect from a kid?” the reporter asked the judge.

  “It’s surprising, but it clearly had winning taste.”

  “You can taste June’s pies anytime at Stillwater Marina,” Mom said. “June’s been helping me since she was a little girl.”

  I remembered my manners then. “This is my mom, MJ Farrell.” I took a deep breath. “And this is my almost stepmom, Eva Lewis.”

  There was no hesitation, no break in the judge’s smile. I’m sure, because I was watching, waiting for a flick of disapproval. It didn’t happen.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet both of you,” she said.

  “This is going to be a great story!” the reporter said.

  “Um,” Eva said, “I’m not sure if everything about June needs to go in the paper.”

  “Yes, it does,” I said, remembering Ms. Flynn’s words. “They’re even getting married next week.”

  “Congratulations,” the judge said as the reporter started scribbling.

  Mom put her arms around me.

  For the first time I began to believe that maybe there were fewer Mr. Costas in Vermont and more people like the judge and Ms. Flynn.

  Chapter Fifteen

  FOR DAYS, I woke up dreaming of blue—blue ribbon, blueberries, blue lake, blue dress. The ribbon was still on my desk where I could see it each morning. It was right next to the newspaper clipping that said “12-year-old Wins Pie Competition.” Almost exactly the way I had imagined.

  Blueberry season was over, but the day I had to wear my blueberry dress was nearing. The wedding. Saying out loud that I had two moms to the reporter—just matter-of-factly, that’s the way it is—had felt good. And it had been easier than I thought. But I was still uneasy about the ceremony. What if something went wrong?

  August third arrived, hot and muggy. All the guests are going to want to swim, I thought as I put on my bathing suit. I looked out the window and snapped on the weather radio. “Northwest wind today, ten to fifteen knots, water temperature sixty-six degrees.”

  A good swimming day. I checked Luke’s signal; it was red. And I could see him rowing over. Trouble? Could he have seen another sign by the marina?

  “Where are you going, June? We have to be ready by ten for the wedding!” Mom called as I ran down to the dock.

  “It’s important,” I yelled. “I’ll be right back!”

  I grabbed his line, secured it, and held the edge of the boat steady. My face must have looked worried.

  Luke grinned. “It’s a swimming emergency. Let’s go before we have to get dressed up!”

  I sat down on the dock. It wasn’t funny. “Red should be for real emergencies.”

  Luke looked at me sideways. “What’s wrong?”

  “Today’s a big deal,” I said. “What if I mess up—drop my bouquet or trip? What if Mom is marrying the wrong person?”

  We splashed our feet in the water.

  Making a family was hard. I remembered leaving Eva out in the canoe, and the time she and Mom had yelled in the kitchen. And I remembered her holding on to the motorboat with Luke at the helm.

  “I know!” Luke jumped up.

  “What?”

  Luke didn’t answer; he took off across the meadow and into the woods. Running behind him, I knew where he was going. And he was right; it was time. If I was going to have the courage to be the maid of honor at my mom’s wedding, I had to repeat my performance at the cliff’s edge.

  I hadn’t been back since the accident. After the fair, Mom and I had been so busy at Stillwater Marina. The article about me and my prize-winning pie—and where you could buy more like it—had been better than any plan we could have created to fight the flyer made by the Take Back Vermont people. It was like Ms. Flynn’s advice: It’s better to speak up so you don’t miss the chance to experience other people at their best.

  The mosquitoes found Luke and me soon after we entered the woods. We walked quietly, without speaking. I worried: Was I brave enough to jump again?

  “Here’s where the champion blueberries were,” I said.

  “And here’s the ledge,” Luke said. “I still can’t believe you did it.”

  “I had to.” I remembered again the rain, the cold, the fear.

  “Ready? I’ll go first.”

  Luke draped his shirt across a cedar branch. From the ledge, he looked up at me.

  “It’s easier if you think of a word that you want to yell, something that you’ve always wanted to shout at the top of your lungs,” Luke said.

  “Like what?”

  “Turkey sandwich!” he said. “Or peanut butter bananas!”

  I grinned.

  Luke moved to the edge. “Twisted Sister!” he hollered, and threw himself off.

  I held my breath—I couldn’t help it. My palms were sweaty just watching him. In a moment, he was up, splashing and shouting, “C’mon!”

  “OK,” I said, but I didn’t feel ready. I stepped carefully down to the ledge, clinging to the side. Come on, June, I said to myself. You’ve already done this once. I looked across the lake then, to the hills beyond. In the distance, I saw Camel’s Hump, rising above the hills. Early explorers had called the mountain something in French, something that meant resting lion. I was like that, too, brave and at peace. I had stood up to bullies, I had won a pie contest, I had saved Tim. I could jump off the cliff.

  “Wild Berry Pie!” I shouted, and jumped.

  My heart was in my throat; the wind dried my sweat; then I hit. Bubbles exploded around me, and I pulled to the top.

  “Way to go!” Luke said as soon as I surfaced.

  “I didn’t get water up my nose this time!”

  He laughed, and I couldn’t stop grinning. My heart felt so full, like a life jacket keeping me afloat.

  “Race you to the cliff!”

  I swam through the deep water, just a few strokes behind Luke.

  ***

  LATER, AS I brushed my hair for the wedding—scratching my new mosquito bites—I savored that flight off the cliff. Before this summer, I couldn’t have done it.

  I twirled around, watching my blueberry dress billow. I studied my face, the face of a cliff jumper and champion pie maker. I was ready for anything—middle school and to be maid of honor at Mom and Eva’s wedding.

  I ran outside to the garden. White cloth-covered tables had been set up, and on each one was a vase of Queen Anne’s lace. Eva kept smoothing down edges. She looked nice in her wine-red dress and her hair glistening.

  “You can stop,” I said. “Everything’s perfect.”

  Eva laughed. “You’re getting to know me.” She smoothed her dress. “This is probably not a good time but—”

  I could tell she had something on her mind. “What?”

  “There’s no hurry to call me Stepmom. I’d like to earn the
right to be a mom to you, June.”

  I glanced at the lake. The wind was picking up, and low waves were crashing on our shore. If the lake could handle change, maybe I could.

  Mom floated over like a fairy in a lilac dress. “No worries, right?”

  “No worries,” I said.

  And it was true. Well, maybe I was nervous, but being the way we were seemed easier than hiding it.

  People started arriving right on time. I was surprised by how many came—my grandma from New York, people from the hospital, and some other business owners and friends from Burlington. You could tell Eva was sad about her dad not coming, yet she smiled big when Ruth arrived in a flowery hat. Ms. Flynn gave me a hug when she walked in. And, of course, Luke was there with Joe. They looked funny in their ties.

  “June.” Luke pointed to the gate. Tim was walking in. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t expected any Costas, but Tim, Tina, and Mrs. Costa were here. The yard felt extra sunny.

  “June!” Tim ran over for a hug. Tina waved and sat down with her mom.

  When the music started, I walked down the aisle alone, with my bouquet. I took slow steps, trying not to rush, like Mom had told me. I was glad when I saw Tina grinning at me. And then I stood next to the justice of the peace and watched Eva and Mom come down the aisle side by side.

  They were like a violet bloom together, all lilac and burgundy, walking with their arms linked. You’d think that two people about to get married would be trying to catch each other’s eyes, but I realized they were trying to catch mine. Mom was smiling at me, like always, with love and humor, but it was Eva’s serious smile that made a lump rise in my throat. These are my parents, I thought. This is my family.

  The justice of the peace spoke about the bold beauty of Vermont and the commitment of my two moms to each other, and to me. Mom and Eva exchanged new rings, really pretty ones with blue stones. They reminded me of wild blueberries and the lake, too, and I bet that was what Mom was thinking. And then Mom and Eva kissed.

  I looked for Luke. He was smiling at me, and suddenly I knew. I had felt it every time Luke had held my hand this summer. I turned back to my parents, holding the hope of love like a gift in my hands. And then it was over—and everyone cheered.

  “Congratulations,” Mrs. Costa said to Mom and Eva.

  “Thank you for coming,” Mom said, and I could tell she meant it.

  Luke and I stood in line for cake. Luke’s dad had given Mom and Eva a sculpture for the garden, and we stared at its entwining waves and circles.

  “I like it a lot,” I told Luke.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You know, my dad’s not so crazy to live with after all.”

  “Neither is Eva.”

  “I guess we’ll never know who put that ‘Take Back Vermont’ sign by the shop,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ms. Flynn said as she came up and gave me a hug. “I was so proud of you up there.”

  “It was almost like I was getting married,” I said.

  “Here’s our girl,” Mom said, putting her hands on my shoulder. “Our hero.”

  “Saving a kid and the shop.” Eva planted a kiss on me. “All in one summer.”

  “I just did what was right,” I said.

  “When did you grow up?” Mom whispered.

  It felt good.

  Tomorrow, I had a few things to add to my special box: Mom and Eva’s wedding announcement I had cut out of the newspaper, the article about my champion pie, and my blue ribbon.

  Wild Berry Pie

  PIE CRUST:

  13 Tbsps butter

  2 cups all-purpose f lour

  1 tsp salt

  ¼ cup water

  FILLING:

  2 cups blueberries

  1 cup strawberries, hulled and sliced

  1 cup black raspberries

  ¾ cup sugar

  ⅓ cup f lour

  ½ tsp cinnamon

  juice of half a lemon

  1 Tbsp butter

  TO MAKE THE CRUST:

  Cut butter into flour and salt until pieces are marble-size. Carefully add water, mixing until dough is moist but not wet (when the butter warms up, the dough gets soft). Divide into two balls. Roll one between two sheets of wax paper. Peel away one sheet and press dough into bottom of pie plate. Leave top wax paper on and put the second ball and pie plate in the refrigerator while mixing the filling (you don’t want the butter in the dough getting too warm).

  TO MAKE THE FILLING:

  Pour all the berries in a bowl. Mix sugar, flour, and cinnamon together in a measuring cup, then pour over fruit. Mix gently, add the lemon juice, and mix gently again.

  Take out the pie dish, remove the wax paper, and pour the filling into the pie crust. Dot with butter. Roll out top crust and cover the pie. Poke holes in the top. Then, using two fingers and one thumb, pinch a fluted edge to seal pie. Line edges with tin foil to reduce burning, but remove the tin foil in the last 10 minutes of baking.

  Bake at 425 degrees F for 35 to 40 minutes. Pie is ready when juice bubbles through the holes (so don’t go swimming and forget about your pie!).

  I’m so grateful to the people at Vermont College of Fine Arts, a magical place for book lovers and writers. A special thank-you to the WONTONS and Poetry Farmers for nurturing creativity and laughter during the mad early-parenting years. I’m also grateful to my agent, Alison Picard, for believing in the book, and my editor, Christine Krones, for loving it. And to John Schlag—thanks for everything.