A Million Miles from Boston Page 3

  Still, sometimes as I watched the older girls when we were at parties or while they went tubing in the bay, I liked to imagine that they’d ask me to hang out with them, a little-sister kind of thing. But they never paid much attention to me.

  I sighed and walked outside. I looked up as Bucky limped toward me, blood trickling down his leg.

  “I fell.” He bit his lip, trying not to cry. I leaned closer. “Don’t touch it!”

  Bucky got hurt a lot because he was reckless. Falling off his bike, jamming his finger on a baseball. “It’s not so bad. Let’s go find a Band-Aid.”

  I got the first aid kit from the closet. The past winter, at my babysitting certification course at the YMCA, I’d learned that you should wash a cut before putting on medicine and a bandage. But water would sting and Bucky might yell; people would think I couldn’t take care of him. The cut wasn’t bad. I smeared on ointment, then put on the bandage.

  “Thanks, Lucy.” He ran out the door, past a woman I’d never seen before.

  Mrs. Ramsey pointed to her and said, “Will you go see what she brought?”

  I walked up to the woman. She had long, perfect brown hair and wore a blue skirt and a stiff white shirt. Something about how tall she stood, head forward, mouth open, made me think she was so hungry she could eat everything in the room.

  “Hi,” I said. “Nice pie. I can take that for you.”

  She had rain clouds in her eyes. No—her eyes weren’t cloudy, but gray-green. She broke into a gigantic smile.

  “Aren’t you nice!” Her voice was high and excited as she handed me the pie. Then her smile faded. “I had to hold it all the way from Boston. Does it look okay?”

  “It looks great!”

  “Whew!” The pie had perfectly pinched edges. She probably knew all those mom things, what to do with walnut oil, where to shop for the right kind of underwear and how to make sure your newly pierced ears didn’t get infected.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Lucy Gallagher. We live on the east road.”

  “I know you! We’re neighbors back home. You go to school with my son.”

  My gaze followed her outstretched arm to the porch. Ian Richards stood on the steps, staring at the field, his hands jammed in the front pockets of his jeans.

  “We just moved in today,” she said. “Such a wonderful spot. We bought the Dorsey house on the west road. Ian! Come say hello to Lucy.”

  Ian? On porch. Bought Dorsey house. On my Pierson Point. Was this a joke?

  Ian’s wild blond hair was combed off his forehead and he wore a bright purple polo shirt. He raised his eyebrows at me and didn’t move.

  I felt my blood throb in my cheeks.

  Mrs. Richards sighed. “I understand there aren’t many boys up here.”

  No. No way will I hang out with Ian. Wait until I tell Mei!

  Mrs. Richards seemed so nice. How could she be Ian’s mom? And how had they found this place?

  Mrs. Ramsey walked up, took the pie and led Mrs. Richards away.

  “Lucy!” Bucky yelled. I walked down the porch steps, past Ian and onto the grass. Becca, Olivia and Bucky pushed Henry on the rope swing that hung from a tree next to the Big House.

  “Wanna play chase?” Becca called. She and Olivia would both be in my camp the next week.

  “After dinner.” Chase was a game I’d made up the year before, a combination of hide-and-seek and kick the can. Ian walked down the steps and stood near me.

  “Oh,” Becca whined. “Can’t we play now?”

  “No, later, I promise,” I said. Henry leaped off the swing and they ran away.

  I glanced at Ian, my heart pounding, my face hot. He looked at me, then dropped his eyes.

  “Who told you about this place?” I asked.

  Ian shrugged. “My dad grew up in Maine.”

  “Did you know that I live up here?”

  “Yeah, the Realtor dude told us.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say something to me?”

  “What’s the big deal?” He kicked the grass.

  I clenched my hands. “Just so you know, people here don’t bug each other.”

  “Okay.”

  “Nobody shows off or teases each other. Families have been coming here for generations and hardly anyone fights with each other. You better remember that.”

  “I’m new, so you think you can boss me around?”

  “I’m not bossing you around.”

  “Yeah, you are, Bossy Boss. Jeez, nice welcome party.”

  I glared at him. Then the girl with pink streaks walked around the Big House and he said, “Allison, Mom’s looking for you inside.”

  “Tell her I’m going back. This party is so lame.” She tossed her pink-streaked hair behind her, then walked across the field. Ian started up the steps.

  In my head I heard Mr. Steele: Pierson Point will never be the same.

  he next morning I woke, my sore ear throbbing against the pillow. I rolled onto my back, and the pain disappeared. Then I watched a spider make its way across my wall. Maybe it’d be my friend, like Charlotte was to Wilbur. A new friend here on the Point.

  Ian. I pulled my quilt up to my neck.

  For our science project the past winter, we had studied water sources. Our teacher put us in pairs, then assigned each pair a country. Ian and I got Egypt. Everyone had to research, write a PowerPoint presentation and give it to the class.

  When we went to the library to do research, all the computers were taken, so Mrs. Jonas let Ian use hers. I went to find books. When I came back, everyone was working, except Ian, who was staring at a blank screen.

  I had the instructions that our teacher had given us the day before. I sighed, “No wonder you don’t know what to do!”

  As I said this, the room grew quiet. Everyone looked at us. Someone snickered.

  Ian laughed, too, then gave me a dirty look. “You think I’m stupid, Miss Brainiac?”

  That wasn’t what I’d meant. “Ian, I …”

  “Shut up,” he hissed. “I can do this myself.”

  I sat, face burning, and opened a book about water shortages.

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. Jonas stood over us, her hands on her hips.

  “Lucy pulled it up,” Ian said. On the computer a man ran across a stage, then mooned the audience, his naked bottom bright white.

  Mrs. Jonas gasped and closed her laptop. “On my computer!”

  “I didn’t do that!” I said.

  “Yes, you did, Lucy Goosey.” Ian’s voice was loud.

  Several boys laughed. My friends, near the door, stood up to watch.

  “No, I didn’t!” How could he be so mean, such a liar?

  Mrs. Jonas took us to her office and shut the door. She frowned at me.

  “I didn’t do it,” I said.

  Mrs. Jonas looked at Ian.

  “Why blame me?” he said, crossing his arms. “Because Lucy’s a perfect student?”

  “I am not!” I said.

  “Stop, both of you!” she said. “Ian, what happened?”

  We glared at each other. Then he uncrossed his arms and grinned. “I was just trying to have a little fun.”

  Mrs. Jonas sighed. “Lucy, go back to work. Ian, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  In the library I sat down and stared at my book. Ian didn’t come back.

  We got an A, although I did most of the project. But I’m not a perfect student. I have to work hard. Did that make me bossy? Or a brainiac?

  Now I swung my legs over the side of my bed. With my toes I scratched Superior’s neck. Cool air blew through my window, sending goose bumps up my arms.

  Maine had plenty of peninsulas and islands. Why did Ian have to come to this one?

  I jumped out of bed and grabbed my notebook and bird book. After Superior ate and I had breakfast, we started down the road. On the path to the water, the air was cool and smelled like dirt and pine. Down at the beach the sky was so clear that I saw Pear Isla
nd and, farther out, Upper Egg Island.

  I walked to the farthest rock and ran my fingers over the dozens of snails attached to the boulders. Mom and I liked how bumpy and smooth they felt and we were careful not to pull them off.

  This was where I wanted to be, near the water—smelling it, hearing it. That day it was perfect, sparkling blue and silver, waves gentle.

  I sat and flipped through Birds of America. Mrs. Jonas had given it to me on our last day of school. “Here, Lucy,” she’d said. “Since you’re the only student in the last forty years to check it out of the library, you might as well take it with you.”

  “Really?” I’d laughed. “Forty years? Thanks!”

  I knew the torn and yellowed pages by heart, the wild turkey and Bachman’s warbler. The white-headed eagle took up two pages. I closed the book and picked up my notebook. It was filled with drawings of things at the Point and every year I added to it.

  Right now I wanted to draw an eagle, from memory. My art teacher could do this. But when I tried to go inside, as she called it, the idea got lost. If I had something to see, to copy, I could draw it.

  Superior startled and I looked up to see a pair of seagulls circle above us. I looked down at my blank page and sighed. No use.

  I opened my bird book to the eagles. The male and female stood next to each other, eyes slanted in confident stares. Eagles didn’t travel in flocks but mated for life. They were partners, even taking turns sitting on their eggs. They built nests in sturdy nooks near the treetops, in the open, because nothing preyed on them. And every year they came back to the same nests and made them bigger, stronger.

  I’d never seen Dad as excited as he was the day he found the nest. I was in my room when he charged up the stairs. “You have to see it, Goose, it’s amazing!”

  “Can we take the boat?” Then I could sit on a seat next to Dad, holding on.

  “Too rocky for the speedboat. You’ll have to take the Ramseys’ kayak.”

  I nodded but didn’t move. I’d never been in a kayak.

  One night when the PT came to dinner and Dad told her about the amazing nest, I came up with an idea. I’d use the money I’d make from camp to buy Dad his own kayak for his birthday. Then he could see the eagles whenever he wanted.

  I looked up to see a fishing boat, the only boat moving this early. Later the bay would fill with boats, kayaks, tubes.

  And Ian.

  But the Point was so big that you could go weeks without seeing everyone. If I ignored him, he wouldn’t be able to twist my words around or tease me.

  My stomach started grumbling and we headed back. We stopped at the Steeles’ cottage and looked in through the screen. Mrs. and Mr. Steele were at the kitchen table.

  “Come in!” Mrs. Steele pulled out a chair. She poured a glass of orange juice for me and a bowl of water for Superior. “Goodness, you look more and more like your mom!”

  “Thanks!” Mrs. Steele said this every summer.

  “I saw on the email exchange that you’re starting a camp,” she said.

  “Every Monday and Wednesday morning.”

  “That’s a lot to take on!” Mrs. Steele said. “Your mom was so good with kids. Remember, Walt, how she’d take the little ones after parties and play hide-and-seek?”

  “She was good at everything!” Mr. Steele grunted. “Kind, too.”

  Everyone had liked my mom.

  Mrs. Steele brought a plate of muffins to the table. I took one, still warm and plump with blueberries. It was so delicious that I nearly finished it in three bites, but I slipped the last piece under the table to Superior. Her tongue was warm against my palm.

  “Heard you know the Dorsey owners,” Mrs. Steele said. “Tell us about them.”

  “Ian’s my age, Allison’s older. I didn’t meet their dad but their mom is nice.”

  “I met him. Owns a business,” Mr. Steele said. “A real go-getter!”

  “It’ll be nice for you to have a friend up here,” Mrs. Steele said.

  “Yeah.” Allison was older, but she could be my friend.

  “You should show him around,” she said. “There’s so much to see.”

  Ian? I drained my juice. “How was your winter?”

  “Not cold enough! Global warming.” Mr. Steele grunted.

  Under the table Superior stretched across my feet, her body warm and heavy. I reached down to stroke her head and she licked my hand.

  “Talked to your grandma yesterday. She sends her love,” Mrs. Steele said. “Too bad they won’t be up this summer.”

  I nodded. My grandparents usually came up for a week or two, but they had decided to spend that summer in Colorado with Granddad’s brother, who’d just had surgery.

  “Walt, remember how Lucy’s mom used to make her granddad laugh?”

  He grunted again.

  “She made all of us laugh. Such an open, free spirit.” She told me this every summer but I couldn’t picture what she meant. When I asked Jenny about it, she said to imagine Mom standing in the open and letting the wind take her.

  I got up to go and Mrs. Steele pushed the plate toward me. I took another muffin and said, “Thanks!” as I bounced out the door.

  Outside, the wind blew through my hair and swirled dried-up leaves at my feet. On windy days I sometimes stood on the rocks at the beach and held out my arms, trying to let the wind take me. But all I ever felt were tangles in my hair and ocean spray on my skin.

  Inside our cottage I listened to the quiet. Back in Boston, we’d moved into our house only months before Mom got sick, so I wasn’t sure what had been there before she died, or what came after. But up here I remembered her.

  Working on puzzles. Stretched across the bed, pillow bunched under her chin. Standing at the living room window in her flowered sundress. We’d held hands as we had explored the shore under the dock, and we’d eaten cereal in the mornings, side by side, at the wobbly table in the kitchen.

  Dad told me that the first time he brought Mom here, she ran to the water and burst into tears. It reminded her of where she’d grown up, on Lake Superior in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, only she loved here much better.

  I heard Dad’s voice and climbed the stairs. Usually he didn’t talk while working. He sat, phone to his ear, and motioned me into his room. I stayed in the hall.

  “Thanks, I’ll call later.” He smiled as he hung up. “That was Julia.”

  Ignore her. That’s the best way to make something go away. “How’s it going?”

  “Big news! Someone from the historical society found a journal, dating from the early nineteen hundreds. The writer lived on the Point.”

  “And it’s real?”

  “Yep. One of the old houses in town sold last spring and the new owners found it tucked into a hole in the foundation. This throws my project into complete disarray.” But he smiled.

  “Isn’t that bad?”

  “No, it’s another source. Wonder how it’ll hold up next to Thaddeus’s.”

  “Why do you need another source? Isn’t Thaddeus’s enough?”

  “History’s a funny thing, Goose. Two people can see the same event, yet tell it differently. Thaddeus and the journal writer lived here around the same time. Could be very telling how they both talk about things.”

  How could you ever be sure that anything in history was true?

  Dad stood, fastening his phone to his belt. “I’m headed into town to take a look at this. Bucky’s in his room. Will you stay with him until I get back? I won’t be long.”

  “Sure.” I sat at his desk. Dad had been on the computer nonstop, so now was my first chance to go on email. Rachel and Annie were at sleepaway camp with no computers, but Mei wasn’t going to her camp until the second half of summer. I told her about Ian and ended with When are you going to come up here? And what am I going to do about Ian? Help!

  I glanced out the window and saw Mrs. Richards walking by. I leaned on the sill. She looked as if she’d walked out of a magazine, with her green skirt
and blouse and perfect hair. I leaned out farther. Maybe she’d call to me, ask more questions.

  But Ian followed. As they got closer I saw that Mrs. Richards was frowning and staring at the road. Why didn’t Ian catch up? Maybe he’d done something wrong.

  Then Ian looked up at me and I dove to the floor. It wouldn’t be easy avoiding him after all.

  t nine a.m. I stood next to the Big House, holding my clipboard with the morning’s plan, Superior at my feet. “Camp’s open!” I shouted.

  The six-year-olds, Olivia and Lauren, sat near me. Becca, who was nine, ran toward me with Bucky and the eight-year-olds: her brother, Peter, and Henry.

  “We’ll start with playing chase, then do a craft.”

  “Yay! Chase!” Becca yelled.

  “Craft? When do we play baseball?” Peter pointed to his glove on the steps.

  Baseball? But we didn’t have enough equipment. “How about kickball on Wednesday?”

  “Okay.”

  We played chase until Lauren started to cry. “I’m not playing. I’m always the first one caught.”

  I sat next to her. Her brown hair fluttered in the breeze and she had a big space where her two front teeth should be. When I was six, I didn’t have front teeth, either. I leaned over and whispered, “How about we always be teammates?”

  She nodded and wiped her tears on her stuffed polar bear. Then she helped me bring out pretzel bags and juice boxes for everyone.

  I squatted and scratched Superior behind her ears. The Point was quiet. Parents who commuted from Portland and Boston had gone back to work. No sign of Ian. And even though we were off schedule, camp was going okay.

  “Can we have more juice?” Peter asked. I tossed a box and he caught it in his baseball glove. Everyone laughed. The woman who taught the babysitting course said kids should drink lots of fluids. Good thing I had bought so many drinks. They were all tired, their faces red and sweaty, but they seemed happy.

  Little kids were great, because they just wanted to have fun. One day the past summer when I’d babysat for Lauren, we’d played with a balloon for two hours, trying to keep it in the air. And little kids could play with anyone. They didn’t care if you were different.