The Secrets of Blueberries, Brothers, Moose & Me Page 9

  My brother was there, too, waving at her, and laughing, his hair slicked down over his forehead and his face shiny and flushed. My skinny brother, all elbows and knees, as Dad used to say. My skinny brother suddenly looked different to me. Standing there soaked and shivery, with his pale thin legs poking out through baggy wet shorts, he looked carefree. Radiant. And when I saw him looking like that, I realized something that made my heart ache.

  As hard as I’d tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, it was official: I had just lost one more thing in my life. Someone else had left me behind.

  CHAPTER 18

  WE SAT AROUND WATCHING OLD WESTERN RERUNS. We studied the sky for some sign of light, but the gray wouldn’t budge and the rain didn’t let up. When the TV weather guy shook his head and said, “We’re socked in for a few days, folks,” we dragged out the Scrabble board and the Yahtzee dice, made a few words and added up some numbers, but mostly Patrick and I just sat on opposite ends of the couch and stared at the black-and-white world of good guys and bad guys.

  I waited for Patrick to say something—to explain or apologize, but he didn’t. Maybe the memory of Shauna in that orange bikini top with her clear plastic raincoat fogging up from the inside was using all the space in his head.

  But then, after another cowboy showdown, Mom finally had enough. She marched into the living room and snapped off the TV. She pointed to the far wall, at the paint strips that had been taped up so long ago that I’d almost forgotten they were there. “Get off the couch,” she said. “Get over here.”

  “What?” Patrick asked. “What’s going on?” His eyes were still fixed on the blank TV screen, making me wonder if Mom’s warning about freezing our eyeballs with too much screen time had been right.

  “What does it look like?” Mom asked. “What do you think? We’re going to Disneyland?” Which I thought was pretty funny until Claude ran in squealing, “Middy Mouse, Middy Mouse!”

  Mom scooped him up and kissed his fat cheek. “Oh, honey. Not really. There’s no Mickey.” She pointed to the wall. “But look. We’re picking out a paint color for the living room. What do you think, Mr. Claude?”

  Claude put his hand in his mouth and sucked on his fingers. “Yellow,” he said finally. He grinned around the room, waiting for applause. When he didn’t get it, he clapped for himself. “Yellow!” he shouted.

  “They’re all yellow, Claudie.” I rolled off the couch and joined my mother at the wall. “They’re all yellow, aren’t they?”

  I started reading the yellow names to myself: Fresh Butter, Lemon Meringue, Sun Porch, Sun-Kissed, Baby Chick, Atomic Light, Banana Cream, and, my favorite name, Just Plain Yellow. I couldn’t imagine a room covered with any of them.

  “How about that one.” Patrick had managed to crawl out from his sunken nest in the couch, too. As he stood next to Mom, he tilted his head thoughtfully. “Banana Cream,” he said finally, with certainty. It was the palest of the yellows, velvety soft.

  “It’s nice,” Mom said. But she didn’t sound sure. “Which one, Mr. Claudio? Which yellow do you like?”

  Claude’s sticky fingers reached out for Lemon Meringue, a color so blinding it reminded me of one of Shauna’s bikini tops. I held my breath, hoping Mom wouldn’t take advice from a person who sometimes forgot to use the toilet.

  I took a step back and squinted, making the colors blend and stretch together in an electric, dizzying way. “I don’t know, Mom,” I said. “If you ask me, they’re all extremely yellow.”

  We stood quietly for several more moments, contemplating yellow, yellow, which yellow? Mom suddenly reached out and snatched one off the wall. “This is it,” she announced.

  I leaned over and read, “Sun-Kissed. Are you sure, Mom?” It was actually the prettiest color on the wall, deep and rich, but it looked, well, loud. And bright. Nothing like any living room color I’d ever seen.

  “I think it’s lovely,” she said.

  Patrick cleared his throat. “But it doesn’t really look like a room color, Mom.”

  I knew he was thinking of Dad’s new old house, the warm-but-soft colors that blended perfectly and set a mood without shouting. This yellow, this Sun-Kissed, well, it shouted. And what were we shouting, anyway? What did we have to shout about?

  Already Mom was peeling the other strips from the wall; for her, the decision had been made. Patrick insisted that Mom at least think carefully about the trim color. “If you make the trim too white, it will fight with the wall color. Some whites are actually more like yellows, but when they’re on the wall, they look white. Some even have green undertones. You have to be careful.”

  What? Undertones? How did he know all this?

  Mom went to the kitchen and came back with a stack of white paint samples. “Here,” she said. “Help me decide.”

  Patrick flipped through the white strips, occasionally holding one up to her yellow sample. I gathered up the cast-off shades of white and spread them into a fan. Brilliant, Lancaster, Marshmallow, Montgomery, Sailboat, Linen, Bone, Cameo, and China. Patrick was right: white wasn’t just white.

  By the time we were in the car and on our way to the paint store to pick up our new living room colors (Sun-Kissed with Sailboat trim), Mom had decided that we should all bring home some new color samples to tape on our bedroom walls.

  “A perfect project for later this summer,” she said. “One room at a time.” And in her voice was a lightness that made me feel, for a moment, anyway, something like hope.

  CHAPTER 19

  THAT EVENING WE PUT TAPE AROUND THE WINDOWS. It was good to be working, on my feet and moving my arms. After a quick dinner of scrambled eggs and honey toast, Mom asked me to put Claude to bed so that she and Patrick could start painting the trim. “I don’t want to leave it half done,” she said.

  Sometime in the night I woke up and listened. Mixed with the splatter of rain sounds were noises coming from the living room—the soft shuffle of footsteps and the clank of a pail. I tried to get up and go help, but the bed was so warm that I snuggled deeper into the covers and drifted back to sleep. In the morning the trim was done. Mom looked worn out but pleased. We were ready to start with the walls.

  All that morning and into the afternoon, Patrick and I took turns either playing with Claude or helping Mom roll out long, smooth lines of Sun-Kissed Yellow. That evening, the walls in our living room had one coat of new paint. “It will look better with two coats, Mom,” Patrick said kindly.

  Mom just stared at the bright yellow walls with tired eyes.

  She must have stayed up most of the night again, because on Wednesday morning the second coat was finished. We huddled together in the middle of the room, surrounded by paint fumes and the harsh glare of Sun-Kissed Yellow. The new color made everything feel strange, like we were being told to feel one thing when we all really felt something else.

  • • •

  I woke early Thursday morning to sun—actual sun—and I jumped out of bed, thinking of the blueberries. But when I saw Patrick in the hallway, dressed already, I said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “What do you mean? It’s sunny.”

  “Yeah, but maybe I’ll tell Mom about what you did to me. How you left me out there. Maybe that will be the end of it for you.”

  “Then it will be the end for you, too,” he said.

  I shrugged, like I didn’t care. Patrick waited a moment, then turned and walked to the kitchen to start making our lunches. I followed him, got the Mr. Coffee brewing, and pulled the box of cereal from the cupboard. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Patrick, glancing at me nervously. It made me feel powerful and strong.

  I took out my 3-D glasses, which I’d tucked in my back pocket. I slipped them on, looked at him and smiled.

  Patrick hated my 3-D glasses. But he didn’t say a word. And while he spread jelly on two slices of bread, I peered through the emp
ty frames. “Hmm . . . why are you doing that?”

  He plunged a knife into the peanut butter and slopped it on the other two slices of bread. He squished the sides together. “Do you want an apple or a banana?”

  I pushed the button for Spectacular Vision. “I think you’re forgetting to say something to me,” I said.

  “Okay,” Patrick said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t count if I have to ask for it.”

  “Missy, what do you want?” He still held a banana in one hand and an apple in the other.

  I poured cereal and milk into my bowl. “I want you to tell Shauna to stay away.”

  “I’m not going to.”

  “Then we’re not going to the field anymore.”

  “What do you have against her? She’s really nice to you.” Patrick’s voice was normal, but his face was turning red.

  “She’s just, she’s just—” I didn’t know what to say. “She’s trying to make trouble.”

  “Missy, no. Seriously. We’re just having fun.”

  “Fun doing what?”

  “Missy, the day in the rain. I knew you wouldn’t come. I knew you’d probably tell Al. So that’s why I went without you. We went exploring. We actually found a hole in the hedge that leads to the other field. Lyle’s field. He’s the brother—”

  “I know that,” I said. “I know who he is. I’m not dumb.”

  Mom’s voice was suddenly right behind me, making me jump. “Who is saying anything about dumb? We don’t use that word in this house.” She stepped all the way into the kitchen, holding a sleepy Claude. When she saw Mr. Coffee all ready to go, she smiled. “Ah, thank you. Now, what were you two talking about?”

  I stared at Patrick. He stared back at me. Finally he answered. “I was just asking Missy if she wanted an apple or a banana.”

  I looked around the messy kitchen . . . even it smelled like wet paint. I said, “Well, I was just saying that bringing a banana in a paper bag is dumb. That’s what is dumb. It gets bruised up.”

  “Right,” Mom said absently. She poured herself a big cup of coffee. Patrick’s mouth twitched into a victory smile. But he wasn’t the winner. I would find a way to show him that.

  “You’re not going to wear those glasses in the field today, are you?” Patrick asked, shoving an apple into my lunch sack.

  I’d actually forgotten I was wearing them. “Yes,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you never know,” I started, but kept the rest to myself. You Never Know When You Need to See the World Clearly.

  CHAPTER 20

  AL CHUCKLED WHEN HE SAW ME. “I SEE YOU HAVE A new look.” Patrick glanced around nervously, and I knew he wanted to get out of there before anyone spotted me in my glasses. Ha!

  “What row are we on today, Al?” I asked.

  Al said, “Well, that’s something I wanted to talk to the two of you about. I have some news for you—”

  I held my breath, thinking of the prize. Even though hard work is its own reward, I knew there had to be something more. The ad in the newspaper said so.

  Al said, “All that rain put us back a bit. Plus, the weather people say there’s a big heat wave coming. So Moose is going to bring out the picking machine. He asked me to recommend a couple of responsible kids to work in the sorting shed. It’s easier work and more money. I immediately thought of you two.”

  I looked at Patrick, waiting. He said, “Just us?”

  “That’s all we need.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Then, no. Not for me.”

  I pulled off my glasses and stepped closer to him. “But Patrick—think of the money. Think of the new clothes. This is a promotion!”

  “Sorry, Missy. I’m not interested. But you can do it if you want.”

  “No—” I started. But then I thought about the day in the rain. I thought about Patrick and Shauna and the raincoat fogged up from the inside. About belly button dances and berry tosses and whispers and giggles and feet standing too close. About being left behind. Sure, I could stay and try to humiliate him with little sister things, like 3-D glasses and spying and stupid jokes. But he didn’t care. So I would show him. I’d make more money and have more fun and he might even miss me. “Okay,” I said, turning back to Al. “I’ll do it.”

  Al glanced from my brother to me. “Are you sure?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded.

  “Have fun, Missy,” Patrick said. His voice was genuinely nice.

  I couldn’t look at him.

  Al sent me back up the tire-track road. He told me to knock on the office window and tell Bev that I was the new sorter. I didn’t pass Shauna or any other picker on the way back, which I was glad about, since I was trying my hardest not to cry.

  The first thing Bev said was, “I was hoping it would be you. I’ll call your mom for permission and then show you the ropes.” She pushed a button and the garage doors creaked open. “Go on in. I’ll be right back.”

  I stepped into what appeared to be a garage, except there were no cars or lawn mowers or bicycles or anything else that ordinary people had in their garages. Instead, there were stacks of different-sized buckets, wide wooden crates, bags of fertilizer, tractor parts, and, taking up most of the floor space, a long machine with a black rubber conveyor belt. Bev came back and made a big motion with her hand. “Welcome to our palace.”

  “What did my mom say?”

  “She said it was fine.”

  “Even without my brother?” I was halfway hoping Mom would say I couldn’t do it without Patrick. That we needed to stick together.

  “She was proud of your promotion.” Bev walked around the room, flipping on light switches and the overhead fan. She hoisted a crate to the front of the conveyor belt. “Here are some berries to get you started.”

  She poured berries in a tray at the front of the machine and then turned it on. It was so loud that all she could do was point and make motions, but I got the idea. There was a button to get the belt going and the same button stopped it. There was a lever to control the speed.

  She turned it off to speak. “The picking machine doesn’t pick clean. See this—” she held up a bunch of berries still clinging to a branch. “It grabs everything. It’s your job to sort things out. The green ones and the rotten ones and the stems. You think you can do that?”

  I eyed the machine nervously. “It’s so big. And loud.”

  “You’ll get used to it. I’ll just be through that door, if you need me. Our kitchen is on the other side. There’s a bathroom, too. Just go right on in when you need to use it.”

  I faced the enormous conveyor-belt machine with all its knobs and levers and metal and buttons. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

  “Just get started, hon. It will all make sense once you do.” And then she left me.

  I turned back and pushed a button. The machine roared to life. My fingers were back to being clumsy, just like that first day of picking. Cars turned into the gravel drive, dropping kids off, and I saw them out of the corner of my eye. But the belt moved so fast I couldn’t look away. Green ones, rotten ones, stems, and whatever else doesn’t belong.

  CHAPTER 21

  IT WAS THE WORST MISTAKE EVER. MY BACK ACHED and my eyes were blurry. Sorting berries made my brain feel like it was swelling, and I was pretty sure that at any moment, my skull would explode from the pressure. Also, it was lonesome. I had this feeling that if I walked outside, I would discover that I was the only person left in the entire universe.

  I was just about to turn off the machine and run back to the field when I felt a tap on my shoulder. There was Bev, holding two cans of soda and motioning to the on-off button. When I pushed it, the conveyor belt slowed to a stop, but my ears roared like it was still going.

  “How about we go sit in the sun for a minute
?” she said. “It’s coffee-break time. Grab a couple of buckets. Those white plastic ones are best for sitting.”

  I grabbed two big plastic buckets from the pile and followed Bev across the gravel drive, to a small tree and a patch of shade. I looked up to see the time. About ten o’clock, judging from the sun. It felt good on my face.

  “This is where I take most of my breaks,” Bev said, motioning me to set down the buckets. “Underneath this pretty cherry tree. Now you’ll know all my secrets.” She handed me the soda and I opened it quickly.

  “Ahh,” I said, after my first bubbly sip. “That’s good.”

  “Hits the spot,” she agreed. “So how’s the sorting going for you?”

  “Honestly,” I said, “I don’t think I can do this any longer.”

  She nodded. “It’s hard work. Some people work on conveyor belts their entire lives. You know what the key is?”

  I shook my head.

  “A rich inner life. You know what that means?”

  I shook my head again and took another sip of soda. It tingled deliciously.

  “You just need to let your mind go somewhere else. Dream about the world and all the places you’d like to see. Your body might be stuck here, but your mind can go anywhere it wants.” She pulled a paperback from her back pocket. “I like to travel this way, on horseback with Baron Von Handsome.” She laughed. “But don’t tell Moose.”

  “Okay,” I said. I wondered about my own inner life. I closed my eyes but all I could see were Western shoot-outs and showdowns. Maybe Mom was right—maybe we did watch too much TV.

  “So you think you can stick with it?”

  “What?”

  “This job. You think you can stick it out?”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, I miss the berries already. I miss the field.”

  “You do, huh? I always hated it myself. Too claustrophobic for me, with all those bushes crowding around.” She pretended to shiver. “What do you like about it?”