Touch Blue (8 page)

A
lone at my desk, I pull forward a sheet of paper.

I put the top of my pen in my mouth and slide it slowly across my teeth. I don’t want to say “foster sister.” It sounds second best.

I get another piece of paper.

The “lives with my family” sounds like he’s renting
a room here. But if I said he’s
in
my family, would she get mad since he’s her kid, too?

I don’t think the right words have been invented for this situation yet. I didn’t realize how hard this letter would be to write. I feel a bit grumpy with her, too. She hurt him.

But I can’t scare her out of coming. I move my pen down to the next line.

Aaron is a
good
great trumpet player. He’s also helping me with my boat and learning how to go lobstering without throwing up.

Why’d I bring
that
up? I drum my fingers on my desk. Then I get a clean sheet of paper.

I write the address on an envelope and fold up my letter small enough to fit. If you write your wish beneath the stamp on a letter, the letter will carry the wish with it. Without even pausing to think, I write under the stamp:

Please come.

S
ummer is short and changeable in Maine — like the weather can’t make up its mind. One day it can be ninety degrees, so hot in the sun that rivers of sweat trickle down my spine and my rubberized hauling pants stick to my skin wherever they touch it. A week later, it can turn so chilly and foggy that I’ll need jeans and a sweatshirt. The talk at the store is always the weather and the Red Sox — starting with whichever one is doing worse.

Because summers are so short, each day feels extra urgent, like you’d better grab it and enjoy it before it slides away into fall and winter again.
Slow down
, I want to say, to keep time from going too fast. I don’t want to think about how it’s almost August already.

Like the weather, I feel like I’m just waiting to see what’ll come next. Eben hasn’t caused any new problems, but I don’t trust him. And I mailed Aaron’s
mom’s letter three weeks ago, and she still hasn’t written back. “Don’t worry,” Aaron keeps telling me. “She’ll come.”

“Aha! Now I’ve got all the railroads,” Libby says one stormy afternoon, grabbing the stack of Monopoly property cards to hunt for the last railroad. “And you haven’t got any.” She stretches “any” extra long.

I cross my arms. “Of course I don’t have any railroads if you’ve got
all
of them. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense.”

Libby and I have been sitting on the living room floor long enough that my back is starting to hurt. I can stand for hours on the boat and not feel it, but sitting’s a different story. Dad and I’ll fish in the rain and even in the fog, but heavy wind or lightning keeps us ashore. So when Dad said, “Not today,” about fishing, Mom said it “would be nice” if I’d play Monopoly with Libby instead. “And let her be the banker,” Mom said. “It’s good math practice for her.”

When Mom says something “would be nice,” it sounds like you have a choice, but really you don’t.

I blow on the dice for luck and roll an eight. Libby is winning because she has all the yellows: Marvin Gardens, Ventnor Avenue, and Atlantic Avenue, and she’s closing in on the reds. All she needs is Kentucky
Avenue and then she’ll have that whole side of the board. When Libby was littler I used to let her win, but now she does it on her own.

I have Boardwalk, and if I can get Park Place, I might be able to turn this game around. Picking up my tiny ship, I move eight spaces to Chance.

Chance and Community Chest are tricky, because you’re as likely to get bad news as good. I pick up the orange card. Libby twists her head, trying to see underneath. Putting my hand across the bottom, I lift up one corner to peek myself. The bald Monopoly man is smiling. Whew. “Bank pays me fifty dollars!”

Libby frowns, giving me a blue fifty from the bank. She rolls the dice and makes her little dog stomp down the board so hard the small green plastic buildings slide off their colored bars.

“Hey, cut it out. You’re making all my houses shake.”

“It’s an earthquake!” Libby slides her token around the Just Visiting corner at the jail and lands firmly on States Avenue.

“Ding-dong! It’s the landlord calling!” I tell her. “That’s mine. You owe me ten dollars.”

I hold out my hand for it, but Libby is looking over my shoulder toward the kitchen door. “Wanna play?”

“No,” Aaron says. “That’s okay. You’ve already been playing awhile.”

But his voice has a little twist of “maybe” in it. I pick up the stack of properties. “That doesn’t matter. We’ll start you with some property and some money so you can catch up.”

“Don’t give him the last red one,” Libby says. “I’m saving up for when I land on that one.”

“That’s the
first
one I’m giving him.” I lay some piles of money and the rest of the property cards, including Kentucky Avenue and Park Place, across the board from me. “Aaron, you have to play. Otherwise, I’m sunk.”

He sways a little in the doorway. His chest seems to be saying yes, but his feet are saying no.

Libby picks up the extra tokens. “Do you want to be the hat? Or the boot?”

Aaron wrinkles his forehead. “What boot?”

From the surprised look on his face, I don’t think he’s ever played Monopoly before.

“Yeah, they’re kind of weird. But you pick one of these tokens,” I explain. “Libby’s always the dog and I’m always the ship, but the rest are up for grabs. Usually, you go around the board and buy any property you can or you want. You have to land on it to buy
it. Then when another player lands on that property, they have to pay you rent. We’re just giving you some property to catch you up, though.”

“And if you land on a railroad, you pay me two hundred dollars!” Libby says. “That’s because I own all of them.”

From the corner of my eye, I watch Aaron step toward us. “Why’s the dog bigger than the ship?” he asks.

“It’s a toy ship,” Libby says.

“It is not,” I say. “It’s a real battleship and I’m the captain. You have a giant dog.”

“Who would want to be an iron?” Aaron asks, turning the tokens over.

“If you don’t like these, we have other games that have people tokens!” Libby offers. “You could be one of the gingerbread boys from Candy Land!”

“I’ll be the race car,” Aaron says, grabbing up that token.

“Start here on Go. Then you roll when it’s your turn.” I hand the two dice to Libby so Aaron can watch us go first.

Libby counts up the dots on her roll. “Five!” She stomps her dog down the board to Tennessee Avenue.

“Aaron has that.” I show him where the rent is located. “You owe him fourteen dollars, Lib.”

I roll and owe him twelve more for landing on Virginia Avenue.

Aaron rolls a five.

“It’s my railroad!” Libby sings. “Pay, pay, pay!”

“Is she always like this?” Aaron asks me as he picks up two hundreds.

“Sometimes I’m worse!” Libby grins.

As we play, I’m afraid to let myself be happy — like if I smile or think too much about this moment, I’ll ruin it. We’re doing something all together, all three of us kids. And it’s fun.

When it’s my turn, I land on Chance again. I pick up the orange card and shield it from Libby’s eyes.

“‘Go directly to jail.’” I plop my ship on the corner space. “Good. I’m staying in jail as long as I can. It beats paying rent to Libby.”

A shadow falls on the board, and I look up. Dad is standing in the living room doorway, holding a yellow envelope in his hand. “This came for you, Tess.”

I hear Aaron catch his breath. I can barely move.

“When you write back, tell the Hamiltons I say hi, okay?” Dad says.

As I take it from him, I look quickly at the front of the envelope. There’s only my name and address — nothing else. Even without a return address, I know it’s not from Amy.

“Go, Tess!” Libby shoves the dice onto my leg. “It’s your turn.”

I throw the dice without even looking.

“You’re stuck in jail!” Libby laughs.

Across from me, Aaron stares at my hands as I unfold the letter. There are only two words written inside.

I’ll try.

A
s the days pass, I make sure that I’m the one who gets the mail every day, just in case Aaron’s mother writes again to explain her “I’ll try.” I’m hoping she’ll tell us for sure if she can come to the talent show.

“Has everything been put out?” I ask Mr. Moody.

He smiles. “You must be expecting something important. A letter from Amy, perhaps?”

I nod. It’s not completely a lie, because I am expecting a letter from Amy — someday. I wish she’d write, because I have so much to tell her. But it takes two people to be best friends, and lately, I think I’m the only one who still cares.

“I’ve got a couple piles left to do. Let me see if I have anything for your family.” Mr. Moody looks through a stack of letters and bills. “There’s some school mail for your mother. And look. The stores are having back-to-school sales already. You’d think they’d
let you kids enjoy your summer first, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Moody sorts through more mail. I have my eyes peeled for anything yellow in his hands.

“I hear Aaron is playing in the talent show?” he continues. “Mrs. Coombs asked if I’d be Master of Ceremonies again this year.”

“Aaron is playing his trumpet. He’s playing piano for Libby and Grace’s act, too.”

Libby couldn’t convince me to do an act with her, so she talked Grace into performing a song and dance together. When Libby asked me for a suggestion, I told her bees are lucky (and they’re a sign of a visitor coming), so Libby made up a song called “Big, Fat Bees,” which is only a little singing and dancing and a whole lot of chasing and buzzing. Aaron’s piano accompaniment is the best part of their act.

“I’m glad Aaron is willing to play for us again. It was such a shame what happened at the Fourth of July,” Mr. Moody says. “And what about you, Tess? Are you going to perform?”

I shake my head. “I always did something with Amy.”

“Well, there’s no law against making a change, is there?” He turns over the stack of letters. “Nope, sorry. There’s nothing else here for your family, Tess.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say brightly. “See you later, Mr. Moody.”

I wish Aaron’s mother could’ve been a bit more definite. He’s excited that she might come to the talent show. I even caught him sliding across the kitchen floor in his socks one afternoon when he thought no one was watching.

But he’s short-tempered and prickly about other things. He didn’t use to complain to Mom and Dad about anything, but now he’s picking battles over the smallest things.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Mom says that night as she’s doing some paperwork to register Aaron for school, and he storms off like she asked him to donate his trumpet to Goodwill.

“Well, then,
you
fill this out!” Mom calls after him. She turns to Dad. “What is with him lately?”

Dad strokes his beard. “Remember what they said at training? We’d get a honeymoon period and then he’d feel safe enough to show us another side of him?”

I leave the dishes only half done and head for the attic to talk to him. As I climb the stairs to the second floor, Aaron begins his nightly trumpet practice. But tonight, it’s like no music I’ve ever heard him play before — brassy and wild.

I hate to interrupt him, but I want to tell him to cool it a little before Mom gets suspicious. When he answers my knock, he’s holding his trumpet in front of him, his fingers still positioned on the stops. His hair is messy, like he’s been running his hand through it.

“I think you should be careful with Mom,” I say to him. “Like all mothers, she’s got special radar for secrets.” As soon as I’ve said it, I wish I could suck back those careless words. It might hurt him, not having his own mother to complain about. But he doesn’t look offended. “That song you played was amazing,” I say.

He shrugs. “You can come up to my room and listen if you want.”

“Okay.” I try not to look too excited — afraid he’ll change his mind if he sees how much I want to. In the attic I sit on his bed and wait for him to play, but Aaron looks out the window.

“I want to take a photo of the view here,” he says. “Like I did of the mountain at Home Number Two.”

“You can look out the window here. You don’t need a photo.”

He glances to the collage of photos on his dresser. “When I move, I might forget it.”

“You won’t have to move,” I tell him.

“You don’t know that,” he says plainly. “It happened before. Every time I thought I could count on people — the time came when I was in a car going to another house. I can’t keep doing this.”

I get off his bed to look at the photos on his bureau. The top photo is a house with a white barn, with blue-gray mountains curving above and behind it. “I miss that mountain,” he says.

“Did you know we live on a mountain, too? An island is the top of an underwater mountain.”

“It doesn’t feel like a mountain, though. Not a real one,” he says behind me. “Don’t you ever feel closed in, living here?”

I shake my head. “I feel more closed in on the mainland. On an island, you always know where the edge of the earth is. But once you’re on the mainland and leave the coast behind, there’s only ‘middle’ running in every direction. I feel lost in all that land.”

I blush, because maybe he thinks that’s ridiculous. But when I glance at him, he’s nodding. “A mountain makes an edge, too,” he says.

“Maybe we could go visit that place in your photo sometime,” I say. “I bet Dad would take us there when fishing slows down.”

“It’s pretty in the summer,” he says. “And in the fall, but —”

“Is this your band?” I cut him off, in case his next words were gonna be “I won’t be here then.” I point to the next photo: a group of kids, each holding a musical instrument. I scan the row until I find Aaron’s red hair. His smile in the photo looks hopeful and a little shy.

“Yeah. And this is my grandmother.” Aaron comes up beside me and gestures to the next picture, an older woman with cat-eye glasses and short, wavy gray hair.

“She looks nice,” I say.

“She was.” He moves his finger down to the photo in the right-hand corner. “And that’s my mom.”

She has red hair.

In the photo, his mom’s smiling, but it doesn’t light her eyes. Everything about her looks a bit out of date — from her makeup to her black dress. She’s sitting at an upright piano, but her hands are in her lap, not on the keys. “You look like her,” I say.

He nods. “I know.”

Inside, I feel like someone is ripping me right down the middle. I want him to stay here with us, but he’ll be hurt if his mom disappoints him or doesn’t even come.

“I want my song for my mom to be perfect,” Aaron says.

“It will be beautiful. You play so well.”

“When Mom was a kid, Grandma taught her to play, too,” Aaron says. “She told me Mom said that nothing compared to playing piano. Hearing people get all quiet, waiting for you to begin. Then applauding after. Knowing ‘I did that.’ I feel that way when I play, too. Sometimes when I practice, I imagine Mom’s right next to me listening.”

“If she comes —”

“She’ll come,” he says firmly.

“Come where?” a voice asks.

I spin around. Libby’s halfway up the stairs, looking at Aaron. How long has she been listening?

“Oh, I forgot to knock!” Libby says. “Good luck you weren’t naked, Aaron!” She climbs another stair. “So when’s Aaron’s mom coming?”

And I know exactly how long she’s been listening.

Long enough.