“Tomorrow is the thirtieth.” The date glows on Mom’s phone screen.
“That’s not right. Tomorrow can’t be the end of the month. I checked.” I snag my calendar off the piano. “See? April 30 is a Friday. It’s only the beginning of the week.”
Mom takes the calendar from my hands and turns the pages, pausing to touch a note Dad scribbled up the side. “It was on Friday years ago when your dad first made this calendar. This year, the thirtieth is tomorrow.”
The dates change every year. I know that. I know Dad’s calendar isn’t from this year—that the dates are all wrong—but with everything going on, I forgot. “Tomorrow is the last day? The day the bank gets the farm if somebody doesn’t buy it?”
“Yes, but one of Dolly’s clients from the first open house still has an offer for us. If it’s between the bank and that offer, we’ll take the offer. Whatever happens, we’ll be okay. Please don’t say anything to Grandpa. I’ll tell him tomorrow, after he’s rested.” Her arms enfold me in a tight hug before dropping the calendar on the counter and then stepping into her sewing room. A moment later, she returns with a big blanket in her arms.
“I was going to save these for a special day, but I think I’d rather you both had them tonight.” She shakes out the blankets—there are two—and holds the top edge up so I can see the pattern. Fabric cut from my dad’s shirts and jeans fills every square.
I reach for a corner, run a hand over the material, and lean close to take a big whiff. It might be my imagination, but I think I can still smell him. I pull the blanket from her arms and bury my face in the folds.
“I’ve been working on them for months, whenever I couldn’t study or think. I thought maybe it might help, for when you need one of his hugs.”
“I love it.” I lean into her shoulder. “Thank you.”
“I’ve been thinking.” Mom folds the quilts into neat piles. “Maybe we should invite Asher over for breakfast in the morning. It might be good to have a reporter document what this is like. That was his story, remember? People losing their farms.”
“I don’t want to be in that story.”
“But you are in it. And maybe, someday, you can look back and remember something you forgot because of something he wrote.”
“Maybe.” With her kiss on my cheek, I grab Scotty’s quilt and mine to take them both up to our beds.
Long after Mom closes her door to study, the calendar mocks me. Every puzzle has a key, a legend, a map as to what it should look like, or how to solve it. Every engine has a manual listing all the parts, directions for how to use them, and maintenance for how to keep them running.
Dad’s calendar is the only manual I’ve got, and I’ve followed it a thousand times. And every time, it was right—except this time.
I followed it too close and missed the bigger picture.
I lean on the kitchen counter and cup Kimana’s beaded peacock in my hand.
So, was the calendar my guide, or my tail? Did it ever show me the way? Or has it only been pulling me down?
Maybe sometimes things can do both at the same time if we cling to them too tight.
My gaze drifts from the peacock to the wall, where me and Scotty smile back from a dozen silly pictures pinned to a bulletin board—from back when things were easier. When we did chores together because we wanted to, not because we had to. Back when Mom used to sing—when she had a reason to sing.
And suddenly I see all the faces I’ve trained myself not to see over the last nine months. There, on the board beside Scotty, me, Grandpa, and Mom, is Dad.
He smiles in every photo.
He laughs while holding Mom’s hand.
He reaches for me from the saddle.
And he waves from the seat of his tractor, with laughter in his eyes and a smile just for me. I know, because I took the picture. He wasn’t smiling before; he was just working. But then I came, and he smiled. He said I was the best part of his day.
Staring at the pictures, I realize that, somewhere in the middle of all the work, I forgot about Dad’s smiles.
Would he be happy or sad we were selling the farm? Would he think I did enough to keep my promise? Or would he only care that we were still together?
I tap the chair backs as I walk around the table, but I stop a seat early, my fingers resting on the edge of Dad’s chair.
Prickles zip up every fingertip, like someone hooked a low-volt electric fence to the chair, but instead of pulling away, I grasp the chair, slide it away from the table, and sit down.
My skin tingles everywhere it touches the chair. I’ve been trying to take Dad’s place for almost a year. Seems right to sit here now. Besides, if not now, then when?
I pull my wishstone out, set it on the table, and close my eyes. What would Dad say if he were here? He’d smile at me and say . . . he’d say . . .
I spread my fingers over the arms of the chair, as if I could pull his words from the wood, but nothing comes to me.
With a sigh, I open my eyes and focus on Kimana’s note cards poking out of the napkin holder in the center of the table. She’d left them in the barn the other day, and I’d meant to return them to her, but then she was gone and things just got crazy. I reach for them, my peacock necklace clicking against the table when I lean over.
One after the other, I read them all. But the last few I read aloud, and I swear my dad’s voice echoes every word.
“‘It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.’ J.K. Rowling.”
Dad would say, “Stay in the moment.”
I set the card aside.
“‘It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’ Lewis Carroll.”
“What’s done is done. I’ll do my best, and God can do the rest”—’cause none of us is perfect, and none of us can do it alone.
“‘Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.’ Dr. Seuss. ”
“Focus on the smiles, the laughter, the love.”
As I set the cards back into the napkin holder, my necklace clicks against the table again, and an idea sprouts in my head. Like any crop worth growing, it’s my job to tend it.
Grabbing the wishstone off the table, I stand up and slide Dad’s chair back into place. It might be that this’ll work, or it might be that I’ll fail, but at least I know I’ll be okay either way. All that’s left is to try.
I’ve got one more big job to do here on the farm, and this time, it’s a work of heart.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The next morning should be a school day, but I argue that if the farm is selling, I should be there, so Mom lets us stay. She’s in the middle of making bacon when Mr. Ferro pulls up to the house.
The screen door creaks open as I step out and wave him inside. At the table, I pull out a chair for him. Grandpa gives me a look, but I pretend not to notice as Mr. Ferro settles down beside him.
“Thank you for inviting me. It’s been a long while since I shared a meal that wasn’t at a restaurant.”
“When there’s a big job ahead, a home-cooked meal adds a little steel to the spine.” Grandpa passes a plate of hash browns and eggs. “You’ve got that article to write, and we’ve got papers to sign as soon as Miss Dolly comes. At least we can face the work with full bellies.”
Mr. Ferro peers at my necklace. “Did you always have that peacock medallion, or is it new? Such fine workmanship.”
“Kimana made it.” I hold it up so it catches the light. “It’s Royal on the front, see?”
“I do. Your friend is very talented.”
“You bet she is. Kimana can bead and program and code better than anyone I know. She makes pieces like this to earn money so she can buy her jingles and other things to finish her regalia—that’s a special dress she needs for competitions like her cousin’s powwow that’s in a few wee
ks.”
“How’s Royal?” Scotty asks.
“He’s good.” Mr. Ferro pulls a picture up on his phone of Royal standing beside a peahen, and shows it to us. “The vet gave him a clean bill of health, but the way that bird paces the edge of the aviary, I have no doubt he’d fly off the second I opened the door if he got the chance.”
“Would he fly here?” Scotty holds his glass while I pour orange juice into it. “He likes our trees. Peacocks roost up high to protect themselves from predators and to watch for intruders, just like guard dogs.”
“Your guard dog barely opened an eye when I pulled up.” Mr. Ferro grins. “The cats, on the other hand, came right over. That little orange one—Scumbag, was it?”
“Scuzbag,” Scotty corrects.
“Right. Scuzbag and the black one wouldn’t let me up the porch steps until I gave them both a good scratch.”
Mom sets the bacon plate on the table, and it’s Scotty’s turn to say the prayer before everyone dives in, but my plate stays empty.
“I finished my report for school.” I tap my papers on the table beside my wishstone. “Wanna hear?”
“Sure, honey.” Mom peppers her eggs.
I stand, slide my chair in, and take a breath. “There are lots of people who made a difference in my life. Famous people that got me the right to vote when I’m old enough. People who explored and invented things. But until this year, I didn’t really understand that I’d built my whole world to begin and end with one man: my dad.”
Scotty grabs a bacon strip and chomps down, but the others are watching me, so I keep going.
“See, my dad taught me how to fix things, and when he saw I was good at it, he told me I was smart and gave me tricky things to troubleshoot, and when I fixed all that, he gave me new puzzles to solve.”
I glance up from my report. Everyone’s still listening.
“Because of him, I know that there’s a season for everything: a time to plant, to grow, to work, and to harvest. It’s all connected with family, ’cause in the middle of all that hard work, there’s times to laugh and love—and family holds it all together. Trying to run our farm alone is like running an engine without any oil. It might go for a little while, but all the parts wear out and everything seizes up.” I sneak a glance at Grandpa.
“Hey,” Grandpa says, rubbing his chest, “I’m not worn out yet.”
I smile. “I was talking about me, Grandpa.”
“Bah.” He chuckles. “You’re still a spring chicken.”
“No. I’m like our peacock.” My eyes flick to Scotty and Mr. Ferro as I turn the page. Might as well skip ahead. “Peacocks protect their territory against intruders. They sound the alarm when there’s danger, and they fight to protect what’s theirs.”
“I told Paige that,” Scotty whispers to Mr. Ferro.
“Peacocks carry a long, beautiful tail—maybe the prettiest tail in the whole world. It makes them feel safe and helps them find love, but it can trap them and weigh them down if they don’t let those feathers go.”
I slide the page to the back of the stack. It’s not the order I meant to read things, but it feels right. “I used to know exactly how I fit in the world, but when Dad died, nothing fit anymore. I tried to fix the puzzle by doing more, by taking on all his jobs and stretching myself thin to fill the space he left behind, but I couldn’t do it right. And I pushed other pieces out of place.”
“I tried my hardest and worked till I was dead tired, but wishing for things to be the way they used to be is like ramming straw down a bolt hole and hoping it holds. It can’t hold, because the piece you need is gone. And it seemed like my life would never be okay again because the pieces I knew didn’t fit in this new picture.”
I meet Mr. Ferro’s gaze. “But I learned some things from Royal, and then you showed me pictures of your grandparents’ peacocks and the painting on the garage. See, my life isn’t just a puzzle picture stuck inside a frame. There’s not just one single way to make all the pieces fit—and that’s okay.
“My life is a mural.
“The picture of my family that I love so much? It’s in the corner, at the start of my life. It’s my beginning.”
I set the papers down beside the wishstone. “But the cool part about a mural is that we don’t leave our beginnings behind. Because of Dad, I know how to help a newborn calf come into the world, and how to lose a crop and move forward anyway. And I’ll never have to ask someone what’s wrong with my car, ’cause I’ll know how to fix it. I know how to solve problems and work hard, and those things matter—no matter what happens next.”
Dad’s picture is taped to the next page—him smiling at me from the seat of the tractor when he said I was the best part of his whole day. Scrawled across the page beneath him are big, bold leters that say, “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”
“I thought our home here was perfect, and maybe it was, but that season is over for the farm. There’s a new season starting, and I’m not full of holes and missing pieces like I thought. Our roots are still connected—my family, my farm—all painted in the corner of my mural. All I gotta do is paint the next scene.”
The moment hangs there quiet between us, a butterfly perched on a blade of grass, its delicate wings open. Then Grandpa breaks the spell. “I find duct tape does wonders for holes—if’n you still have any left.”
I laugh. “No, Grandpa. I’m okay.”
“You forgot to say that peacocks symbolize eternal life and rebirth.” Scotty pours ketchup on his eggs. “Will your teacher let you have more pages for your report? How about three? I can tell you three pages of peacock facts.” He scrunches his face up. “Maybe five. Yes, you need five more pages.”
“Her report is perfect just the way it is.” Mom pats my hand as I sit down to eat. She has tears in her eyes, but I think they are happy tears this time. “Thank you for sharing it with us. It’s nice to think we can begin again. Focus on the positive, right?”
“Where did you say you live?” Grandpa asks Mr. Ferro.
“I’ve got an apartment in Boston.”
“An apartment, eh?” Grandpa points his fork at Mr. Ferro. “How do you sleep with your neighbor snoring so close to you?”
“Grandpa snores every day. So does T-Rex.” Scotty stands with his plate. “Can I go?”
After the plates are cleared, Mom and Grandpa hover near the windows like bees on a Coke can, waiting for Miss Dolly and that buyer of hers. I hope she takes her own sweet time in coming.
Mr. Ferro sits on the porch swing and taps on his tablet, writing his report.
I perch on the seat beside him, slip Kimana’s peacock off my neck, and cradle it in my hands. “You can look closer if you want. It’s even prettier out here in the sunlight.”
As he tilts it, shafts of light reflect off the peacock beads and dance across his face like freckles of sunshine. “Amazing.”
“It’s not just a necklace. It’s a lanyard. See the clip on the bottom? It’s great for holding a key or a press badge.”
“What use would you have for a press badge?” His thumb rubs small circles over the beads, like I do with my wishstone.
“None at all. But you need one. See? Then you’d have your grandpa’s peacocks with you all the time when you work. It’s like a piece of your roots that you get to carry with you.”
“With me?” His thumb stills. “But this is yours.”
“It was mine, but I feel like it belongs with you, like maybe it was meant for you all along. So I’m giving it to you.”
“Don’t you want it?”
I hold a hand up to stop him from giving it back to me. “I do love it, but Kimana says it carries good thoughts and things with it, and I think you need it more—to remind you of home.”
“Well, then.” He lifts the lanyard over his head. He doesn’t even have to rem
ove that silly hat of his. “Sounds like we need to agree on a price.”
“But it’s a gift,” I protest.
“No, this is too fine a gift. I can’t accept without a fair price.”
Since he insists, we haggle back and forth like a couple of ganders, and when we shake hands, it’s all I can do to keep my smile under control. With the money Mr. Ferro paid, Kimana should be able to have everything she wants for the powwow for sure—not that I’m cheating him; her work is worth every penny.
I tuck the money into my sock for safekeeping. I’ll run it right over to Kimana as soon as she’s out of school for the day.
We swing slow for a few minutes before I point at the trees.
“Remember that day you sat on the grass and watched Royal playing up in those trees?”
“Mm-hmm.”
A breeze teases red strands across my nose, and I brush them behind my ear.
My boots click on an uneven board as we swing back and forth.
Click, click.
Click, click.
“Would it be so bad if he got to do it again?”
The swing stops, and my fist tightens around my wishstone, but I don’t dare look at him yet.
Gravel crunches under tires as Miss Dolly’s black Cadillac turns down the drive. Her tires spin faster than chain saws, eating the distance in no time at all.
“Hello!” Miss Dolly waves as she steps out of the car with a man in a suit, then laughs at something he says. With his sunglasses and pinstripes, I can’t remember if he was here before or not. They all looked the same to me. No hats, dress shoes on every one. One gray rat looks an awful lot like another.
“Come on in.” Mom opens the door, and I flinch at every step Dolly’s heels take as she prances inside, the man right behind her. I know Miss Dolly is just doing her job, but now that the moment is here, it’s hard.
Minutes.
I’ve got minutes left till our farm is gone forever.
“What do you mean?” Mr. Ferro asks. “About Royal?”
The Wish and the Peacock Page 21