“He’ll teach you, too,” Ava said quickly. “He wants to, you and Darya both. But he thinks you’re not, um . . .”
“I’m not,” Natasha said, laughing. When Ava didn’t join in, she drew her eyebrows together. “Ava, I’m glad he’s teaching you. At least one of his daughters is interested!”
Ava looked relieved. “Today, at the Festival, I’m going to help him at his booth, but not until after we find Benton.”
“Benton might not be the one leaving the notes. We don’t know for sure.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Ava said confidently, and Natasha sensed that whatever shadow had fallen over her—if a shadow had fallen over her, if Natasha hadn’t just made it up—was gone.
“Ava?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever get sad? Or grumpy or grouchy or anything?”
Ava took the question seriously. “Hmm. I guess I don’t see the point in feeling any of those ways. What good does it do?”
“But feelings are feelings. They aren’t something you choose.”
“Aren’t they?”
“Not for me,” Natasha said. “I mean, I hide what I’m feeling sometimes. Lots of times. But I feel whatever it is just the same.”
“Well, I guess I do too,” Ava admitted. “I just . . . I don’t think it’s fair. To other people. To get sad all the time, you know?”
Natasha wondered how much Papa shared with Ava during their lute-making sessions. Had he told Ava about Mama’s “dark times,” and that when Mama got sad, it was a deeper sort of sadness than most people felt?
She hopped off the swing and went to Ava. “Hey, Ava? I don’t want you to be sad, but it’s all right if you are.”
“But I’m not.”
“Good. But everybody gets sad sometimes. And there’s a difference between normal-sad and sad-sad, if that makes sense.”
“It does. And I wasn’t saying that you do that, about being sad around other people.”
Natasha was startled. “Um, okay. Good.”
“Anyway, the notes make you happy, right?”
“Sure,” Natasha said. “Yes.”
Ava looked at Natasha. Then her gaze moved to something just past her. Her eyes widened, and a smile stretched across her face. “Then be happy! On the swing, where you just were. See?!”
Natasha glanced back, and her heart skipped a beat. Tucked into the knot connecting the rope to the seat was something small, square, and flat. It was white. It was folded into fourths. On the top was a single word: Natasha.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Natasha looked right and left, craning to spot the person who left it. Because Natasha had been right here this whole time, she and Ava both.
“Ava, did you see who put this here?” Natasha asked.
Ava shook her head.
“Was it here earlier? When you were twirling, before I came outside?”
“I don’t think so,” Ava said. She considered. “Or . . . I guess maybe it could have been. I didn’t have my eyeballs glued to the swing. But Natasha, you swang on the swing.”
“Swung,” Natasha said.
“Swung. Did you see it, when you first sat down?”
“Definitely not,” Natasha said. She gazed into the trees around them. “What about an old lady? Did you see an old lady wandering around, maybe?”
“An old lady?”
“Yeah. In a yellow raincoat?”
Ava furrowed her brow.
“Did you hear anything?” Natasha pressed. “Like footsteps, or twigs cracking?”
“No-o-o-o . . .” Ava said. “Why in a yellow raincoat?”
Natasha pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Never mind.”
Ava went to the swing and grabbed the note. She held it by one corner, as if preparing to shake it open. “May I?”
“I guess,” Natasha said hesitantly. Then, “No! I mean, it’s got my name on it, so maybe I’m supposed to be the one to open it.”
“So open it.”
Natasha hesitated. What if this note proved that Benton wasn’t the one who’d been writing them? “I don’t know if I want to.”
“Of course you do,” Ava said.
Natasha went to her, and Ava held out the note. Her eyes held curiosity and excitement, nothing more, and Natasha felt relieved. She wasn’t the only one who saw notes where no notes had been before.
But her mouth was dry, so she said, “Go ahead. You can be the one.”
“Are you sure?”
Natasha nodded. Fair or unfair, with Ava she was sure.
Ava unfolded the note and read it out loud:
“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.”
Ava lowered the note. “Aw,” she said. “That’s nice.”
“It’s from a poem we read in English,” Natasha said. Her heart jumped. “Benton’s not in my class, but all the seventh graders read the same stuff! But what does it mean?”
“That you should be hopeful!” Ava exclaimed. “And have feathers! And never stop singing!”
“That’s not very helpful,” Natasha said.
“Hopeful, not helpful.” Ava grinned. “Did that help?”
“Actually, no.”
Ava refolded the note and gave it to Natasha. “It means that Benton is hoping you’ll find him,” she said. “And talk to him, and dance around the Maypole with him!”
Natasha imagined herself dancing with Benton and went wobbly. She put the note in her pocket and said, “There’s not going to be a Maypole.”
“The March pole, then. Picky, picky.” She looped her arm through Natasha’s and led her to the house. “I’ll wake up Darya if she isn’t already up. You should eat some oatmeal or something. You look pale. We don’t want you fainting at the Festival.”
Was Ava taking care of her? Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?
And Darya. Last weekend Darya had hugged Natasha when Natasha was crying. She’d taken care of Natasha, too.
Both of her sisters had the ability to help her—and the willingness. Was it possible they always had?
“Should we tell the aunts?” Ava asked.
Natasha halted. She locked her knees. “Tell them what?”
“Kidding! Natasha, I’m kidding,” Ava said. The cold air hung between them. Ava patted Natasha’s shoulder. She stroked the length of Natasha’s arm. “It’s going to be all right. You’re not going to faint.”
Natasha was struck with a dreadful thought. Hope is the thing with feathers. Birds had feathers. What if the Bird Lady . . . ?
No, she thought. Please. Let the notes be from anyone but the Bird Lady.
Ava escorted Natasha into the kitchen. She took Natasha’s coat, hat, and gloves off. She guided Natasha to the stove and said, “Oatmeal?” She grinned. “Ple-e-a-a-se?”
“Hold on,” Natasha said. “You want me to fix you oatmeal? I thought we were talking about me!”
“You can have a bowl, too.”
“You are so generous,” Natasha said. “Wow.”
“You’re welcome,” Ava said.
Natasha shook her head, but she didn’t really mind. She filled a pot with water and put it on the stove. She struck a match and lit the burner.
Ava kicked off her boots and shrugged out of her coat. She took a seat at the kitchen table, put her hands behind her head, and propped her feet on the chair across from her. She had appropriated a pair of Natasha’s socks just like Darya had. This pair had kittens on them, and Natasha had been wondering where they’d gone. Unbelievable.
“Listen,” Ava said. “Getting notes from a secret admirer is awesome, Natasha. Not scary, but awesome. ’Kay?”
Natasha went to the pantry and got out the Quaker Oats. “What if he’s not there?”
“Who?”
“Benton.”
“Where?”
“At the Festival!”
<
br /> “Oh,” Ava said. She sounded unconcerned. “He will be.”
“What if he’s not?”
“Then we’ll have a caramel apple,” Ava said. “You like caramel apples.”
Natasha nodded. She did.
“See?” Ava said. “Sisters are for trusting. So trust me! Everything’s going to work out fine.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Everyone at the Spring Festival was full of high spirits. The sun shone brightly, and it was warm enough by midmorning that a dozen or more people had peeled off their gloves and shed their coats. Even Natasha left her hat and scarf in the front seat of Papa’s pickup truck after she and her sisters hopped out of the back.
While Ava helped Papa set up his booth, Darya fixed Natasha’s windblown hair, tucking some strands behind her ears and teasing others out. Natasha shook out Darya’s handiwork the moment Darya moved on to fixing and fluffing Natasha’s outfit. Natasha didn’t know what Darya was hoping to accomplish, given that she was wearing jeans, a sweater, and her boring winter coat. How much fixing and fluffing did jeans and a winter coat require?
“There,” Darya said, giving the bottom of Natasha’s coat a final tug. “Ready?” she called to Ava.
Ava held out a thumbs-up. She kissed Papa’s cheek and threaded her way through the maze of booths.
“Have fun, girls,” Papa called to all of them.
“We will,” they called back. “You, too!”
Ava took the lead, striding toward a crowd of kids by the cotton candy machine. “Boys. This way. I’m not sure they’re the right boys—”
“The right boy,” Darya corrected. “We’re only looking for one boy, singular.”
“Whatever,” Ava said. “There can be one boy in a crowd of lots of boys, can’t there?”
There could, and there was, and Natasha’s stomach knotted up when she saw Benton (singular) standing next to the cotton candy machine. He had on faded jeans and a black leather jacket, and his black motorcycle boots had chains on the heels. He was adorable.
He lobbed peanuts at Dave Smith, and Dave Smith wrestled for the brown paper bag they came in. Natasha heard lots of dudes and no frickin’ ways, along with plenty of words they’d get in trouble for if they said them at school.
It was all very intimidating, and Natasha wished, suddenly, that Molly were there. She was grateful that Darya and Ava were with her, but Molly knew Natasha in a different way—and Molly was good at this stuff. Good at knowing how to help Natasha relax.
Molly would . . . oh, what would Molly do? Grab the bag of peanuts herself and dump them on Natasha’s head?
Picking peanut shells out of her hair would be a distraction, that was true.
“Which one is he?” Ava asked.
“The cute one,” Natasha said. It came out tiny.
“The one in the leather jacket and the embarrassing boots,” Darya said.
Natasha looked at her indignantly.
“What?” Darya said. “They’ve got chains on them. Chains. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t ride a motorcycle, given that he’s in seventh grade.”
Natasha opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. But it was possible Benton owned a motorcycle, or had ridden one, or admired one from very close up. Darya didn’t know everything.
“I like his hair,” Ava pronounced.
“Me too,” Natasha said.
“Too much product,” Darya said.
Again, Natasha longed for Molly.
“Why are you being like this?” she said to Darya. “I thought you were excited for me. I thought you wanted me, you know, to like Benton and for him to maybe possibly like me back.”
“I do,” Darya said. “I can want all that and still mock him, can’t I?”
“But you don’t have to.”
“Sorry,” Darya muttered. “Maybe I’m jealous, okay?”
Natasha couldn’t process what her sister just said. CANNOT COMPUTE, her brain informed her, and then she was moving forward. One step, two steps, three steps, because Ava had her by one arm and Darya had her by the other. Darya was talking, but Natasha’s brain had yet to catch up. It made no sense that Darya could ever be jealous of her.
“So blah blah something something something,” Darya finished. “Got it?”
“Huh?” Natasha said. They were only a few feet from Benton and his friends. She tried to dig her heels into the slushy snow.
Ava groaned. “Natasha. They are humans and we are humans, and we are going to talk to them. You, especially, are going to talk to them. To Benton. And just be yourself, because you’re wonderful.”
Natasha shot a panicked look at Darya, who grinned wickedly.
“Hi,” Ava said, planting herself smack-dab in front of the group of boys. She stuck out her hand and shook hands with them one by one: Stanley, Benton, and both Daves.
“I’m Ava,” she said to each boy in turn. “Nice to meet you.”
The Daves laughed.
“Uh, sure,” Dave Winters said. “Whatever you say.”
When Ava got to Stanley, Stanley shook her hand and said, “Hi, Ava. I’m Stanley.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ava said.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Stanley said.
Dave Smith and Dave Winters cracked up. Benton did too.
“Boys,” Darya scolded them, and they stopped clowning around. Natasha was amazed at Darya’s ability to radiate confidence and scorn at the same time, and in such a way that it made boys like her more than they already did.
She had no reason to be jealous of Natasha, ever.
Darya gathered her hair into a temporary ponytail, then let her curls spill down her back. “Hi, Benton.”
“Darya,” Benton said with a grin.
“Aren’t you going to say hi to Natasha?” Darya said.
Natasha was mortified, but Benton didn’t appear to notice.
“Natasha, hi,” he said, turning his attention to her. He stepped closer. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
Natasha almost looked over her shoulder to see who he was really talking to, but she reined in the impulse.
“Me?” she squeaked. “Why?”
Darya elbowed her and gave her a hard stare.
“Because you’re a girl,” Benton said.
The Daves loved this and had all sorts of funny things to say, only they weren’t nearly as funny as they thought they were.
“Shut up, idiots,” Darya told them.
“Yeah,” Benton said. To Natasha, he added, “And because you’re not as scary as your sister.”
“Darya or the little one?” Dave Smith said.
“Excuse me?” Darya said.
Dave held up his hands and said, “Sorry, sorry!”
Benton stepped away from the other guys. He led Natasha to a spot where the Daves couldn’t hear, and Stanley, Darya, and Ava followed behind. “What I want to know is probably going to sound dumb, but . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What if there’s this girl you like. Or not a girl—for you it would be a boy—but pretend there’s someone you like. Okay?”
Ava covered her mouth. This time, Darya elbowed her.
“Okay,” Natasha said. She felt light-headed.
Benton jammed his hands in his pockets. “Just, what would you do?”
His leather jacket smelled good, like oil and dirt. His brown eyes were earnest. Benton on his own was less rowdy than Benton in a Big Group of Guys.
“I’d . . . tell her?” Natasha said.
“I’ve tried that already. Kind of.”
“And she didn’t do anything?” Darya asked.
Benton shook his head.
“Have you told her face-to-face?” Ava piped up. “Just flat out that you like her?”
“No,” Benton said.
“He’s worried she won’t say it back,” Stanley contributed.
She will! Natasha thought, but she couldn’t say the words if her life depended on it. Her throat was so tight she could barely breathe.
�
�You could write her a poem,” Ava said innocently. “Or, you wouldn’t even have to write it yourself. You could pick out a poem you liked and give it to her.”
Confusion swept across Benton’s face. “A poem?”
“Yeah,” Ava said. “Everyone likes poems.”
“I don’t,” Benton said. “Poems are crap.”
“Poems aren’t crap,” Stanley said. “Not all of them.”
“Dude. I’m not writing Belinda a poem.” Benton turned to Natasha. “You wouldn’t want some guy sending you a poem, would you?”
Natasha blinked hard.
“Wait. Is Belinda the girl you like?” Darya asked Benton.
“Who told you that?” Benton said, his eyes darting at the Daves.
“You did, just now,” Stanley said. “Yes, he likes Belinda.”
Benton smiled goofily, and Natasha wondered from a far-off spot in her mind if she could make her legs work. They seemed to have turned to Jell-O.
“The thing is, Belinda’s breaking up with Dave,” Benton confided in a low voice. He herded their small group even farther from the others. “I won’t, like, pounce on her the second she does, but she’s pretty, right?”
“Oh yeah, so pretty,” Darya said flatly.
“And nice,” Benton said. “She’s not just pretty.”
“Natasha, are you okay?” Stanley asked.
“We’re leaving now,” Darya said. “Bye!”
“Do you need a cup of water or something?” Stanley called after them. “If you need anything, come get me. I’m here. All right, Natasha?”
“Thanks,” Darya called over her shoulder. She and Ava led Natasha past the cotton candy machine, the kettle corn stand, and booths and booths of jewelry, local artwork, and offers to have your future told.
Natasha breathed shallowly and concentrated on holding back her tears. She would never ever want to have her future told, not now.
“Sit,” Darya said when they reached a picnic table by a trash can. There was half a piece of pizza caught on the rim, and Natasha felt ill.
“Not here,” Natasha managed. “The snow maze.”
Darya and Ava followed Natasha’s gaze to the other side of the fairgrounds, where snow bricks shimmered in the sun. Mr. Bakkus must have constructed it in the middle of the night, and not many people had discovered it yet. An older man and woman stood outside the maze when the girls arrived, but no one else.
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