Give and Take

by Elly Swartz

  “Sorry about Bert.”

  It’s Mason.

  “Thought you might be here,” he says, picking up a flat pink stone.

  Did he come here to see me?

  I don’t respond, because I’m not sure how. Truth is, I’m glad he’s here.

  He reaches out and hands me a piece of paper. When I look down, I see a cartoon drawing of Bert.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I really like it.”

  Then I see a squirrel dart up the tree. I point to her. “Do you think she’s lost or found?”

  “Hard to tell.”

  I think about Bert and wonder if anyone who sees him will even know he’s lost. Mom told me I got lost at the beach when I was Charlie’s age. She said she was so scared because in the sea of kids and families, no one would have known that I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. Then I wonder what lost looks like.

  “People should wear signs that say if they’re lost,” I say, thinking about Nana and the cherry slush. I let go of a brown stone, and it skims the top of the water.

  “Nice one. Five skips.” His takes three hops. “What if you didn’t want to be found? Would you still need a sign?”

  “I guess not.” I pause, totally confused, and ask, “Who wouldn’t want to be found?”

  A breeze sweeps by. Followed by the squirrels. And a whole lot of air and space and quiet.

  He shrugs.

  I hand him the perfect skipping rock. He glides it across the water. Four hops. Then he says, “What if you don’t even know you’re lost?”

  The thought of this pulls at my heart.

  “Is it worse to know you’re lost and be scared, or to not know you’re lost and never find your way back?” I ask. Being afraid is bad, but maybe never finding your way home is worse.

  “You’re assuming the person who knows he’s lost is scared, and the one who doesn’t won’t ever be found. Maybe neither of those things are true.”

  Maybe.

  47

  Dandelion Necklace

  I hung the picture Mason drew of Bert next to the picture I did in art class of Izzie. They are the last things I see when I go to sleep and the first when I wake up. It’s been four days since we lost Bert and almost four weeks since Izzie left. My sadness holds all the missing. I stare at the chart from my newest box.

  Sticks. Today’s toss. There are three: the nubby one I collected on a walk home with Charlie, the one I saved from the hike up Ridge Mountain when Ava and I got lost, and the one that looks like a wishbone, from Wade’s Pond. I’m supposed to throw them out like leftover meatloaf. Like they’re nothing. Like those times I picked them up never happened.

  Then I remind myself what Dr. Sparrow said: Nana’s brain wasn’t healthy. Mine is. I won’t forget. Believe.

  I open my box, rub the threads of the white baby blanket, remove the sticks, and go downstairs to toss them in the parent-approved garbage.

  Dad’s waiting. I toss the sticks. They clang as they hit the metal bottom. I close the lid and go back upstairs to my room. The music of Jimmy Buffett’s “Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On” fills my bedroom.

  When I open my door, Charlie’s standing there with his hands behind his back.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Waiting,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “You. Mom said I’m not allowed in your room if the door’s closed, so I was waiting here until you came out.” He looks at me with his chocolate-brown eyes. “Are you done?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “This is for you.” He hands me a dandelion necklace. “It’s to make you happy. Like the necklace Ava got you. But less shiny and made of dandelions.”

  His kindness hugs me. I put on my flower necklace. “Thank you, Bear. I love it.”

  Then he runs his hand along the outer edge of the tub and says, “I know you’re sad about Bert, but you don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Why?” I ask, wondering if he knows something.

  “Because I think he’s with his bale.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Turtles hang in bales. He probably saw a friend and went to play, and will be back as soon as their game is over.”

  I nod, hoping he’s right.

  “Like me and Emma Rose.” He pauses. “We’re friends now.” His smile shows off his missing tooth. “She let me play in her game of four square the other day. I even got to serve the first ball.”

  I look into his eyes and know that I will never forget him. He takes my hand and walks over to my bursting bookshelf. “Will you read to me?” he asks. We spend the next hour reading together. Our very own bale.

  The ring of the phone startles me. Maybe it’s about Bert.

  I hear Dad’s voice but can’t make out his words. Then his footsteps find me. I stop reading. “Did someone find Bert?”

  In the beat when he says nothing, I know the answer is no.

  48

  Just Believe

  I rub my shoulder. It’s sore from Batman sleeping on it all night long. I’m convinced he knows when I’m sad. Even with Charlie’s dandelion necklace, the hole in my heart feels big. Now it’s filled with Nana and Izzie and Bert. Batman makes this purring sound and slides his fluffy ball of a body as close to mine as he can and lies there until I feel better or move.

  At today’s practice, Dad reminds us the trap tournament is in two days. I turn to Ava. “I’m worried about leaving. What if Bert comes back?”

  “The tournament is just for the day,” she says.

  “But it’s all day. Morning until night.”

  “It’s no different than you coming to practice,” Sam says. “I mean, you’re not sitting at home or at your grandfather’s waiting for your turtle twenty-four hours a day.”

  Ava puts her arm around my shoulder. “Your gramps, mom, and brothers will be here if Bert comes back.”

  I know that’s true. But it still feels weird leaving when something you love is missing.

  “Besides, you’ll feel better once we start singing on the ride there.” Ava begins to hum. Loudly.

  “You guys don’t really do that, do you?” Mason says.

  Gracie laughs. “It may be a thing that happens.”

  “Singing or not, we need you to win,” Sam says to me. “You’re the best on our squad. And I’m sick of losing at everything. It’s not fair. My sister and I are part of the same genetic pool. How did I get all the loser genes?”

  “Come on, Sam,” I say. “Not winning in a trap tournament doesn’t mean you’re a loser.” My heart hurts for her. I’ve seen the trophy room at her house. It’s filled with best this and all-around-greatest that. Some trophies are glass, others are tall and shiny in silver or gold. They all have her sister’s name engraved on them.

  * * *

  When I get home from practice, Batman and I walk to Gramps’s house.

  “Do you think Bert is coming back?” I ask Gramps. He’s leaning over the garden, pulling the weeds. I know he’ll be honest. When I had to get a shot at the doctor, he was the only one who told me it would hurt. And he was right. It did. A lot.

  “Of course he’s coming back,” he says with an assurance that surprises me.

  “Have you seen him?” I look around the yard, hoping maybe he’s in the back corner, eating a big, fat worm.

  “Nope. Haven’t seen him.”

  I deflate.

  “Just believe. That’s all,” he says.

  Is the universe even listening?

  “Is believing in something really enough?”

  “Sometimes it has to be. Sometimes believing in something is all we have.” He straightens up and stares at me with his crystal-blue eyes. “Just have faith and give him time.” He rubs his back with his hands, then says, “Fill the feeder for me, will you?”

  Feeding the birds was another one of Nana’s jobs. I pluck the fish-shaped ceramic feeder off the tree and fill it with seed. I’m not sure why this bird feeder is shaped like a
fish, but Nana loved it.

  Batman digs up a tennis ball and drops the chewed-up, dirt-covered thing at my feet. I hang up the full feeder, toss him the ball, and watch Batman and the birds come back for more. I wish it was that easy with Bert.

  I weed until the vegetable bed’s clear, then hug my grandfather good-bye and hope I can believe the way he does.

  On the way home, I stop by the pond. I have something I need to do. I find a flat pink rock, make a wish, tell the universe, cross my fingers, and believe.

  Then I send the rock sailing across the pond.

  Four hops.

  49

  One Day

  After school the next day, I meet with Dr. Sparrow. I don’t see my waiting-room friend. There’s a boy with a buzz cut reading, and a girl across from him sitting with a person who looks like her mom. They have the same bouncy brown curls.

  When I’m called in for my appointment, I go in alone. Dad stays in the waiting room.

  Dr. Sparrow’s wearing a neon-green shirt that says ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE.

  I tell Dr. Sparrow about Lost Bert. And how it feels like so many of the things I love leave.

  “It’s hard when the pets and people we love aren’t with us anymore,” she says. “It’s okay to feel sad.”

  I grab a tissue and hand her one of my charts.

  “You’re showing tremendous improvement,” she says.

  I know that’s true. Many of my things now live in the metal trash bin. And my charts have lots of X’s.

  “It’s getting easier to throw some things in the garbage,” I say. “Though there are still times I worry I’ll forget.”

  “That can happen. But you’re learning to let go.”

  A small smile slips out.

  “Before you came here today,” she says, “your parents contacted me.”

  “Why?”

  “Rita had inquired about another foster baby who needed a short-term home.”

  Excitement ripples through my body. “What did they say?”

  She clears her throat. “They’re still worried fostering would be too stressful, and they don’t want to disrupt all the good progress you’ve made.”

  “So, no baby?” The excitement drains onto the floor of the office.

  “Not now, Maggie. But I told your parents that this is something that could be good for all of you again.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Then add, “I get it now. Why we do it. That it’s an important job. That it’s not about being remembered. But about loving these tiny humans. Because we can.”

  * * *

  When I return home, Charlie and I make cards for Bert. There’s lots of glitter and markers and feathers. I’m not sure why feathers, but Charlie insists that Bert loves brown and white and pink feathers.

  I run my fingers along the feathers but don’t put one in my pocket. I’m trying, even though trying is really hard.

  “What are you guys doing?” Dillon asks.

  “Making cards for Bert,” Charlie says.

  “Why?” Dillon bounces a basketball as he waits for one of us to explain.

  “Because it’s fun and it’ll make Bert happy when he comes home,” Charlie says like it’s obvious. “Want to make him a card?”

  Dillon drops the ball and joins us.

  Maybe this is what believing looks like.

  The three of us glue, glitter, and draw until we’re covered with red and blue and gold sparkles and neon splashes of marker.

  We tape the cards for Bert to his plastic tub. Charlie hugs my middle and tells me he’s going to build a Lego tower for when Bert comes home.

  I follow Dillon to his room. There are two huge posters on his wall, one of Larry Bird and the other of Paul Pierce.

  “You’ll watch for Bert while I’m at the tournament tomorrow?” I ask.

  He nods. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I know this is all my fault.”

  “I’m sad about Bert,” I say. “But I’m not mad at you anymore.” I slide next to my big brother.

  I remember when I was in fourth grade and went to Mayflower Beach with Ava’s family for the day. I wanted to bring the headphones Dillon got from Nana and Gramps for his birthday. But he said I couldn’t. So I secretly borrowed them. Thinking I’d put them back before he’d even notice they were gone. But at the beach, I fell asleep. High tide came in, and the headphones washed into the ocean. Along with my flip-flops.

  I felt all kinds of awful.

  Dillon was mad. At first, supermad.

  But then one day, he wasn’t mad anymore. He was just my big brother again.

  I leave Dillon and go to my room to get my trap bag ready for the tournament tomorrow. I hear the rain pelting against my window. I finish packing and settle next to one of my boxes. I hold Bert’s rock and rub the threads of Izzie’s blanket with my fingers. I try and remember each day that I got to be a small part of their big world. I prepare a speech in my head that I’m going to deliver to my parents about another foster baby. About me getting better. About having a heart big enough to love a lot and brain healthy enough to let go.

  But then Mom knocks on my door. She hugs me tight, tells me how proud she is of me, and promises to keep looking for Bert while I’m at the tournament.

  I swallow my speech. And hope the disappearance of my big, scary mad, and my emptier boxes will make them change their mind.

  One day.

  50

  Girl Power

  The rain has stopped, but the air is thick when I get into the van on Saturday morning. Ava’s already there. “Saved you a seat.” She pats the space next to her.

  “Your patch looks great,” I tell her.

  “Thanks.” She smiles at her yellow-and-red patch that says AA-25 STRAIGHT. “I love that we have matching patches now.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  Sam leans over the seat in front of us with a handful of gummy worms. “Want some?”

  Ava shakes her head no, and I take three red ones.

  “Before I left the house this morning,” Sam says, “my dad told me that he thought we might be able to win the whole tournament.”

  “Cool. Is he coming to watch?” I ask.

  Sam shakes her head.

  The whole time we’ve been on the team together, I’ve seen her parents only once. It was our first shoot. And we lost. They haven’t been back since.

  “My sister’s running in her cross-country team’s final competition for the season,” she says.

  “It’s your final competition, too,” Ava says.

  I shoot her a look.

  “What? It’s true,” she says.

  I lean in close to Ava and whisper, “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s helpful.” I nod toward Sam, who’s wiping the tears running down her cheeks. I move into the seat next to Sam and offer her my earbuds. “Thanks,” she says as she slides them on and opens her playlist.

  Gracie’s reading, and Mason’s in a seat by himself in the back of the van. When I glance over, he nods. I don’t know what happened with his dad, but I’m glad he’s here.

  The road’s bumpy, and my good-luck pancakes from this morning feel like they could turn into bad-luck throw-up. After about ten minutes, Ava breaks into song. Sam ignores her. But when Mason belts out the chorus, everyone laughs. And we all join in.

  About an hour into the ride to the tournament, I dig out my Go On, Change the World! notebook from my bag and start to sketch. I draw Nana’s face and the just-because present she gave me.

  “Hey, that looks like the gecko necklace you used to wear,” Sam says.

  The one I keep. In my box.

  It takes about two hours, two bathroom stops, and one burrito lunch break to get to Braiden Shooting Club, where the tournament’s being held. The dirt road is narrow and winding as it bends along the tall trees. Dad parks the van, and we all pour out. The sun shines on the row of team canopy tents that line the parking lot at the edge of the two main shooting ranges. Dad sets up our tent. It’s green and says EAG
LE EYES OF FISH, FUR, AND FLY in yellow letters across the front. Then he goes into the cabin to register our team. When he comes out with our tournament T-shirts, we’re sitting in a circle under our tent playing hot potato with Mason’s soccer ball. Ava and Sam are out. Just me, Gracie, and Mason are left. Dad tells us there are eighty kids registered. Twelve teams. Only seven girls in all. And we are four of them.

  All I think is, Girl Power.

  I head to the bathroom in the cabin at the Braiden Club. In the stall, I see that someone has written ES loves JS, and I wonder where they are now. I imagine them in love on a beach at sunset somewhere. Graffiti covers the entire door. Sofia was here. Jordan rules. I love trap.

  When I leave the bathroom, I see Sam on the phone. I wave, but she doesn’t notice me.

  I walk over to her. She’s nodding and wrapping her black hair tightly around her pointer finger but saying nothing. Then she hangs up and looks at me.

  “He’ll never be proud of me.”

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  I grab her hand, walk out of the building, into the woods, and find a stump tucked between two huge oak trees for us to sit on.

  “You should have heard him going on and on about my sister,” Sam says. “How she won the whole meet. How she’s so fast. How she’s the best. I could feel his pride oozing through the stupid phone.” She pauses. “I love my sister. But I don’t get why he can’t be proud of both of us.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “Winning is the only thing he understands. The only way he’ll ever be proud of me.”

  I hug my friend. We sit until her tears stop. Then we leave our spot in the woods and head back to the team. As we pass all the brightly colored canopies, I see Dad waving us into the squad huddle.

  “Okay, we’re all here now,” he says. “I want you to be the best trapshooters you can be out there today.”

  I think of Sam.

  “Believe in yourselves. Be good sports to your squadmates and the other teams.”