The Lost Boy's Gift

by Kimberly Willis Holt

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  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  for Christy Ottaviano

  CHAPTER ONE

  A WORLD AWAY

  THERE ARE PLACES where you want to go and places where you want to leave. There are also places where you want to stay. Sometimes you have no choice in the matter. This was the case for a boy named Daniel, who was moving to a street called While-a-Way Lane.

  Daniel was trying to pack, but how do you pack when you don’t want to leave?

  Only some of his stuff was going to their new house because his mother said it was a lot smaller. A cottage, she called it. All week, Daniel tried to pick his favorite things. He started with his rock collection, dumping it into a box. Then he tossed in his slingshot and his skateboard. He packed the only book worth reading, Peter Pan.

  The stuffed animals lay crammed in the back of the closet. He’d grown too old for them. One at a time, he threw them across the room, aiming for the donation box. Maybe this wouldn’t be hard after all. Then he came to Snappy, his stuffed snail. His parents had thought it was funny how he named a snail “Snappy,” since snails aren’t known to move at a quick pace. But he had been a little kid. How was he supposed to know?

  He’d received Snappy on his fourth birthday, the same day his parents moved him to the big bedroom with the four-poster bed down the hall.

  Five years ago the room had seemed so far away from his old room, and the bed had seemed huge. He’d wondered if a dragon could be hiding underneath it.

  Snappy made him feel safer. Daniel liked rubbing his cheek against the soft shell. It felt like velvet. The first night he’d whispered into Snappy’s antennas, “I’m scared.” Snappy had seemed to understand, letting Daniel hold him tight against his chest.

  He stroked the now-faded shell and took a big sniff of the familiar mustiness. Maybe he could use Snappy for a pillow. No, he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He threw Snappy across the room and watched him disappear into the donation box.

  Daniel took time wrapping his sailboat with Bubble Wrap. His dad had purchased the boat on a business trip in Paris, where he said people sailed those remote-controlled toys in the park ponds. He’d promised Daniel one day they would find a nearby pond and try it out.

  Now everything had changed.

  His dad wasn’t going with them to While-a-Way Lane. Last week he moved into a condo downtown. Before his dad walked through their front door for the last time, Daniel asked if they’d still sail the boat together. His dad told him they would, that living apart wouldn’t be much different. But each day that passed felt stranger.

  If his mother weren’t making him move to While-a-Way Lane, he wouldn’t have to decide what to take and leave behind. He could stay in his home. He wouldn’t have to leave behind their staircase with the handrail he slid down every morning for breakfast, and the tall tree he could climb to the very top, where he yelled, “I’m the Champ!”

  Why did she have to change it all?

  He wouldn’t have to say goodbye to his friends.

  Or his dad.

  His mother said While-a-Way Lane was a peaceful street where you could hear the birds chirp. That sounded boring. Daniel loved the noises outside his window—the whining sirens of the fire engines and police cars, the garbage truck’s loud moan, the passenger train’s whistle. Those sounds made him think adventures were happening all around him. He didn’t care about birds chirping. Maybe he didn’t even like birds.

  While-a-Way Lane may have only been across the county, but to Daniel it was a world away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WHILE-A-WAY LANE

  SOME OF THE THINGS that Tilda Butter loved about living on While-a-Way Lane were the sounds—the birds chirping from oak trees, the leaves rustling on windy days, even the ping-panging of Agatha Brown’s piano students across the street. The sounds reminded her that While-a-Way Lane was the very best place to live.

  Tilda didn’t always feel that way about While-a-Way Lane. She remembered the day years ago when she was seven years old and her parents dropped her off at this very house to stay with Aunt Sippy. She watched them walk away toward the train station at the edge of town, her father in his black cape, her mother in her fur wrap. It wasn’t even cold outside that day.

  They were only supposed to be gone for the summer while they toured the country in their opera starring roles. But the show had been a great success and the limited run had turned into a year. Then a decade. Then another, and a few more. For all Tilda knew, her parents could still be taking curtain calls. She hadn’t seen or heard from them in so long, not even on her birthdays. And there had been many, so many that she didn’t bother to put candles on the cake anymore for fear that it might catch fire.

  Aunt Sippy loved Tilda, though, and when she died, she left Tilda her home. This yellow cottage on While-a-Way Lane was the only home Tilda cared to remember.

  The morning her new neighbors were heading to While-a-Way Lane, Tilda had bundles of things to do. She needed to tidy the garden, wash the dishes (there were always dishes in the sink), and do the laundry (piles were always waiting). She hated housework and had no problem avoiding it. She considered it one of the best privileges of being a grown-up and living alone.

  Tilda decided to have a sit in her favorite chair for a few minutes. She should have known better because whenever Tilda settled in her favorite chair, her dog, Fred, took advantage of an irresistible opportunity. A lap.

  Fred loved Tilda’s lap. It was soft and cushy. And her belly had a little roll around the middle that formed a pillow perfect for resting against.

  There was only one problem.

  Fred was not a lapdog. He was a big dog. Or to put it more exactly, he was a big dog who thought he was a lapdog.

  “Oh, Freddie boy, not today.”

  Fred wiggled and circled atop Tilda’s lap, searching for just the right direction to face.

  Tilda put up with all the paw poking and tail smacking because she loved Fred.

  Finally Fred curled up into a tight brown ball (as much as a very large dog is able to do), but his body still spilled over Tilda’s lap with his tail brushing the floor. Now settled, he rested his chin on her head.

  Whenever Fred did that, Tilda’s heart melted into a puddle of cream and she said, “Only for a while, dear boy.”

  She stretched her arm high and scratched the spot between his ears while she craned her head around Fred, watching the comings and goings of While-a-Way Lane outside her window.

  Usually at this hour there would be a child walking slowly, very slowly, to a piano lesson at Agatha Brown’s home across the street, but it was spring break, and most of While-a-Way Lane was off on vacation. The newspaper deliveryman drove by Tilda’s cottage and pitched the paper. It hit her front door and landed with a thump on the mat.

  Fred sighed. Nothing could stir him from this bliss. But a moment later, when Dewey Wonder, the mailman, stopped and the mailbox creaked open, Fred growled and
barked until he heard Dewey’s jeep putter away.

  You might think this all seems very ordinary, or maybe even, like Daniel, you might think While-a-Way Lane is a boring place. But you didn’t look close enough.

  Tilda knew how to look closely. Just as she was wondering who might be her new neighbors, a moving truck backed into the driveway next door. Three men carried item after item into the house. There were the usual sorts of things one would see when someone moves in—bed frames, mattresses, sofa, and chairs.

  “This doesn’t tell me anything about our new neighbors,” Tilda said to Fred.

  But of course, Fred didn’t understand what she was saying. He just understood that Tilda had stopped scratching. He gave out a little whimper.

  Tilda ignored him because she noticed one of the men carrying a blue bicycle. The kind of bicycle a child might ride. “How nice! We will have a young family living next door!”

  Fred gave Tilda a big lick on the cheek because he was now happy. Tilda was scratching him again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FIRST APPEARANCE

  DANIEL AND HIS MOTHER had reached Falling Star Valley, a place he’d never been. On clear days he’d caught a glimpse of the top of Pointy Mountain from his schoolyard, but now here it stood, stretched out before them, guarding the valley, like a skyscraper set in the middle of the city. His mother turned on Wit’s End and drove past his new school. It was just around the corner from their new house.

  “Scitter bum!” Daniel mumbled. Walking distance. He enjoyed riding the city bus to his old school. Bus 333 passed a million interesting things along the way. Businesspeople rushing to work, the loud swishing of the street sweeper, the bakery window filled with stacked cakes. He could probably be at this school in five minutes. The public library was across the street from the school, and to the side of it was a Ferris wheel. It wasn’t moving, though.

  “That’s dumb,” Daniel said. “What good is a Ferris wheel if it doesn’t work?” Then he saw the sign. CLOSED FOR SPRING BREAK.

  When they reached While-a-Way Lane, Daniel decided there was nothing he liked about the street. It didn’t matter that the neighborhood had a clear view of Pointy Mountain. The small cottages resembled dollhouses—purple, blue, yellow, and pink. Nothing like the three-story townhouse he’d lived in all his life.

  Then he noticed a lemonade stand with multicolored flags strung above it. Each flag included a drawing of an animal or an insect. Daniel’s mouth suddenly felt dry. There was another sign: CLOSED FOR SPRING BREAK.

  “The whole town is shut down,” he muttered.

  They hadn’t passed one kid. He rolled down the window to listen for young voices. Not a peep, but there was a whiff of cotton candy in the air. He guessed that would be okay, if he were the sort of person who liked cotton candy. Well, he liked it a little, but only when he went to a circus or a fair. He didn’t want to live on a street that smelled like sticky sweet stuff.

  His mother drove up to their new home. She’d forgotten to mention it was pink. At the yellow cottage next door, a lady wearing a wide straw hat was kneeling at her flower bed near the edge of the yard. A big shaggy dog lay beside her. When Daniel and his mom got out of the car, he could hear the lady talking to someone.

  The dog?

  No, he didn’t think so. She wasn’t looking at him. It seemed to Daniel she was talking to no one.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LOOK CLOSER

  DANIEL WAS NOT LOOKING close enough. Tilda Butter was talking to someone.

  A snake.

  And if Daniel had looked even closer, he would have noticed the snake was talking back.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TEA WITH A SPIDER

  TILDA BUTTER SMILED and waved at the new neighbors. The woman raised her hand, but she didn’t smile back. The boy looked the other way. They walked slowly to their new home as if they wanted to be somewhere else, as if they were dreading opening the door.

  “What do you sssuppossse that’sss all about?” Isadora asked. Even from the ground, a snake notices what is going on above.

  “Not quite sure,” Tilda said. She decided it was best to wait for introductions.

  * * *

  RAIN PATTERED ON TILDA’S ROOF the next morning. A perfect day for toasted buttermilk biscuits with strawberry jam, she thought. It was the first meal Aunt Sippy had made for her, just after her parents clicked the door shut behind them.

  “Everything seems better after you eat a toasted buttermilk biscuit, especially with strawberry jam,” her aunt claimed.

  And she was right. Young Tilda discovered this with the first bite. The sweetness woke up her taste buds and she felt oddly comforted.

  While Tilda ate, Aunt Sippy settled across the table. She wore her long silver hair in two tight braids, and even though she was old, she had freckles sprinkled across her nose.

  “Tell me about your gift,” Aunt Sippy said.

  “Gift?” Tilda had not brought a gift for Aunt Sippy. She wished she had a big box with a red bow and something special inside it for her.

  “I’m sorry,” Tilda had said. “I didn’t bring a gift.”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Sippy told her. “Everyone has a special gift.”

  That day Tilda was confused, and while she nibbled her toasted buttermilk biscuit, she wondered if maybe her parents had tucked a gift for Aunt Sippy in her suitcase. But she knew not to bother looking.

  Then Aunt Sippy had said, “Maybe you haven’t discovered your gift yet. It is up to us to find it, then use it. For a gift should never be wasted.”

  Tilda thought about that day, so long ago, as she put two leftover biscuits in the oven. She rubbed her hands together, waiting for her breakfast and wondering if she had wasted her gift. A moment later, she opened the front door to fetch the newspaper. Before she could step onto the porch, something tiny scampered inside.

  It was him! Spider!

  “The sky is raining frogs and crickets,” Spider said.

  All Tilda could think to say was “I need my umbrella.”

  “A fine howdy-do is that, Miss Butter,” said Spider. “Don’t you have some tea?”

  “Tea?”

  “Earl Grey, orange pekoe, even a drop of jasmine would do.” Then he softened his voice. “Please, my kind friend.”

  “You drink tea?” Tilda had forgotten about the newspaper and the rain. She didn’t know much about Spider. She didn’t much care to know. He had a way of getting on her nerves every time she ran into his webs around her garden. He was a bit pretentious, bragging about his “fine spinning talent.” Spider hadn’t ever stepped inside her home because she had never invited him in.

  “I drink tea every morning,” Spider said. “If I can manage.”

  She hadn’t invited him in this morning either. But Tilda went to her cupboard and pulled out a teacup and saucer, her very best, just as she did whenever she had company.

  “My goodness gracious, ma’am,” Spider said. “Do you want me to drown? Don’t you have a thimble?”

  Tilda’s fingers began to prickle. That prickle traveled up her arm and all the way to her face. She was not used to her morning routine being interrupted, especially by Spider. Why couldn’t Isadora have visited instead? She loved hearing about the snake’s adventures. She was so sneaky, sliding in and out of every yard on the street. She knew everything about everyone on While-a-Way Lane.

  Tilda cleared her throat. “Now, see here, tiny gentleman, you are in my house. And—”

  “And a very fine house it is, Miss Butter,” said Spider, using a sugary tone. “Why, look at those curtains framing your kitchen window. Did you happen to get the lovely silk from that little shop around the corner? If so, I’ll have you know, I am acquainted with the McCalaster brothers. They have an excellent reputation. Yes indeed, if you are going to be a silkworm, you’d want to be a McCalaster.”

  “Well, I—” Tilda didn’t know what to say next. She just wished she could remember how to get rid of an unwanted gues
t so she could fetch her newspaper, drink her mug of tea alone, and devour her buttermilk biscuits.

  Unfortunately, Spider knew what to say. “You keep such an immaculate house, not a speck of dirt, not one crumb.”

  Tilda knew it wasn’t so. Her sink was filled with last night’s dishes, her shoes were scattered about, and her entire house needed a good dusting and sweep up. If it weren’t for Fred, her floor would be covered with crumbs.

  “No ants,” continued Spider, who was swinging his front legs in motion across the room and heading toward her table.

  “No,” Tilda said, “no ants. Just one little spider.”

  “I always wanted to be bigger, but it’s not in my DNA. I think I interrupted you. You were looking for your thimble.”

  “Was I?” Tilda asked.

  “Yes,” said Spider. He was on the table now. “You certainly were. But only after you put the kettle on the stove.”

  Tilda didn’t move one inch. She had to figure out this unwanted-guest situation. Where was Fred when she needed him? It didn’t matter. Fred would be of no use at scaring Spider away. The only time he barked was when he saw the mailman, Dewey Wonder. No, Fred would be of no help at all. If only she could communicate with him like she did with almost every other creature on While-a-Way Lane. A gift with such a strange exception. What use was her gift, anyway?

  Spider was the last creature she would have chosen to speak with. How was she going to get rid of him?

  Then a solution came to her. It was so easy, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. A guest comes to your house for something. You give it to them. They leave.

  “Earl Grey or jasmine?” she asked, filling the kettle with water.