The Lost Boy's Gift

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  She also wondered what life would be like without a party every night and all the people who attended and stayed until dawn—the trapeze artist who swung from their chandelier, the man who could play the harp and oboe upside down (at the same time), the couple who had been all around the world and spoke seventeen languages. There had been many fascinating people. She knew this because if they could not find anyone to speak with at the party, they settled next to little Tilda and started the conversation with “You may not know this, but I’m a fascinating person.”

  Her parents never gave her a bedtime, so every night she roamed the halls of their massive home and usually fell asleep under a skirted table, listening to the music and laughter. Back then, on that first day at the cottage, she thought about all of those things and wondered how she would do without them. It was the only life she’d ever known.

  Hardly any time passed before Tilda found out that she would do just fine without them. She would do much better than fine on While-a-Way Lane because something much better than fine happened one night when she was on her scooter and discovered the pond. As if being out in the cool night air with the frogs croaking and the scent of lilacs weren’t marvelous enough.

  A flicker of light seemed to come from nowhere. Then two, three. Then a hundred, maybe a thousand. The fireflies surrounded her in such a way that it felt like a hug.

  Have you ever been hugged by fireflies?

  If so, then you know a gift follows those who receive an embrace touched by a thousand lights. The gift does not come packaged like a present with a big bow. No, it’s not the kind of gift you will forget by your next birthday. It is an unexpected gift that will last a lifetime.

  A few weeks after the fireflies incident, young Tilda noticed a lizard sunbathing on Aunt Sippy’s front porch. She had never seen a lizard, so she bent over close to him and said, “Hello, Lizard!”

  Then the lizard raised his head, tilting it to the right, and said, “Hello, Tilda Butter.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EIGHT IS BETTER THAN SIX

  DANIEL THREW PEANUTS to the two squirrels like he did most mornings. His plan to step closer and closer was working. Now they let him get ten feet away before they scampered off.

  After his mother left for work, he locked up the house and headed toward school. He should have been excited because before his dad said goodbye on the phone the other day, he told Daniel he was coming to the play. For some reason, though, there was a knot in his stomach.

  He had gotten halfway down the lane when he heard “Wait up!”

  It was Annie.

  Daniel’s heartbeat raced, one thump tripping over another. He’d never felt that before. He hoped he wasn’t having a heart attack. He tried to say hello, but he couldn’t speak.

  “Are you ready for the play?” she asked.

  “I don’t have any lines to learn.”

  “Well, your role is important. Peter Pan would hardly be worth seeing if there weren’t any lost boys in it.”

  He didn’t remind her that there weren’t supposed to be eight lost boys.

  The magnifying glass stuck out from a side pocket of her backpack. “Do you like living on While-a-Way Lane?”

  “It’s okay,” Daniel said.

  “Have you been down to the pond?”

  Daniel nodded. “My dad and I are going to sail a boat together there after the performance.”

  “A real sailboat?”

  “No,” Daniel said. The pond wasn’t that big. Maybe she wasn’t smart about everything. “A remote-driven one.”

  Annie smiled. “Oh, a small one?”

  “Yep. He bought one for me in Paris. That’s where he is now. But he’ll be back in time.”

  “Is your mom coming to the play, too?”

  There, Daniel thought, that was why he had a knot in his stomach.

  He shrugged and was relieved that they’d reached the school.

  “Your mom is pretty,” she said. “Does she ever make you waffles?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And does she ever put notes on napkins in your lunch?”

  “Yeah.” She was full of questions.

  “My mom used to make me waffles and put notes on my napkins, too. Sounds like my mom was a lot like yours. See you at rehearsal!” Then she took off running up the steps to the school, taking them two at a time.

  Daniel watched her walk through the front door, wondering if she would ever let him look through her magnifying glass.

  * * *

  DANIEL WAS NOT LISTENING closely enough. If he had been, he would have heard the was in Annie’s reference to her mother. For it’s true. Her mom was a lot like Daniel’s. She made waffles, wrote notes on napkins, and rode bikes very slowly so she could see all there was to see. But Annie’s mother was no longer in this world. Now it was just Annie and her dad. He was an absentminded college professor, sometimes wearing one brown shoe and one black shoe to work, and often forgetting where he’d put the eyeglasses that rested on top of his head.

  He loved his daughter very much, but did not know how to make waffles and never had the notion to write a note on any napkin. In spite of all of this, Annie, the Lemonade Girl, was happy. It didn’t occur to her to be any other way.

  * * *

  AFTER SCHOOL, Daniel dashed off to the auditorium. There were only a few more rehearsals. He thought about what Annie said about the lost boys. She was right. How could Peter Pan fight Captain Hook and his pirates without the lost boys? The more he thought about it, he did have an important role. Eight lost boys were better than six.

  Onstage, he studied the stack of crates again. He pictured himself climbing to the top and leaping off. Maybe he would even help Peter Pan fight Captain Hook. Mrs. Garcia’s face flashed in his mind. Nah, he’d just stick with the big jump at the show performance.

  Daniel played the scene over and over again in his head. He couldn’t wait until Saturday, when his dad would watch him up there onstage. He would be awesome. If only he could figure out what to do about his mom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A SECRET

  WHEN THE LIZARD SPOKE to young Tilda, she was frightened. How would you feel if a lizard said hello to you?

  A day later Tilda heard a bunch of mumbling at her feet. She squatted and parted the grass blades, only to find an army of ants carrying a dead beetle upside down. The ants all talked at once as they marched. Tilda leaned in and listened very carefully to hear what they had to say.

  “This way!”

  “No, that way!”

  “This will make a fine dinner!”

  “Lunch!”

  “How much farther?”

  “Where did we leave that hill?”

  “I’m hungry!”

  “Not as hungry as me!”

  Their voices mixed together until they stirred into a loud buzz. Tilda covered her ears. Who knew ants could be so noisy? A few minutes later, a chickadee flew up and rested on a holly branch near the front porch.

  “Are you Tilda Butter?” the chickadee asked.

  Tilda looked around. “Yes,” she said cautiously.

  The chickadee paced back and forth on the branch. “Oh, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

  Then the rest of her family swept down and joined her. “This is Papa, Momma, and Cracker.”

  “Hello,” Tilda said.

  “Hello!” said the three chickadees.

  “And who are you?” Tilda asked.

  “I’m Pip-Tweet.”

  Young Tilda wasn’t so frightened. She loved birds and always wondered what it would be like to fly. And now someone could tell her.

  She asked her new acquaintance, expecting Pip-Tweet to say floating in air, or free as a breeze.

  But Pip-Tweet answered her with a question. “What’s it like to walk?”

  That day, Tilda promised to keep what had happened to herself. No one would ever be able to understand anyway, so she would never, ever tell it. Except to one person.


  When her aunt tucked her in that night, she whispered, “I have a secret.”

  “Oh?” Aunt Sippy whispered back.

  “I can talk to birds and ants and lizards.”

  And instead of saying what any practical adult might say, Aunt Sippy had smiled and said, “Oh, Tilda, you have found your gift.”

  Tilda had not thought about that day for many years. She had been so busy trying to be just like Aunt Sippy that she had not appreciated her own gift.

  “A gift is not to be wasted,” Aunt Sippy had said.

  Now she wondered, had she wasted hers?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE KNOT

  PETER PAN WAS SATURDAY, only three days away. Daniel's dad told him he’d be arriving early that morning from Paris, but he’d be sitting in the front row when the performance started. Then he’d added, “You’re the Champ,” like he used to when they lived together in their old house.

  When Daniel hung up the phone, he ran to his room and jumped on the bed eighty-six times. He would have jumped to a hundred if his mom hadn’t hollered from her room for him to stop. Hearing her voice made that knot in his stomach come back.

  Now all he could think about was his mom and how he’d kept the play a secret from her. It had been easy since the after-school rehearsals ended before she got home. The one Saturday rehearsal they’d had, she’d been at her job orientation. So Daniel hadn’t really lied to her, but why did it feel like a lie?

  If only it was like the old days when the three of them went everywhere together. But it wasn’t. Every time his parents had been in the same room the last year, there’d been a lot of yelling. And his mom always ended up crying. He couldn’t have that on the day he was Lost Boy #8.

  He missed his dad. He missed him so much. His mom got to see Daniel every day. So wasn’t it only fair that he could spend one day with his dad?

  Daniel focused on his plan. His costume was in a sack tucked under his bed next to the box with his boat, waiting for the day to take place.

  He would tell his mom he was going outside to ride his bike, sneaking by her before she noticed the sack and box, and asked about it. He would have to use one hand to steer the bike, since the box would rest on the handlebars.

  Later when he jumped off the crates, everyone would notice him instead of Curly. Especially his dad. Afterward, he and his dad would sail the boat at the pond. One thing he hadn’t quite figured out, though, was how he would explain being gone all afternoon.

  What could be the worst thing that happened? His mom would probably punish him. She might not let him ride his bike for a really long time.

  Was that knot in his stomach ever going to go away? He sure hoped he wasn’t getting sick. He stuck out his tongue and checked his throat in the mirror. Nope. No sign of infection. Maybe he’d go for a bike ride around the block.

  Thinking about that made Daniel remember the fireflies. And that made him feel much better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SOMETHING IN THE WIND

  HAD TILDA WASTED her gift? She had never figured out why being able to communicate with every creature was important. Every creature except for one.

  “I wish I could talk with Fred,” she said aloud.

  Hearing his name, Fred came over to her and settled at her feet. “Well, hello there, Fred. I finally got your attention.” Tilda had made peace with having to share him with Snail now.

  Fred rolled over on his back.

  “Want your belly rubbed?” she asked him.

  She gave him what he wanted and a pat on the head, too. Then a thought came to her. All these years she’d wondered why couldn’t she talk to Fred, and the answer had been right in front of her. She already knew how to communicate with him. No need for her special gift to do that.

  Tilda knew when Fred wanted his belly rubbed. She knew when Fred needed out, when he was hungry for dinner, or wished for a Woof Woof Wafer. She knew when Dewey Wonder was delivering the mail because Fred’s actions told her.

  The wind started to howl, and the bamboo chimes outside her front door rang.

  She checked out the back window and was relieved her hosta was barely moving in the wind because the fence and oak tree were protecting it. The garden show was this Saturday.

  Then Tilda looked out the front window. Some of the leaves on the magnolia tree fluttered to the ground, and the chickadee family flew to a high branch. She thought of Pip-Tweet and wondered if they were her descendants. For years her little friend had returned and nested in Aunt Sippy’s holly.

  The wind raged. The bamboo chimes fell and then a big gust of wind pushed them toward the street.

  Tilda left her chair and went outside to try and retrieve them. Every step she took, the wind chimes moved farther away, finally stopping when they reached the mailbox.

  The chimes seemed to be leading her to something or someone. And they were.

  Poor Spider was holding on for dear life, each leg gripping and stretching as far as it could reach while the web flapped, looking as if it was going to snap off the mailbox frame at any moment.

  “Oh, Spider!” Tilda said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Miss Butter.” His voice came out rickety. “I must steer my ship and stay the course.”

  The wind had caused Tilda’s hair to stand straight up, and her dress blew out like a parachute, but she was thinking only of Spider. “Why don’t you come in for some hot tea until the wind has calmed down?”

  “Tea?” Spider asked.

  Tilda nodded, offering her palm.

  Then Spider spun a thread of web around Tilda’s finger and made his way to a safe harbor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE INVITATION

  DANIEL NOTICED DEWEY WONDER driving away from his home, so he dashed outside to the mailbox. Maybe his dad had sent him a postcard from Paris.

  There was no postcard. It didn’t matter. Daniel would see his dad soon. If his dad said he’d be back in time for the play, he would.

  Tilda Butter waved to him from her yard. Maybe she wasn’t mad at him anymore. “Good day, Daniel! Would you like to take Fred for a walk?”

  She wasn’t mad.

  “Sure!” He dashed across the grass and leapt over her circle of pink flowers.

  “Watch out for the tulips!” Tilda Butter hollered.

  He missed them, of course. He was, after all, Lost Boy #8, the best jumper in the play.

  “Come in while I get Freddie,” she said.

  Inside, Fred was watching Snail, but as soon as Tilda Butter lifted the Woof Woof Wafer jar’s lid, he wobbled off to the kitchen. While she gave Fred the rules about no sprinklers or barbecue stealing, Daniel moved in closer to Snail and told her, “I didn’t invite my mom.”

  Snail moved her antennas, and when she did, a solution came to Daniel. Now he knew what to do. It came to him so quickly that it was as if Snail had told him. In a way she did, because he hadn’t thought of it until he spoke to her.

  He would invite his mom. He’d make an invitation and slip it under her pillow before he left for the play. Like every morning, she would probably make her bed so early she wouldn’t discover it until later, hopefully not until the end of the day, after the play was over and after his dad and he had sailed the boat. At least he would have invited her. He couldn’t help it if she didn’t know in time.

  Tilda Butter had the leash snapped to Fred’s collar, and Fred wagged his tail, focused on Daniel.

  “Fred must really want to go for a walk!” Daniel said.

  Daniel was right. Fred couldn’t wait. A walk with Daniel meant the possibility of ribs.

  Tilda Butter handed over the leash to Daniel. “If you bring him back in ten minutes, nice and dry, with no neighbors’ dinner, there will be a cup of hot cocoa waiting for you.”

  “Deal!” Daniel headed with Fred to the front door. He turned around and asked, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any of that pie, would ya?”

  “That gooey pie?”r />
  Daniel nodded.

  “Sorry,” Tilda said, “not today.”

  “Aw, that’s okay.” Then he started the journey around the block, with his mind fixed on Saturday’s plan while Fred’s head turned right and left, scouting for barbecue grills.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A DATE

  TILDA GLANCED AT THE CLOCK. Dewey Wonder would be arriving soon with the mail. It was the day before the Falling Star Valley Garden Show, and she had decided she would ask Dewey to attend the event with her. She wanted someone special there to clap when she won.

  The mailbox was empty, so that meant she hadn’t missed her chance to see him. She decided to wait. But she did not wait alone.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Butter,” Spider said. “Such a lovely time of day for tea, don’t you agree?”

  “I’m not in much of a mood for that today,” Tilda said. “Although I enjoyed our tea the other day. I might get a lemonade a little later on, though.”

  “Not today,” Spider said in his know-it-all tone.

  “And why is that?” Tilda asked.

  “The Lemonade Girl is at dress rehearsal for the school play. She’s playing some beastly thing with a mop head.”

  “Oh.” Tilda was disappointed.

  “Yes, and so is the pest.”

  How had she missed all of this?

  “When is the play?” she asked the know-it-all.

  “Tomorrow. So perhaps today is a lovely day for tea?”

  “What time?” Tilda asked.

  “The traditional tea time would suit me. Four o’clock?”

  Tilda sighed. “I meant the school performance.”

  “Pity.” Spider sounded disappointed. “Two o’clock.”

  It was the same time as the garden show.

  “How do you know?” she asked Spider.

  “Who lives on While-a-Way Lane that wouldn’t know? Every child passing by is buzzing about it. And their parents, too.”