The silence persists. Across the bonfire, people are still chatting and joking and twirling their marshmallow sticks around and around to make sure they get a perfectly even tan on all sides. But by us, there’s just an awkward pause in conversation. Even in movement.
Naomi scoots closer to Betsy. I shouldn’t be surprised. When I do something that she considers embarrassing, Naomi doesn’t stick up for me. We’ve fought about it a million times, but she won’t change. I’m on my own if I do something that makes me look weird.
And I guess peanut butter s’mores are making me look weird.
I take another bite of my masterpiece. It really is so good, I want everyone else to get to try it too. I hold it out to Veena. Maybe the problem is that people just don’t want to put it together themselves? Or feel bad using my peanut butter? But Veena shakes her head and puts a hand on my knee like I need to stop.
“Let’s just do it the regular way,” she says. She looks like she feels bad about it, and I don’t want to make her feel worse, so I stop. I put down the peanut butter s’more that no one will try. And as soon as it’s out of my hand, conversation picks up again, sticks start twirling, Naomi visibly relaxes. “People sort of—they take tradition really seriously,” Veena whispers. “We sort of don’t mess with it. Even if—even if it would be fun to try something new. It’s like . . . no one’s getting a palm tree for Christmas, even though it could be kind of cool, you know?”
I nod. She’s right, about the palm trees.
And even I like traditions.
But I don’t like the itchy way I feel, being stuck making only one kind of s’more even though I can think of twenty different ways to do it.
And I don’t like the looks Naomi’s giving me. Like I already ruined everything in Juniper and I sure better not ruin everything here too.
Veena makes me another regular s’more. It tastes good, but it’s nothing special.
I try to focus on the smell of the fire again, and the way it’s almost cold but not quite—perfect bonfire weather. Dad gives me a few sips of hot chocolate, and it’s warm and rich and makes a lot of things feel better, but not everything.
Definitely not everything.
Someone starts a game of kickball, and Veena tells me I have to be on her team.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m not very good. And I think maybe—I was sort of—people seem sort of mad at me.”
Veena shakes her head. “Mad?” she asks. She shakes her head again, harder this time. “Everyone wants you to play. I’m positive.”
I look to where the game’s begun, far enough from the fire to be safe, but close enough to still be lit up by the flame. A few of the kids wave, and maybe the wave is only for Veena, but I decide it could be for me too.
Veena runs toward them. The way she runs is like her body is air. The way she runs, her hair looks like a superhero cape behind her. The way she runs makes me want to run too.
So I do. I run right after Veena, and away from the moment we were just in. I run away from the peanut butter s’mores and the funny looks and the itchiness I felt inside. And I run toward something different and better and lit up by the biggest bonfire I’ve ever seen in my life.
When we play, I’m just as good as everyone else.
Better than I’d thought I’d be. Good enough to fit right in.
The best part, though, is the running.
16
Pointed Toes, High Leaps
In the morning, I try to think about kickball and my fast feet moving across the ground. But really I’m still thinking about the s’mores.
“Why do you and Dad and Naomi know how to do everything right here, but I don’t?” I ask Mom over a buttery lemon scone.
“Oh, honey,” Mom says. “You’re doing a great job. Being new is hard.”
“I feel like I keep messing up.”
Mom waves her hand, which is something she often does when I say things that hint at me being sad or lonely or mad. I know trying to talk about it will just make her try to talk about a hundred other things instead.
“I think it’s time for you girls to go to the Welcoming Center. I’ll take you after school, okay? Things will be much easier after that, I promise.”
I can’t imagine what might be at the Welcoming Center that would make being new in this mysterious world easier. Maybe a rule book? A class?
“We can’t go today,” Naomi says. “There’s my gymnastics meet.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Mom says. “Well, then, after school tomorrow. After you become an Eventown gymnastics champion.”
Naomi blushes and I give her a one-armed hug. She squeezes me back, and I think maybe she’s even more relieved than I am that there’s something to help me do a better job at knowing how to fit in.
In school, no one brings up my missteps from last night, so I try to let them go and focus on History of Eventown. We’re learning about how Eventown came into being, and I laugh when I hear Ms. Applebet say the name of the Eventown founder. I ask her to repeat it, to make sure I heard her right.
“Jasper Plimmswood,” she says, liking the way the syllables fit together almost as much as I do, I think.
“I like it,” I say. Everyone laughs, but not at me. They laugh and nod, like they’re all hearing what I’m hearing in his name.
“It’s a good one,” Ms. Applebet says. “And he was a special man. He lived in a town that got hit by a massive hurricane. His home was destroyed. His neighbors’ homes too. It was a tragedy for his little corner of the world.”
“What’s a hurricane?” Charlie asks.
“That’s a question for science class,” Ms. Applebet says with a sigh. “But it’s a type of weather that can do a lot of damage to homes and even the people in them. We don’t have them here.”
Charlie nods, relieved.
“Anyway,” Ms. Applebet continues, “Jasper Plimmswood brought his family and his neighbors to Eventown, in the hopes of a fresh start. He wanted everyone to start over, and to let go of the pain of their past, the tragedy of the hurricane. He founded Eventown on the hope that even if something terrible happens, there’s always a new leaf to turn over.”
“We’re going to study more about Jasper Plimmswood over the next few weeks. And learn more about all the things he did to make Eventown the special place it is today.”
I think I’ll be happy just hearing his name over and over the next few weeks.
Plus, I’m ahead of my classmates already, because I know what a hurricane is. “Naomi,” I whisper when Ms. Applebet has her back turned. “Remember the hurricane in Juniper? When our tree came down?”
Naomi nods, but she doesn’t offer up her own memories, the way we usually do when we’re remembering the things that have happened to us together. I want her to remember something else—the way she stood in the rain, even when Mom was yelling at her to come inside, how we painted pictures of the hurricane as if it were a real person, the moment when all the lights went out and Mom screamed so loud she made the rest of us scream too. Naomi and I have told the story of the hurricane a thousand times before, and we always share the load.
This time, though, she leaves the whole entire story to me.
I don’t like it as much when it’s only mine and not ours.
If she won’t share the story with me, it’s almost like I have no one at all.
The thought gets stuck in my throat, with the embarrassment of last night and the wish of being a butterfly and a dozen other things I’ve tried to swallow down so that we can belong.
I hope that Mom’s right, and after the Welcoming Center, I won’t have to work so hard to fit in.
When we get to Naomi’s meet after school, the gym is packed—I think almost all of Eventown must be in here.
“Is gymnastics this popular?” I whisper to Veena.
“As popular as anything else!” she says, and I want to ask what that means, but a bunch of kids from our class say hi, and Mom and Dad are set up across the gy
m, so I wave to them and decide not to ask any more questions.
Every girl on the floor is wearing a different color leotard. Naomi’s is a bright blue and I’d say it looks great on her, but that might be bragging since it would look great on me too. They’re doing the beam first, and all six of them line up near the apparatus. Naomi’s third, right in the middle, which I think is a good place to be. She can check out her competition, and by the time she goes, everyone will be prepared to be amazed by her. And everyone who goes after her will be a letdown.
I sit on my hands to keep them from dancing around in excitement. I love watching my sister and I love watching other people watch her too.
The first girl on beam is in pink and she does a pretty routine filled with pirouettes and a double cartwheel and a back handspring and finger flourishes and high leaps. It’s good. She does every move precisely. There isn’t a single wobble. But her mouth is in this straight line when she does it, and there’s no sweat on her brow, no eyes staring down the beam the way I’ve seen Naomi do.
The second girl is in yellow. I’m spacing out a little during the routine, but it looks a lot like the first one. Straight legs. Pointed toes. High leaps. Zero fumbles. She ends with the same dismount, breaks into an identical smile, even, at the end.
“I like their routine this month!” Betsy says, leaning over.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Their routine. I like this one. Last month’s was sort of boring. This one looks complicated. It’s cool,” Betsy says. She sounds the tiniest bit annoyed to be explaining something to me, and I wonder why I can’t seem to stop myself from asking questions. It seems like everyone would be happier with me if I stopped. I try to remember the way it felt out on the lawn with Naomi, when I promised I would stop worrying and try to un-worry, to hope.
It’s hard, though, to be exactly what everyone else wants me to be. Naomi’s good at that. I never have been. And someone once told me that was a good thing.
It doesn’t feel like a good thing right now, though.
It didn’t feel good last night, either.
When it’s Naomi’s turn, I focus on the blue of her leotard and the bounce of her ponytail.
She gets onto the beam like the other girls did, pushing up into a split. It’s gorgeous. There are pirouettes. Double cartwheel. A back handspring. Delicate fingers dancing in the air.
It’s exactly the same as the first two routines. That’s what Betsy meant, I guess. They all do the same routine.
I look for the grit that Naomi usually has. The way she looks at the beam like she will destroy it with her eyes. The way she leans back a little too much at the end of a back handspring, not because she’s lost control but because she’s so happy to have nailed it. I look for her special little flourishes—a tiny kick at the end of a pirouette or a sneaky extra spin.
There’s nothing.
She’s good. She’s perfect. The girls before her were perfect too. Watching them, I forget there even is a beam. No one is anywhere close to falling off or losing their balance. No one veers from the routine. No one forgets a single step.
The audience looks happy watching, but there’s no suspense. No one’s leaning forward in their seat or wringing their hands with worry. Not even me. Across the gym, Mom and Dad are calm too. Smiling. Nodding along with the spins, clapping their hands at the final landing, which Naomi, of course, nails.
Her smile at the end looks smaller than her smiles usually are. More careful.
She waves at me, like she always does at the end of the routine.
But I don’t wave back.
17
Welcome!
The Welcoming Center is very welcoming.
Mom drops us off outside on Tuesday afternoon, after a full day of fun Eventown classes and everyone complimenting Naomi on her routine.
They complimented the other girls too. The same compliments, because they were all exactly the same.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” I ask when Mom tells us to go inside.
“I’ve already been,” she says. “This is just for you. Enjoy yourselves and be good.”
“Wait, why?” I ask. The building looks the opposite of scary, but I still expected Mom to come with us, the way she does for anything official—a doctor’s appointment, signing up for school, the first day of summer camp.
“I can’t go back in,” she says with a little smile. “I’ve already been welcomed. It’s a one-time thing.”
“Why?” I ask again. I can’t think of anywhere else that you’re only allowed to go one time.
“That’s what keeps it so special,” Mom says, like the explanation makes all the sense in the world.
It doesn’t, but maybe I’ll understand it after I’ve been.
I grab Naomi’s hand. It’s a little babyish, but she holds on tight and we don’t let go.
The Welcoming Center is a big wooden building, like a barn, but much larger. It’s yellow with a purple door, and the light hits it exactly right so the whole thing looks kind of magical, like there’s a golden halo around it. Inside there are a few rooms and a loft on the second floor that I’m dying to sneak into. There are streamers and banners everywhere that have been put out just for us. WELCOME, NAOMI AND ELODEE! an enormous silver banner reads. There are pink streamers, Naomi’s favorite color, and green streamers for me. The room is lit up by fairy lights, making the whole place feel both festive and enchanted.
I sort of can’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s better than any birthday party decorations I’ve ever had. It’s so beautiful and over the top that it almost feels impossible.
“This is all for us?” I whisper to Naomi.
She’s so shocked she can’t even reply.
I want to stand still forever and take it in.
“Can we make our house look like this?” Naomi says at last. Her eyes are moon-wide. She shines.
“I love it,” I say.
We’re not even done looking at everything—there are rose-shaped balloons bouncing around all over the place, and “The Eventown Anthem” is playing from a harpsichord in the corner. There’s a large wooden table in the middle of the room that looks like it was made from a tree cut this morning. On it are two steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a cake so big I could practically live in it. I don’t know what’s inside, but the outside looks like vanilla frosting, and blueberries on the top spell out our names.
I know before tasting it, before even smelling it, that it will be delicious.
A black man in a thick oatmeal-colored sweater and a white woman in a red plaid dress approach us. “Welcome!” they say at the same time.
“Thank you!” Naomi and I say back, also at the same time. We all laugh at ourselves for a moment, and I like them both right away. They have that easy sort of kindness. Like they don’t have to say anything or do anything; just the way they stand and look at you and smile and tilt their heads is kind and warm and generous.
“Help yourself to hot cocoa and cake and we’ll all sit down and talk about what to expect this afternoon,” the woman in plaid says. “I’m Christine, and this is Josiah, and we are so happy to have you join our town.”
“Thank you,” Naomi and I say, again in unison, and for the first time in a while, I feel that twin thing between us.
“Every year we pick one family to join our community. It’s a very serious application process, and your family was this year’s selection. Which means there’s something really special about you.”
Naomi and I exchange a glance. This is news to us. It makes sense, though, I guess. Eventown is different from other towns we’ve been to. Other towns look a lot like Juniper, with malls and small houses and too many cars and gas stations and concrete and people who get mad at you when you bump into them by accident or when you climb over them at the movie theater.
Eventown isn’t like that. It’s not like anywhere. And the people here—they’re not like people anywhere else, either. They smile more and they hav
e this ease—like they know how life’s supposed to go, like they know how to be.
I never feel quite like I know how to be.
I don’t say any of this to Christine and Josiah, who are looking at us like we’re supposed to say something but I’m not sure what. I wish Mom had come in with us. She’s good at giving us clues as to what we’re supposed to do.
“Thank you. We’re so grateful,” Naomi says at last. Christine and Josiah light up from this, so I try to think of something similar to say.
“I’m glad you chose us and not some other people!” I say. It’s not quite as elegant as what Naomi said, and I can see that it doesn’t land as well, but they’re still smiling and the whole place still smells like roses and cake, and the harpsichord makes me feel a little like I’m flying around the universe instead of sitting right here.
“You seem like lovely girls, and we know a lot about your parents and, well, your life from before.” She gives us a meaningful look. It makes me squirm. It makes Naomi take a big inhale. “And we’re hoping we can learn a little more about your life before today. Part of our welcoming you to town is making sure you’re able to start fresh here in Eventown. We want to help you say goodbye to everything that made life before hard and we want to know how best to help you get used to things here. I know that can sound scary, but it’s actually sort of a nice process.”
I can’t sit still in my chair. I keep adjusting myself, trying to find a new position, and my feet are dancing without my permission. Naomi is the opposite. She’s a statue.
“It sounds strange, I know,” Josiah says. He laughs a little, and the sound makes me relax. “I moved here from another place too. And when I was welcomed, I was right around your age. I thought the people telling me about the town were nuts.”
Naomi and I let out little laughs. Something in me gives in. Maybe my heart. I like Josiah, and I love that he came here when he was our age. It’s less lonely, knowing there are people like me and Naomi living here still. People who love Eventown so much they stay forever.
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