Eventown

by Corey Ann Haydu

  “Oh!” Mom screeches, the all-wrong flavors hitting her nose violently.

  “Gross!” Naomi says. “Did something happen with the garbage?”

  “Hey, now,” Dad says, patting my back. “Your sister and Veena spent all afternoon baking. Don’t be mean.”

  Naomi and Mom stand at the door to the kitchen, eyeing the mess, covering their noses. It doesn’t smell as bad as all that, but in Eventown everything has been sweet and light and delicate. Rosy. So imperfection is especially shocking.

  “I wanted to make something special today,” I say, hoping they’ll agree and understand. I see all over their faces that they don’t, though, and the loneliness sets back in, an old friend that keeps stopping by unannounced.

  Naomi sticks her finger into the frosting and licks it. She cringes. Veena giggles a little, like she’s been doing all day. It only takes Naomi a second to laugh too. Dad shakes his head, a low laugh coming out first, then a loud one, his hand over his belly. Naomi tries to get Mom to lick some off her finger, but Mom runs away squealing, like Naomi and I used to do when we were little and being offered vegetables.

  My heart can’t seem to decide between being hurt by their laughter and wishing I could feel all light and easy and silly and join in with them.

  I hate being stuck between the two emotions, and I hate that they don’t notice me not-laughing and not-squealing and not being one of them.

  I try to muster a smile, and I think it probably comes out as droopy and wrong as the cake, but it will have to do. I don’t want to ruin Naomi’s smile or Mom’s laugh or the way Dad is wiping happy tears from his eyes. So I let my fallen smile stay on my face and try to feel the way they do.

  “Stick to the recipes,” Mom says with a wink after a while.

  But I don’t want to stick to the recipes.

  21

  Shy Tulips

  Monday afternoon, after school, Naomi and I are laid out on a picnic blanket with bowls of blueberries and watercolors like they had at the Welcoming Center. We’re painting rosebushes, and the paintings are coming out great.

  “Someone needs to know,” Naomi says.

  “Hm?”

  “About the interruption. About you not telling all your stories.”

  A little flicker of nerves dances around in my chest. I’m not sure what will happen if we tell someone. “Well, we could tell Veena,” I say, because I know Veena will know what to do.

  “I was thinking Mom and Dad,” Naomi says. “Don’t you think we should let them know?”

  I shake my head. “If it mattered, Josiah and Christine would tell them. They’re really busy anyway, with work. We should just let it be.” I try to sound casual, like the whole thing is no big deal.

  I liked the Welcoming Center. I liked telling my stories. But I don’t want to go back. I don’t feel like telling any more stories.

  Before Naomi can argue, Baxter’s figure casts a shadow over the painting I’m finishing up that focuses on the petals.

  “I didn’t know we had famous artists next door,” he says. Naomi squints, looking up at him. They haven’t met yet. “You must be the other twin,” he says by way of introduction. I can tell she doesn’t like this, but she smiles anyway.

  “Maybe Elodee’s the other twin,” she says. Naomi is funny like this. She says things in such a quiet voice that sometimes people don’t hear the bite in it that I do.

  “Maybe you both are,” Baxter says, and it’s the perfect thing to say because Naomi stops squinting and I start adding a Baxter-shaped figure to my watercolor.

  “This is Baxter,” I say to Naomi. “He’s the one from next door. He’s in high school.”

  “You want to do watercolors?” Naomi asks. She scoots over on the blanket, making room for his long limbs. She lays out a pad of paper and lifts a brush to him.

  “Not usually my thing,” Baxter says. “But why not?”

  “You’re just coming over to say hi?” I ask as he gets himself settled in between us.

  “I wanted to check out your rosebush,” he says. “It looked a little funny.” He points to the rosebush behind us, the one from Juniper. Naomi and I both turn to follow his pointer finger. I hadn’t looked very closely at it today, but I guess he’s right. It looks brighter than the other bushes. The leaves are shinier. The roses are bigger. The bush looks crowded, like there are more blooms than there are supposed to be.

  “Oh,” I say, “how’d you even notice that?”

  “Never seen one like that before,” he says. He’s painting the sky first. I look around to all our rosebushes and all of his and crane my neck to look at the ones across the street too. Every other rosebush in his yard and our yard and the yard across the street matches. I bet if I counted how many blooms were on each one, they would all be the same. I bet if I measured their height and width they’d all come out the same.

  Except ours.

  Naomi blushes, turning very nearly the color of the roses. “That’s so weird,” she says. “Our dad’s a really good gardener. So probably he just knows how to make roses even prettier than they usually are.”

  Baxter smiles, but he doesn’t say anything in return. He paints the sky bluer. It’s not very interesting to paint a sky without clouds, but there aren’t any clouds here, so he just brushes streak after streak of identical blue onto the page.

  “Baxter’s a gardener too,” I tell Naomi. She nods but doesn’t take her eyes from the Juniper rosebush. “Does anyone think your gardening is weird?” I ask our new maybe-friend.

  Baxter tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

  I’m not exactly sure why I’m asking the question, but it feels like something kids might do. Laugh at the things someone else likes.

  “I don’t know, I guess a lot of boys don’t like flowers,” I say with a shrug, and that doesn’t sound quite right either. My dad’s a boy, and he loves flowers. And I think I knew other boys who liked flowers too. I’m almost sure of it, actually.

  “Everyone likes flowers,” Baxter says. “What’s not to like?” He leans close to one of the healthy rosebushes and breathes in the scent.

  “What’s your favorite?” I ask. “Mine’s daisies.”

  “Roses,” Baxter says, with a happy shrug. He shrugs a lot, our maybe-friend. He doesn’t have Veena’s boundless energy or Betsy’s certainty. He has something else that I like, though. I just wish he would talk more.

  “Well, Eventown is the place for you, then,” I say.

  “Roses are my favorite too,” Naomi says. I prickle a little. Naomi’s favorite flower has always been tulips. She used to say they looked shy, like her. Roses are too intense for Naomi. They’re too dramatic. I don’t correct her, though. She’s already out of sorts from the Juniper rosebush looking like it doesn’t quite belong.

  “Do you think someone’s favorite flower tells you something about the person?” I ask Baxter. Naomi doesn’t always like my deep, weird questions, but I feel like Baxter will. He gets up, having finished his blue-sky watercolor. There’s something familiar about the way he holds his body, the way he shifts his weight from side to side with his hands in his pockets, the way he talks to us like we aren’t silly little kids but like he really wants to hang out with us. I look up at him and hope that he wants to talk about weird and deep things with me, that he wants to analyze the meanings of people’s favorite flowers, that he maybe wants to sing at the top of his lungs on a walk through town even though everyone will look at us, that he would tell me to keep making my weird cake even if it tastes awful, even if no one likes it, even if it never ever tastes the way it does in my head.

  I imagine Baxter doing and saying all of these things, and the fantasy of it makes me feel cozy and homey.

  But Baxter—this one, the one right in front of me shifting back and forth with his hands in his pockets—shrugs again. “What would a favorite flower tell you about someone?” he asks.

  I look at Naomi to see if she’ll offer up the anecdote about shy tulips an
d I consider telling him how daisies are sort of wild and sunny and silly like me, but I don’t think he’ll understand.

  Instead, no one says anything at all. We drop it, and I try to put a finger on what feels so wrong about this moment right here, this moment that should be a nice one.

  Baxter tells us to have a good day, and Naomi promises we will, and I stay quiet, quieter than I ever am, because I am never very quiet at all. Naomi goes back to her watercolor. It’s really pretty. Baxter goes back to his side of the yard and hums “The Eventown Anthem” to himself while he pulls a few tiny, almost-not-there-at-all weeds.

  So I’m the only one still looking at the Juniper rosebush. I’m the only one who sees a new bud appear. It pops up, like it’s coming out of nowhere, and it even starts to open. It makes my heart gasp. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen, a perfect little surprise in the middle of a regular day. I wish I could paint the moment, but it’s not the kind of thing you can capture in watercolors.

  I don’t tell Naomi. She wouldn’t like it.

  I almost never have secrets that are entirely mine, but that little bud popping up at the bottom of the rosebush is going to be a secret that’s just mine for now. It feels funny, having it wander around inside me with nowhere else to go.

  I look at Baxter’s painting, and I know exactly what’s missing. I tear a piece of white construction paper into the shape of a messy cloud and lay it on top of Baxter’s picture. A cloud in Baxter’s perfect blue sky. A rosebush crowded with huge flowers. The messy confusion of how my heart feels.

  I don’t think any of it is quite right for Eventown.

  22

  The Eventown Anthem

  “What do you think we’ll play in music today?” I ask Veena on our way into class that Thursday.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “What other songs do you guys know?”

  Veena tilts her head and her forehead scrunches. She opens her mouth to answer, but before she can, Betsy and Naomi come up behind us, giggling about who knows what. Betsy and Naomi have been giggling together a lot. I don’t mind it, I guess, but I’m used to being the main person Naomi giggles with.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  Betsy doesn’t answer. She just keeps giggling.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Naomi says. But I don’t think she will. She’ll forget or tell me it’s not important, and I’ll pretend I don’t think it’s important either. But I’ve noticed lately the way she beams bigger at Betsy than she does at me. And the way she’s started wearing her hair like Betsy’s, too, a center part and a shiny barrette on each side holding the front pieces back.

  “Is Betsy your new twin?” I asked her this morning, when she was making sure the pink clips were even.

  “Of course not!” she said. “You’re my only twin. But isn’t Betsy awesome?”

  I mm-hmmed. And I meant it.

  Mostly.

  Mr. Fountain directs us to our instruments, and the music on our music stands is “The Eventown Anthem” again. It’s the only song we’ve played for the three weeks we’ve been here. I do love the way we all sound playing it, so I chime my triangle with gusto the first time through.

  And the second time through.

  The third too. The anthem sounds like a brook, like a wood nymph running through the forest, like wind chimes. It’s light and quick and perfect for the triangle.

  “Again!” Mr. Fountain says when we’ve finished the third time.

  “Again!” Mr. Fountain says, and we start up again. The melody is the kind that attaches to your brain and doesn’t let go, so I know I’ll be humming it as I make dinner, as I try to bake my special cake again, as I try to fall asleep later tonight.

  Naomi is serious at her cymbals, and even the xylophones sound sophisticated and sweet.

  After the fifth time, I raise my hand.

  “What song are we playing after this one?” I ask. “I think Naomi and I can try to catch up with your other songs too.” I look to Naomi for confirmation and she nods eagerly.

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Fountain asks. He scratches his beard. His bushy eyebrows draw toward each other.

  “What other songs do you guys play? Aside from ‘The Eventown Anthem’?”

  The room goes very, very quiet. Mr. Fountain clears his throat and wrings his hands.

  “Let’s talk after class, girls,” he says.

  “I mean, we love the anthem! But we’re happy to learn anything. We both love our instruments, so we want to try them on different—”

  “After class,” Mr. Fountain says. It isn’t mean, not like Mrs. Jones was when I asked her when my turn to play the triangle would be. But it’s abrupt, like the case is closed, like there’s nothing else to say.

  The other kids shift ever so slightly away from us. They shuffle their papers. They whisper something. Betsy’s blushing. Veena’s putting her fingers to her lips to tell me to be quiet.

  Mr. Fountain raises his hand, and we play the anthem again. We stumble over the harder parts, and the whole thing sounds a little less cheery. But we get through it. And still my triangle sounds like magic.

  The rest of the class is very still after the rocky rendition. They’re all exchanging heavy glances and fidgeting in their chairs. Betsy purses her lips. Veena plays with her necklaces. I am all wrong and I don’t know why I’m wrong. It feels not unlike Monday in our backyard with Baxter looking at the rosebush or the way Naomi’s face made me feel when she first looked at my messy cake or my peanut butter s’mores.

  I am off-center. I am doing everything wrong. And inside, I am fuming at all of it. Mad at myself for not getting things right. Mad at Naomi for not being on the same page as me. Mad even at Mr. Fountain for looking at us funny.

  Naomi’s not mad. She’s not sad either. She doesn’t even look nervous at the mess-up. She just watches Betsy, like Betsy’s movement will tell her everything she needs to know.

  “Why doesn’t everyone head out to recess?” Mr. Fountain says. “Naomi and Elodee, you girls are making such beautiful music, but why don’t we have a quick chat?”

  I swallow hard.

  Naomi and I stay in the room while the rest of the class clears out. I know Naomi must be unhappy that I’ve made us stand out once again, but I can’t apologize because she won’t look at me.

  “Girls,” Mr. Fountain starts before taking a long pause. I get the feeling he hasn’t thought through how to say whatever it is he needs to say. “First of all, welcome. Eventown is happy to have you. Eventown Elementary is happy to have you. And I am very happy to have you. You did great today.”

  We nod and look at the floor. I know he’s being nice, but I’d rather he jump right in and tell us what we did wrong.

  “Are you enjoying it here?” he asks. His bushy eyebrows scrunch up.

  “Yes,” Naomi and I say in unison. Mr. Fountain smiles. People love when twins say things in unison, even if it’s a one-syllable word.

  “And you are lovely musicians,” Mr. Fountain says. He waits, as if he’s asked a question that we have the answer to. But Naomi and I don’t know what to say.

  I try smiling, so he knows how happy we are, how well we fit in. I do it for Naomi, and a little for me too.

  Naomi shifts her weight and accidentally knocks over one of the cymbals. It hits the ground with an epic, echoing crash. I talk too much and Naomi’s clumsy and I love these things about us, but I know Naomi always wants to hide those things away so no one can see everything that makes us different.

  “Sometimes it takes a while to learn about a new place,” Mr. Fountain goes on. “And that’s okay. That’s perfectly understandable.” Again he waits. Again, we have no idea what in the world we’re meant to say.

  Mr. Fountain scratches his beard. I wonder, since it’s so itchy, why he doesn’t just shave it off.

  “Did we do something wrong?” Naomi asks.

  “We didn’t mean to,” I add.

  “Questions are g
reat; don’t get me wrong. But our town is very small. And we’re not always used to questions. You didn’t do anything wrong. But your question surprised me. And I think it confused your classmates.”

  “Which question?” I’m still whispering. I don’t want anyone to hear that we messed up.

  “About playing other songs,” Mr. Fountain says. He says the words delicately, like they are fragile things that he doesn’t want to accidentally shake or drop or break.

  Naomi and I look at each other. It still doesn’t make sense. Was it rude? Did it seem like I didn’t like the song we were playing? I get a flutter of memory—of being in trouble back in Juniper—but the flutter stills, and I can’t even remember who I was in trouble with or what was said to me or what I might have done wrong.

  “The thing is, there aren’t other songs here,” Mr. Fountain says.

  “Oh. We don’t play other songs in music class?” I ask. It seems a little strange—the anthem is nice, but I’d think it would get boring to play the same thing over and over. And what happens when everyone’s mastered that song? Is music class over then? Do you stop taking it? Or maybe we all change instruments and learn how to play “The Eventown Anthem” on every single instrument? That would be okay, I guess.

  Mr. Fountain scratches his beard. He seems tired. The conversation seems like it’s taking a lot out of him. He’s not the upbeat, kind, generous, music-loving guy he was at the beginning of class. “In Eventown. There aren’t other songs in Eventown.”

  “Really?” I ask. “I bet you know this one!” I start to sing a song I love, by the Beatles: “I Will.” “Who knows how long I’ve loved you—”

  “Oh, Elodee,” Mr. Fountain interrupts. “No.” He clears his throat. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and it is strong and sure and calming. “In Eventown we have the anthem. Remember Jasper Plimmswood and the fresh start? ‘The Eventown Anthem’ is the fresh start. ‘The Eventown Anthem’ is enough. More than enough. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” Naomi answers quickly, like it’s a race, and I know I’m meant to say the same thing, but I’m singing the Beatles song in my head. I love that song. My parents played it at their wedding, and we’ve all heard it a billion times. They sang it to us as a lullaby when we were little, and we’ve sung it in the car and in the kitchen and sometimes just walking down the street, almost accidentally, as if our bodies are tuned to the melody automatically.