My Mixed-Up Berry Blue Summer

by Jennifer Gennari

  “I’m going to help Mom during lunch.” I didn’t say it with much enthusiasm.

  Joe studied my face and then the rain-splattered lake. “Well, if you two want to do a little swimming before we go, there’s time.”

  Luke was off. “I’ll get my suit on!”

  Joe threw a tarp over the wrapped sculpture. “Can you carry this with me down to the motorboat?”

  “Sure.” It was heavy, but I could do it. Joe walked carefully backwards, holding the base while I carried the top. His eyes took in the worry lines around my eyes.

  “What’s up, June?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s hard when someone new moves in,” he observed. “I remember when Camille first lived out here, we had to learn a whole new way of being together.”

  “But she left,” I blurted out.

  Joe walked out on the dock, slowly lowering his end into the boat. He gestured to me to set my end down in the bow. His eye traveled across the bay to the marina shop. “I don’t think Eva’s leaving, if you’re worried. Or hoping.” He grinned. “She and MJ are a good pair. Maybe it’s hard to see.”

  “They’re different.” I tucked the tarp down around the metal piece to keep the rain off.

  “True,” he said. “Eva’s not much of a sailor.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” I scowled. “She’s not much of a dad, either.”

  “Trying to be a father would put extra pressure on a gal, that’s for sure.” He tried to joke, but I didn’t smile. “If you’re looking for guy talk, you can always chat with me.”

  I nodded. Once I had hoped Mom and Joe would marry. It seemed silly now.

  Luke came running down to the dock and right off the edge, into the water. Joe and I both laughed.

  “Go swim,” Joe said. “Everything will be OK.”

  Luke climbed up the path to the granite rock at the tip of the island. “Come on, June! Practice jumping off these rocks.”

  “Piece of cake.” I clambered up next to him. These rocks were only five or six feet above the water. It was easy; I had leapt before.

  “Piece of pie, you mean!” Luke cannonballed.

  “Cowabunga!” I hollered, and followed him in. My heart fluttered only for a moment before I landed. The lake was warm compared to the rainy air, and I sprang back to the surface.

  We jumped about ten more times. And it was true—each jump was easier. All the while, Joe was watching us. That’s what dads do, I thought. And it was nice to think of him as a pretend father, but it wasn’t quite the same as the real thing.

  Chapter Seven

  BY THE TIME I finished the lunch shift at Stillwater Marina, the rain had stopped. Mom and I had worked in companionable silence, but I could tell we were walking around the big things worrying us. I kept thinking about the Costas, and about the “Take Back Vermont” sign. And I wondered if the wedding was still on.

  Mom closed the cover on another paperback and set her glasses high on her nose. Plenty of time to read; it was slow for lunchtime. I counted the sandwiches again: fifteen to start, and there were still ten left.

  It was probably the smell of burned pies keeping everyone away. But then I remembered that Luke had had plenty of sandwiches to choose from before that. Maybe it was time to start paying attention to the newspapers, the way Eva did every morning at breakfast. She recycled them so fast, though, I doubt I could find one. But I knew one place that kept everything.

  “Mom,” I said, “can I go to the library? I could get you some new books.”

  “Sure.” She handed me her just-finished one, along with the others she’d finished this week. “There’s not much going on here.”

  ***

  AS I BIKED toward town, along the lake’s edge, I thought about how nice libraries were for quiet days, days when I didn’t feel like talking to anybody. Ms. Flynn, the librarian, didn’t count: she was sensitive to moods and prone to silence.

  “Hello, June,” she said when she saw me. I plopped the return books on the counter. She grinned. “I see your mom went through her last bunch.”

  I nodded.

  “How is she doing? How are you doing?”

  “Do you keep old newspapers?”

  “It’s all online,” Ms. Flynn said. She showed me how to get to the Burlington Free Press archive web page, and left me alone.

  Where to begin? I typed “gay marriage” in the search box. Some editorials popped up. Not good. I needed facts, not opinions. I tried again, typing “civil union.”

  There it was. Baker v. State. After a lawsuit, the court ordered the legislature to address the couple’s desire to marry. I read around the legal words. The House passed a bill for civil unions on March 17, 2000, then the Senate passed it, and Governor Howard Dean signed the bill into law on April 26. Right around the last softball game of sixth grade.

  I clicked on letters to the editor after April 26. The anger could almost be heard out loud. Sometimes the letter writers used words I didn’t understand, but I knew what they meant. They said that homosexuality was an “abomination” and that AIDS would spread. Some people tolerated gay people living together, but once they wanted to get married and raise children, that was where the letter writers drew the line. I scrolled down to read one letter writer who said that most gays were “pedophiles” and couldn’t be trusted around innocent children. My heart sank. I was one of those kids.

  “I’ve got some flyers to post; where can I put them?” Something familiar about the woman’s tone made me look up. Lauren’s mom was holding a mass of papers and pins in her hand.

  “The public bulletin board is right over there,” Ms. Flynn said. Then she glanced at the notice. “Oh, I’m afraid we can’t post that in the library.”

  “Why not?”

  “The bulletin board is reserved for announcements about meetings or events.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Lauren’s mother huffed. “This is important.”

  “I’m sorry—those are the rules.”

  She leaned into Ms. Flynn. “You’re not changing them on me, are you? Don’t tell me you’re one of those gay lovers.”

  My hands went cold. I moved behind the monitor, hiding my face.

  “Because we’re taking back Vermont, you know. No hordes of homos moving in.”

  “I can’t allow that kind of notice posted,” Ms. Flynn said. I peeked around the computer. A red flush was creeping up her neck.

  “Well, you can’t stop me from handing out flyers. This is a free country.”

  “Yes, I think that’s the point of the civil union law,” Ms. Flynn replied. “All can live as they choose, even if you don’t approve.”

  “Homosexuality is unnatural, especially in the eyes of God,” she said, raising her voice.

  “That’s right,” someone from behind the bestsellers rack said.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to be quiet,” Ms. Flynn said. “This is a library.”

  “Then I’ll pass out my information outside,” Lauren’s mother said. No one else spoke as she humphed out the door.

  I sank low, as if the word “homosexuality” had stuck to my shirt. I hit “home,” zapping the Free Press site I’d been reading.

  Someone had left a book on the table next to me. I picked it up and flipped pages.

  Ms. Flynn came over. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  I dropped the book and pushed in my chair. “Yes, thank you.”

  “It’s good to see you—I’m glad you have time to read in the summer,” she said. “Are you still making pies?”

  I nodded. “I was thinking about entering the fair,” I muttered. That didn’t seem likely anymore; especially now that it looked like Mom was right about lying low.

  “What a great idea! I have some exhibitor handbooks and forms right here. Take one, won’t you?”

  I zipped it into my backpack quickly.

  “And here’s a book for your mom,” she said. “She’s going to like it. Tell her to call
me, OK, June?”

  I pushed open the door, and stopped. A group was gathered around Lauren’s mother. They were standing near the bike rack. Great.

  “I can’t believe the librarian wouldn’t let you post this flyer,” a man was saying. “A library is for information, isn’t it?”

  “Some people don’t know what’s right,” Lauren’s mother said. “Everybody is against gay marriage.”

  Head down, I knelt to unlock my bike, but someone shoved a flyer at me. “Take this home to your mom and dad, dear,” she said. “We need everyone’s support.”

  There, under the black letters, “Take Back Vermont,” it said, “Boycott Gay Businesses.” It named one of our favorite restaurants downtown and then, below that, “Stillwater Marina.”

  I grabbed at the flyer and stood up, shaking. I wanted to take them all and burn them. I wanted to shout, That’s not fair! What did we do to you?

  “Oh, June, it’s you.” Lauren’s mother’s tone changed.

  “Hey, aren’t you the girl that works at the marina?” The man stared at me. “She doesn’t have a father,” he announced to the crowd. “Her mother is gay.”

  I froze.

  “Poor kid,” someone said. “It’s just wrong.”

  An older man agreed. “Queers shouldn’t have children.”

  “If we don’t stop them, homosexuals are going to ruin our state.”

  Lauren’s mother looked me in the eye. “I hope your mother has told you about the dangers of her lifestyle,” she said. “She and Eva could get AIDS! And then you’d be alone.”

  “They don’t have AIDS,” I said. “They are just regular people,” I stammered in to the silence. Everyone stared at me, disapprovingly. I grabbed my bike. “They’re just regular people.”

  I pedaled crazily, ferociously, away from the hateful crowd. I’m just a kid with a mom who happens to be gay. And then I wished she wasn’t. And with that thought, I began to cry, and the wind slid my tears backwards, eddying in my ears.

  Chapter Eight

  “QUEERS SHOULDN’T HAVE children” echoed in my head as soon as I awoke. Images of the boycott flyer and the crowd scene pressed against my closed eyes. I couldn’t tell Mom. If she knew that one of the people had been Lauren’s mom, she’d tell Eva, and then Eva would make a scene. No one would know about Mom, I thought, if it wasn’t for Eva.

  I looked out my window and my mood eased. It was a glass day—that mystical once-in-a-while flat-lake time, perfect for reflection. It was so flat, it looked like you could walk on it, like in winter—though the frozen lake is a different place altogether. You can walk and walk until the horizon disappears in snow and clouds. A flat lake is the opposite—you can see above and below.

  I knew just what to do. I climbed downstairs as quietly as I could, grabbed a bag of stale bread and a muffin.

  “Where are you going?” Mom stood in the doorway, still in her pajamas.

  “To feed the seagulls.” I reached for the door. I wanted to be alone, on the water.

  “Wait,” she said, and then hesitated. “Thanks for going to the library for me.”

  I stared, wondering if she knew what had happened. But her next words made it clear she had no idea.

  “I’m sorry for yelling at you about the burned pies.”

  “It’s OK.” I checked outside to see if the lake was still calm.

  Mom put a hand on my shoulder. “Eva and I were talking. In case you were worried, all this backlash doesn’t change our commitment to each other. The ceremony will be August third.”

  “What happened to lying low?” I blurted. “Why do I have to if you aren’t?”

  Mom smiled tightly. “I know you are mad about the pie contest,” she said, “but that puts you in the spotlight. Eva and I are adults, and it’s important for us to go forward. We can’t let politics stand in the way of personal happiness. But you are just a kid, June, and I want you to stay out of it.”

  “That’s impossible!” I jerked angrily away from her. As if I could avoid the hatred for Mom and Eva, and for everything they stood for—what was I supposed to do, never go to the marina shop, the library, the farm stand?

  “I know it’s hard—”

  “If you’re getting married, then I’m entering the fair. I’m not a baby.” I slammed the door.

  “Listen to me!” Mom called after me. “No pie contest!”

  I raced down to the dock but stopped short. There, sitting on the edge, was Eva. The last person I wanted to see. Her back was hunched, her feet in the water. I walked silently over to the canoe and turned it over.

  The noise made Eva turn. “Hi, June.” She paused. “Out for a paddle?”

  I nodded, lifting the bag of stale bread. I couldn’t trust myself to speak.

  She looked up at the sky and then back at me. “Can I come?”

  “Since when do you like boats?” I snapped.

  Her eyes dropped, and I regretted my quick words. I leaned on the oar and looked at the still lake. Eva and Mom were getting married. Could I get along with Eva? The right thing to do, I knew, was to say yes.

  I threw in a second oar. “We have to be quiet,” I said, pulling the canoe along the dock.

  “Of course,” Eva said. She got in, the wrong way, so I had to shift my weight to keep the canoe from tipping. She picked up the paddle and I set the pace, fast and steady.

  With every stroke, I felt calmer and stronger. I steered the boat around the moorings. This I can do, I thought, and watched Eva’s oar dip in and out, keeping the rhythm. The canoe cut through the glass lake. From the back, I steered north, away from Luke’s island—silently moving beyond Stillwater Cove.

  The water was so clear, I could see clam trails breaking the sandy ridges on the lake bottom. I slowed down and listened to the water drip from the end of the paddle. Neither of us spoke.

  A seagull soared overhead. I reached for the bread and let the canoe drift. I handed a slice to Eva. We tossed little pieces in, waiting for the birds to come. And slowly they did.

  Eva threw one piece close to the canoe, and two males reached it at the same time, squawking.

  “What a noisy crowd of birds,” she said.

  “I don’t like crowds,” I said. My mind flicked to that angry mob outside the library.

  “I like dancing in a crowd, but I don’t like a crowd of people in the waiting room, all needing attention,” Eva said. She trailed her hand in the water and looked back at me. I purposefully stared into the water. At first I saw the sandy bottom, counting clams out of habit, and then I let my eyes shift until I saw my reflection. My eyes were so serious, and I saw a grown-up woman looking back at me. Mom is wrong, I thought defiantly. And then, the black, angry letters of the boycott flyer ruined my glass-lake morning. The hateful words replayed in my head—“unnatural, queer, wrong”—louder than the seagulls. I looked at Eva, ripping the bread into small pieces. Her hair was short, the way people expected a lesbian to look.

  I threw a piece of bread, hard. It was a good throw—far away from the canoe. Several seagulls dove for it.

  “Are you getting along with Tina now?” Eva asked.

  I watched the ripples from the canoe roll away. “Yeah.”

  “June.”

  I looked up. Eva’s eyes were serious. “I’m sorry I lost my temper that day at the softball game.”

  “That’s nothing compared to what’s going on now,” I said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Your mom and I are committed to each other.”

  “I’m not talking about the wedding or your fight.” I threw the last chunk of bread in, too big for the birds. Slowly the gulls left, leaving only one swimming nearby, waiting to see if we had anything left to throw.

  “Do you mean the sign?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.” She leaned closer. The canoe tipped, and I shifted to counteract her move.

  “Be careful!”

  Eva gripped either side of the boat. “I wish you wo
uld talk to me, June, about boats, about your friends.”

  I wished she’d turn around again and start paddling. “You don’t get it. You don’t have kids.”

  Eva didn’t move. “I’d like . . . Soon you’ll be my stepdaughter.”

  “Great. Like I’ll go around telling everyone I have two moms!” I grabbed the paddle and started for shore.

  “June, I love—”

  “You know what? You are the whole problem,” I shouted. “Before you moved in, everything was fine. Queers aren’t supposed to have kids anyway!”

  Eva turned white. “How dare you—how dare you say—”

  “That’s what everybody says! What am I supposed to think?” I splashed my oar in again and again, breaking the surface with each violent stroke, recklessly spraying water everywhere. First Mom, now Eva. I wanted to get out, to get back to land. And then I knew what to do.

  I jumped overboard.

  “June!”

  “I’m swimming back,” I said. “You’ll have to paddle back yourself.” I launched into my strongest freestyle stroke, kicking up a fountain of water. Who cares if she can’t J stroke, I thought. I hope it takes her hours.

  Chapter Nine

  IT TOOK HER thirty minutes to get back. She didn’t say anything to Mom, so I didn’t, either. Every now and then I’d catch Eva staring at me hard. I stayed out of the way, not talking to anybody. The problem with not talking, though, is that after a while you get so full of words, they could tumble out at any minute.

  As soon as the sun rose the next morning, I whacked on my weather radio until the familiar announcer’s voice rumbled: “Cloudy, clearing in the afternoon. South wind, ten to twelve knots. Lake temperature, sixty-eight degrees.”

  A good sailing day. I placed the red lens over my flashlight and faced it toward Luke’s island. I needed help.

  Mom and I had made cookies last night. It had been soothing to beat the batter and fill the cookie sheets. Baking together was her way of making peace, but I still couldn’t talk to her. Unspoken worries weighed me down, like too much salt in the dough.