The List of Things That Will Not Change

by Rebecca Stead

  The song started again: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

  Mission turned away and started to walk out of the garden, toward the restaurant, the same way Dad and Jesse had just walked in. We followed with our eyes, and the singing stayed strong.

  At the steps, he turned around, and we could see his face again. We all saw the moment his eyes landed on the cake.

  It was on a round table, which Sheila had covered with a tablecloth. Mission walked over to the table and stared. Lizette’s grandmother had made the cake so beautiful. Tiny flowers all over it. The two tiny grooms standing on top in their suits. Sheila had even painted their ties to match what Jesse and Dad were wearing.

  Dad squeezed my hand. “It’s only a cake,” he said. At first, I thought he was talking to me, but I realized he was talking to Jesse, whose face was like stone.

  We waited. And waited. Mission was still looking at that cake and the love that had been poured all over it. And then he pushed the cake off the table. It fell on the ground. He looked at it for another couple of seconds, like he wasn’t sure it was really down there.

  Everyone stopped singing.

  Uncle Frank stood up, fast, and walked back to where Mission was standing. I wondered if he was going to hit Mission. Dad let go of my hand and started up the aisle toward them, but Jesse said, “Daniel. Don’t.” And Dad stopped halfway there.

  Uncle Frank didn’t hit Mission. He put his face right next to Mission’s and said, “It’s time to go now.”

  I held my breath.

  And then Mission ran up the steps, out of the garden, into the restaurant. From where I stood, I could see all the way through the dining room to the rectangle of sunlight that was the glass door to the sidewalk. I was afraid that Mission would start breaking things in there, but he didn’t. He just kept walking away from us until he stood in the doorway—a man-shaped hole in the light that lasted a few seconds, and then disappeared.

  We all looked around, and it was like waking up from a spell. The three of us—me, Jesse, and Sonia—stood together in front. Dad was still halfway down the aisle. Sonia put her arms around Jesse’s middle, and he gave her a squeeze. Sheila was folded over in her seat with her head resting on her knees. Mom leaned over my empty chair to put her hand on Sheila’s back. No one knew what to do next.

  Uncle Frank went straight to Dad. He took Dad’s hand. Holding on to it, he walked Dad back down the aisle, to us. Their feet on the gravel was the only sound. He gave Dad’s hand to Jesse, who took it. Then Lizette’s grandmother stood up and said, “Let’s get to the important part!”

  Dad said to Jesse, “What do you want to do, honey?”

  Jesse said, “I want to get married, sweetie.”

  And they did. When the judge announced that Dad and Jesse were married, everyone—everyone—stood up and cheered. Sheila didn’t plan that. It just happened.

  Dad and Jesse hugged, then Dad and I hugged and Jesse and Sonia hugged, and then Sonia and I hugged, and I swear our sun necklaces clicked together at the exact moment that she whispered, “Sisters.”

  The day we walked home from school together after the colonial breakfast, Jesse told me a story. He was carrying the bucket full of empty oyster shells, swinging it.

  “Bea. Did I ever tell you that I was a Boy Scout?”

  “You?” I giggled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Don’t they wear little brown suits?”

  He smiled. “They’re uniforms.”

  I giggled again.

  “I loved the Boy Scouts,” Jesse said. “I started when I was little. When I got older, I became a trip leader. We did these wilderness trips in the summertime. I was maybe fourteen when I started doing those. We carried everything we needed, all of our food, the tents, everything, in these giant packs on our backs.”

  “Ugh.”

  “No, it was great. It was amazing. We hiked and climbed and kayaked, and every night we set up our camp and cooked our food. That food tasted unbelievable. Do you know what portage is?”

  I guessed. “Mushrooms?”

  He laughed. “It’s when you carry your kayak over land to get to the next piece of water. We carried those boats over our heads, in teams, for miles. It wasn’t easy.

  “I led those wilderness trips for years, hiking the same trails over and over. Same woods, same hills, same stretches of river. Every trip, we lined the campers up next to the same big rock and took the same picture. But here’s the thing: no two trips were the same. In fact, they were all incredibly different. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the people. The other trip leaders, and the campers who came with us. They were always changing. If you think about it, Bea, life is like a trip. A very long one. And what matters most is the people you travel with.”

  * * *

  —

  I think it’s the same with weddings. There’s a lot that looks the same about them: everyone gets dressed up, says words, eats food, and gives presents. But the people at weddings are always different. And it’s the people who matter. With the right people, you can carry your boat and it doesn’t even feel that heavy.

  The party after a wedding is called a reception. Our reception was supposed to be “food and dancing.” That’s what the invitations said: Followed by food and dancing. But for the first twenty minutes, it was more like “standing around talking and pretending to be happy.” I think everyone was pretending to be extra happy, to make up for what had happened.

  Dad was happy, he told me later. He just wasn’t extra happy.

  They had decided no speeches, because Jesse said speeches took time away from food and dancing. After a while, though, Dad tapped his glass with a spoon, and everyone got quiet right away, like they had been waiting for this.

  Dad said, “I don’t know why good days are sometimes also difficult days, but this is a good, difficult day for our family, and I’m grateful to every person here for sharing both parts of it with us. We love all of you, everyone in this room.” He stopped. Then he said, “Thank you.”

  There was about five seconds of clapping, and then it got quiet again, like something else was supposed to happen.

  I raised my hand. Dad tilted his head and said, “Bea?” It was kind of funny, I guess, me raising my hand like I thought I was in school, but no one laughed.

  I said, “Can I stand on a chair? I want to say something.” I don’t think anyone grown knows what it’s like to be short in a crowd. It’s like a lot of backs.

  Mom was right behind me with a chair. She held my hand while I got up on it. Suddenly I was looking at everyone’s faces.

  That’s when I realized I didn’t know what to say. I waited, like Miriam would have wanted me to. I took a minute. Inside my head, I said: Even though Mission pushed the cake over and made everyone feel bad, especially Jesse and Sheila, I think we should celebrate, because we made a new family today. That’s why we’re here—to see it born. I think we should be dancing.

  What I said out loud was, “We made a new family today. I think we should be dancing.”

  Everyone waited. But I was done.

  Then Sonia yelled, “Let’s dance!” And people laughed.

  Mom was still holding my hand, which I was happy about because I felt wobbly on the chair in my new sandals. And it made me feel less scared about talking. Now she squeezed my fingers—once, twice, three times. And I squeezed back—once, twice. And then she squeezed my hand really hard and reached her arms out to me. I turned and jumped, and she caught me.

  Someone turned on the music, and Dad and Jesse slow-danced in a tiny space we made in the middle of all of us.

  When the music changed, we danced. Everybody. Even Mom.

  We danced for a long time. I danced with Mom, with Jesse, with Dad, and with Angus, who didn’t want to dance
at first, but then once he got started, danced every song. I danced with Lizette and Sonia together, and everyone made a ring around us for a minute. I didn’t dance with Uncle Frank and Aunt Ess, but I saw them dancing together.

  Sheila caught my hand between songs. As soon as I looked at her, she pulled me in for a hug. The next thing I knew, I was crying into her dress. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have invited him!”

  When the music started again, she swayed with me until I stopped crying. Then she held me away from her and said, “It wasn’t a perfect wedding. But I don’t think Jesse has ever felt more loved than he does today. That’s what matters. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, and she said, “Let’s dance, Captain.”

  * * *

  —

  We ate dinner, and then we got up and danced again. Uncle Frank left the restaurant carrying his wineglass and came back with ten boxes of ice cream sandwiches. Dad and Jesse held a big knife together and cut one of them in half like it was a cake. Everyone cheered and the photographer took pictures. And then we danced some more.

  What I remember is that some songs were slow and some were fast, and every time one ended, I closed my eyes and thought, “One more. Please, one more.” And when the next song started, one of those joy balloons blew up inside me.

  And then finally there were no more songs, and people got their purses and jackets from the coat room, but most of them didn’t leave. They stood holding their things and talking, which was fine with me. Some people were helping, bringing glasses into the kitchen or dragging big garbage bags to the sidewalk. I saw Mom at the garden door, looking out into the dark. Dad walked over and they stood together, talking. I watched them until Mom felt my eyes on her back. She can do that. She turned around and waved at me to come.

  I went and stood between them. We looked into the night together, and I saw it right away, even before Mom said, “Look.”

  The moon.

  The thing about making butter is that it feels like it’ll never be done, almost right up to the moment when it is done. If what you want is butter, you have to keep going, even if you only half believe you’ll get there.

  It was like that with Sonia. I wanted a sister so badly, but when she first came, she wasn’t my sister—she was a stranger. And all those nights she fell asleep with her back to me, it felt like she might be a stranger forever. Having a sister was like a dream that was getting further away instead of closer.

  But, somehow, it had happened: we were sisters. And now she was leaving. I was one of the people who understood why she couldn’t stay. Her mom was somewhere else.

  In five weeks, when school was over, she would be back.

  On Sonia’s last night, we pushed her new bed so that it was almost touching mine, with just a crack in between. I got the tape recorder from its hiding place, and we listened to her favorite Grandpa story: Charlotte’s Web. We listened from the beginning right through to the end, without saying one word.

  The ending of that book always makes me sad, but that night it made me really sad. I hoped Sonia couldn’t tell, but I was crying. After a minute, she got up and stood over me, her legs in that tiny space between our beds.

  “Make room,” she said.

  I moved over, and she scooted in next to me. We talked into the darkness, making plans, until we fell asleep. And in the morning, she left.

  You may be asking yourself what this story has to do with the sound of corn growing. The answer isn’t about corn. It’s about two brothers, listening, together. It’s about the kind of love that doesn’t ask you to be anyone but who you are. Dad and Uncle Frank had that kind of love from the beginning. I wish everyone did.

  They could never believe that other people didn’t hear it. The most surprising thing about the sound of corn growing, Dad says, is that it’s loud.

  I want to thank a lot of people:

  My unparalleled editor, Wendy Lamb, and my fantastic agent, Faye Bender, for their constant, loving, and excellent support.

  My wondrous readers, Judy Blundell, Deborah Heiligman, Marthe Jocelyn, Randi Kish, Ros Kish-Levine, David Levithan, and Deborah Stead, for their questions, insights, and encouragement.

  (Double-thanks to Ros for the exclamation points.)

  The Random House Children’s Books group, in particular the clear-eyed Dana Carey, the inexhaustible April Ward, and all the fierce and generous people who help create books and deliver them into the hands of readers, including: Tamar Schwartz, Tracy Heydweiller, Adrienne Waintraub, Lisa Nadel, Hannah Black, Colleen Fellingham, Alison Kolani, John Adamo, Joe English, Dominique Cimina, Jocelyn Lange, Judith Haut, and Barbara Marcus.

  Christopher Silas Neal, for his incredible art.

  Every teacher, librarian, sales rep, and bookseller who makes it the business of life to champion books for children.

  My friends and family, who do so much to make the work of writing both possible and meaningful for me.

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