Ethan flips his hair out of his eyes again and says, “I actually rode my bike here today. It’s super nice out.”
“Me too,” Brenna says. “Except I brought my scooter.”
Birdie chews her bottom lip. “Okay,” she says. “You two go ahead. Be careful crossing the streets.”
“We will,” Brenna promises. She turns to me. “Once your doctor says it’s okay, you’ll be able to ride with us!”
“Yeah.” I grin at them both. “That’ll be fun.”
“Remember to meet me at lunch tomorrow so we can sign each other’s yearbooks,” Ethan says. He pumps his fist in the air and adds, “Last day of school!”
“Last day of school!” Brenna and I chime back, giggling.
I wave goodbye as they head out the door.
38
Change Is Good
A Few Minutes Later
The robotic female voice clicks on again: the library will close in five minutes. Throughout the library, backpacks are zipped shut, people stretch their arms above their heads as they rise from the computer desks, and those two boys from the children’s books corner are following their mother to the checkout stand with stacks of picture books in their arms. The younger brother is hurrying to keep up, even though his shoelace is untied.
I wander over to the front shelves. This is where the library’s new arrivals are put on display, the freshly laminated hardcovers facing out; they stand tall on their top shelves, their pages crisp and unread, their bindings flexible yet strong.
And just below this display, there are several crowded rows of used books for sale. I run my fingertips along the creased, weathered spines. Some of these paperbacks have been through a lot: pages tinted brown from coffee spills, dog-eared corners, highlighted paragraphs and pencil markings in the margins. Some of their covers are torn. Some were published way before I was even born.
And yet, they’re still here. Waiting to share their stories.
I pluck one of the novels from the shelf and fan its yellowed pages open. The book’s spine bends easily in my grasp, folding over itself. I breathe the scents buried inside this book: aged paper, and a hint of spice. Something like nutmeg.
“Maisie!”
I turn toward Mom’s voice. She’s walking briskly, dressed in distressed jeans and a white T-shirt, her black leather purse slung over one shoulder. She got a new haircut recently; she has blunt bangs and long layers now. Her smile is lightbulb bright, and she gives me an excited little wave as she draws closer.
“Hey, sweetie. Ready to go?”
“Yep.” I give her a one-armed hug and return the book to its spot on the shelf.
“I heard back from your auntie Alice,” Mom tells me. “Her flight is officially booked for next month. She’s going to stay with us for a whole week.”
“Awesome!”
“I know! She’s so excited to see you. She hasn’t made it out here since—oh, gosh. Since just before Connor was born?”
“Too long,” I say.
“Way too long,” Mom agrees.
I’ve been talking with my dad’s side of the family a lot lately. Dr. Estrada thought this was a great idea. She’s always telling me to acknowledge my support systems; to reach out to them, and express gratitude to them.
Auntie Alice and I have grown pretty close, for two people who live on opposite sides of the country. We talk on the phone at least once a week, and she texts me funny memes from the internet, or sentimental quotes about the importance of family.
She also agrees with my mom. She thinks I have my dad’s laugh.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” I ask as we follow the crowd exiting the library.
“Ugh,” Mom says as she waves at Birdie. “I’m exhausted from work. And Jack didn’t make it home early enough to cook anything, either, so we were thinking pizza. How does that sound?”
“Sounds good to me.”
I pause. On the wall beside the double doors, there is a bulletin board. Members of the community can add stuff to it, as long as they ask the librarians first. There are advertisements for local children’s theater productions, babysitting jobs, rooms available for rent, the new parks and recreation guide that Brenna mentioned, and a poster of Noelani Pantastico in a simple black leotard, for a recent Pacific Northwest Ballet production called Director’s Choice.
In the left corner of the bulletin board, there is a new flyer with the headline The World Is Your Oyster! In a slightly smaller font beneath these words, it says: Join our new group for young activists, get involved with local politics, and create the change you wish to see! There are several more lines of text, describing some of the issues this group has fought for. And there are photos of them doing stuff in the world: cleaning the litter in Carkeek Park, volunteering in a soup kitchen, marching with picket signs at the capitol building in Olympia.
Mom follows my gaze and says, “I’ve heard of this new coalition. They’re doing some great work.”
“Really?”
“Really. Kids of all ages can get involved. And look,” she says, pointing at the fine print. “They’re having a meeting at this library in two weeks.”
“Huh.” I chew my bottom lip. “Maybe I should go. See what it’s all about.”
Mom grins. “I think that would be great, Maisie. You’re going to have so much free time, once school is out tomorrow. And after we come back from our little weekend trip, of course.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Totally.”
She throws her arm around my shoulders and hugs me tight against her side as we continue on our way out the door.
39
Onward
The Last Day of School
Just before the bell rings, I slip into homeroom and hurry to my seat. The air in here smells of sunscreen and body spray. Everyone is restless and chatting, signing one another’s yearbooks, paper airplanes soaring through the back rows, cell phones buzzing on tabletops. The bell shrieks, and no one seems to notice.
I drop into my chair. I’m dressed in denim shorts and a red T-shirt, and the smooth metal surfaces are a cool shock against my exposed skin. Goose bumps rise along my arms as I settle in and place my book bag on the floor.
Ms. Porter moves to the front of the classroom and claps her hands to get our attention. It takes a few moments for my classmates to quiet down, for the restlessness to turn to stillness.
Ms. Porter grins and says, “Good morning, students. Today marks the end of our journey together. Take a moment to respond to this prompt in your journals, and then we will end a few minutes early to sign yearbooks and say our farewells. Okay?”
There are murmurs and nods. Someone coughs into their elbow. Notebooks are pulled out of backpacks.
I flip through mine to one of the few open pages at the end. Then I squint at the whiteboard, reading the prompt.
Onward
In a continuing forward direction; ahead. Forward in time; toward a point lying ahead in space or time.
Going farther rather than coming to an end or halt.
Synonyms: ahead, forth, forward, on.
My long dark hair spills over my shoulder, brushing the side of my face as I lean forward.
Onward.
I take my time committing this word to paper. I shape each letter with care; I try to space it out all evenly. I draw a slow, wavy line beneath it as I try to figure out how to start this final entry.
And I write: I don’t really know what my future holds. I swallow. Add another line: But that doesn’t scare me as much as it used to.
From there, I start to write about my sessions with Dr. Estrada. How she explained that I was showing symptoms of anxiety and depression. How she has helped me work through these symptoms, to feel more like myself again. To feel more present in my own body. To resist that hollow ache that sometimes tricks me into thinking I don’t matter. Tricks me into thinking I’m a failure. That I will always be a failure. That I’m only a failure. Or that my family doesn’t love me as much as I love th
em. Or that my friends don’t really want to hear from me.
Dr. Estrada helped me see that these negative thoughts were nothing more than that. They were just thoughts. Chemical imbalances in my brain.
I draw a sharp breath. Roll my shoulders.
And then, to lighten things up a bit, I start a new paragraph. And I begin writing about all the great things that might happen in my future. All the possibilities that excite me. Because who knows what could happen? Now that I really am feeling better, now that I feel motivated to get out and do things.
Maybe this summer, I’ll become well enough to ride my bike with Ethan and Brenna. Maybe I’ll get involved with that activist group from the flyer; Mom and Jack would love that. Maybe next year, I’ll have even more friends to sit with during lunch. Maybe I’ll be placed in a creative writing class, my top choice for an elective course. Maybe I’ll go watch another ballet with Hattie and her mom, just like when we went to see Romeo and Juliet. Maybe Eva and I can have a sleepover sometime, to watch the first season of Catriona’s Crown. Maybe someday, I’ll become a writer.
I just don’t know. And not knowing things can be exciting.
“Okay, students!” Ms. Porter calls out, clapping her hands together. “Let’s stop there. I had such a wonderful year with you all. It has been an honor to watch you grow, and I wish you all the best in eighth grade. Feel free to move around and sign each other’s yearbooks until the bell rings.”
The room promptly breaks into chaos. A few students call out their gratitude to Ms. Porter, and everyone is suddenly in motion, laughing with their friends, uncapping markers to write in each other’s yearbooks. I slide my notebook back into my book bag, retrieve the heavy yearbook, and go to the front of the classroom.
Ms. Porter beams at me from the seat at her desk. “Maisie Cannon!” she says. “Just the girl I was hoping to see. How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I murmur. “Will you sign my yearbook?”
“Of course.” She flips through to the staff pages in the back. Starts to pen a message in red ink into the margins by her picture. I politely look away, admiring the potted plants lined up along the edge of her desk. She has a collection of spiky cactuses, mint-green succulents, and orchids.
She finishes her message. Fans her hand above the page to avoid smudging the letters. Then she carefully closes the yearbook and hands it back to me.
“I’ll see you in the fall,” she says with a bright smile. “Have a great summer, Maisie. I’m still rooting for you.”
“Thanks, ma’am. You too.”
I carry the yearbook back to my desk. In the short amount of time we’ve been here, the angle of sun has already changed through the east-facing windows. There is a gleaming puddle of sunlight across the surface of my desk. I set the yearbook down on my desk, the sun heating my back as I flip through to the page she signed.
Ms. Porter wrote: Excited to have you in my creative writing elective next year, Maisie! I look forward to finally reading your words. I already know they will be brilliant.
And now I’m really smiling. Hope is filling me up. I tuck the yearbook into my book bag and zip it shut.
40
Maybe Someday
After the Last Day of School
The final bell rings, and the entire school bursts at the seams.
Normally, I would be on my way to bus 185. But today, I’m meeting my family in the parking lot out front. I exit through the office doors and step into the warm, dizzying sunshine. I lift one hand to my forehead, shielding my eyes from the bright glare. A group of sixth graders races past me on their scooters. Another group of people are waiting to cross the crosswalk. Bees and butterflies zigzag through the air, the trees lining the sidewalk are leafy and full, and the cars throughout the lot are idling and dusted in pollen.
I cross the blacktop, squinting and glancing around myself.
“Maisie!”
I turn toward Jack’s voice. He’s standing beside the open driver’s door, waving both arms above his head to grab my attention.
I hurry in his direction, lifting my bag off my shoulder as I approach. Jack ducks back inside the car. Mom and Connor both turn to me with smiles as I pop the door open and slide in.
“Maisie!” Connor says. “Maisie, look at what happened!” He holds his elbow up for my inspection; a square, peach-colored Band-Aid is pressed against his tanned skin.
I gasp. “Con, are you okay?”
His basketball shorts are smudged with grass stains. His dark hair is all ruffled, and there’s a peculiar spot of dirt on the tip of his chin.
“I fell,” he announces, as if this is something to be proud of. “During our last-day Field Day. But don’t worry,” he adds, reaching across the back seat to pat my knee. “It’s okay. I got back up again.”
“Well. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“And how was your last day of school, Maisie?” Jack asks, peering at me in the rearview mirror. “No falls, I hope?”
“No falls,” I confirm. “But I do have some exciting news.”
Connor gasps and bounces and asks, “What? What happened?” Our parents both turn in their seats to look directly at me.
I give them all a sheepish smile. “It’s not certain,” I say. “But I think Ms. Porter secretly told me that I’m going to be in her creative writing class next year. Just like I wanted. She wrote it in my yearbook.”
My family collectively gasps and cheers. Connor starts clapping. Jack grins at me. Mom says, “That’s wonderful news, sweetie!”
I nod and duck my head. Peek at my phone screen. There are three unread messages: one from Auntie Alice, one from Eva, and one from Hattie.
I open them with my thumb.
Auntie Alice sent me an animated GIF of kids running free from a school bus, with the caption School’s out for summer! Enjoy it! Eva sent me a mirror selfie from the dance supply store in the U District, with a text that says: Getting ready for Chicago! I’m trying out some good old-fashioned Bloch pointe shoes this time. Let’s hope they won’t murder my feet like every other brand does. Hattie sent me a picture of the novel in her lap, and the bags of luggage at her feet. Her text says, Waiting to board my flight to NYC. Thanks again for the book rec. ☺
“Maisie!”
I’m smiling as I say, “One second, Con.”
I tap out quick responses to all three of them. Jack pulls us away from the parking space, and we join the line of traffic leading to the exit. The cars inch along, and someone up ahead is blaring their horn. Mom starts playing an episode of one of her political podcasts, the familiar intro music flowing through the sedan’s speakers. Once I hit send on my final message, I tuck my phone back inside my pocket and turn to my brother.
“Okay, what’s up?”
He gives me an excited little grin. “Do you want to hear even more about Field Day? It was so much fun. We had this huge, super-colorful parachute! And a Hula-Hoop contest! And water balloons!”
I nod along as Connor explains every single activity, every single trip and fall. Because he apparently fell a few times. But he got up every single time, and he keeps telling me over and over about how that’s the most important thing. And about how he learned that from me.
“I really did, Maisie,” he says. “I learn pretty much everything from you.”
I catch Jack’s eye again in the rearview mirror. We share secretive smiles as Connor continues to ramble on and on.
We drive through the crowded, sunny streets of downtown Seattle, and we arrive at the pier just as the Seattle–Bainbridge Island ferry is boarding. A worker directs us onto one of the ramps, and we pull up and squeeze in close to the car in front of us. Jack cuts the engine, and we all climb out.
I trail slightly behind my parents and Connor, who is still obsessed with jellyfish, and is now going on and on about how he hopes we see some floating in the water. And Mom is asking us if we’re hungry. And Jack is holding the door to the stairway open for us. He falls in line behind
me as we go up the echoing steps and into the main cabin of the ferry.
There’s an achy feeling in my throat. A tightness in my chest.
As we move through this ferry with its gleaming floor tiles and its vinyl booths and bolted-down seats, emotions rise up within me, competing for my attention. There’s sadness, as I remember how I felt the last time we boarded this boat. The pain in my knee. The heaviness in my heart. There’s happiness, as I watch Connor take Mom’s hand, as she laughs at something he’s said, as Jack walks by my side. I’m so content right now. So excited to be crossing these waters again. To be heading back to the Olympic Peninsula, to finally see the Elwha River.
It feels like we’ve gotten a second chance. It feels like everything is exactly how it should be right now.
Mom and Connor lead us out onto the blustery, sun-filled deck. My hair whips across my face, and the fabric of my T-shirt tugs and flaps against my torso. The four of us line up along the green-painted railing. The water below is a deep, rippling blue; the sky above is pale and pretty and cloudless. The Seattle skyline looms behind us, all the steel and glass shining like salmon scales in the sunlight. Down at Pier 57, the Great Wheel keeps on spinning.
Jack nudges me with his arm. “How are you doing, Maisie?”
I suck in a breath, surprised by the tears gathering in my eyes. “I’m good,” I say, quickly dabbing at my eyes with the back of my wrist. “I’m great, just . . .”
“Feeling a little emotional?”
“A bit, yeah.”
He nods, understanding. “Your mother and I kind of figured that this trip might stir up some feelings for you, Maisie. Which is why we got you something.”
I blink up at him. “You what?”
Mom clears her throat and reaches into the depths of the tote on her shoulder. She pulls something out and hands it to me.
And the fresh tears come surging back.
Jack chuckles and says, “Well? What do you think?”
Mom says, “After you told us about your desire to take a creative writing class, we thought it was perfect. We hope you like it!”
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