by Joyce Magnin
“That’s the best on the market,” Dad says. “Top of the line.”
Bud smiles. “Thanks, Pop. It’s terrific.”
“Record us,” Mrs. Tomlinson says with a chuckle in her voice. “Go on, Buddy, record the party.”
“Maybe we could sing,” Mom says.
But Bud shoves the tape recorder back into the box. “Not right now. I have to learn how to use it first.”
That’s a lie. Bud could figure that thing out in two shakes of lamb’s tail. He just doesn’t want to play along.
Then, all of a sudden, Phil Franklin pipes up. He is one of the church deacons who sells insurance the rest of the week and is a total pain in the ass. At least that’s what my dad says. Anyway, Phil Franklin goes, “So Mavis Stearn told me her cousin Kevin got both his legs blown off over there. His truck ran over mines. Said a little kid got killed when it happened.”
Bud’s eyes get wide, while nearly everyone else in the room gasps like a grizzly bear just walked into the room.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Franklin says. “What did I say?”
“Hush now,” Mrs. Lynch says. “None of them boys can be held responsible if civilians die. It’s the government over there using them poor, innocent kids as human shields.”
Bud puts his iced tea glass on the coffee table. “Excuse me. I just need to get some air.”
“You go right ahead, Son,” Mom says. “I’ll get the cake ready.” Then she glares daggers at Mrs. Lynch.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Bud limps to the front door. He crunches the wrapping paper he dropped on the floor. I follow him, even though Dad catches hold of my shirt. “You stay put.”
I yank it away. “No.”
• • •
Bud is standing near my ladder.
“What’s this for? Dad doing some work?”
“I moved to the roof on account of Jelly Bean, Elaine and her stupid flying saucers, and everyone being so sad after the army lost you.”
“Elaine’s still seeing things?” He just ignores the last part.
“Yeah. She sees flying saucers mostly. And eyes.”
“Not much of a reason to move to the roof.”
“I probably would move back now that you’re home, but…” I look at him. He still looks tired. “But what?” he asks.
“But she hates me on account of the pig.”
Bud nods. “Whatcha got up there?”
“Want to see?”
Bud climbs the ladder. I follow, and he helps me over the ridge, even though I don’t need any help. I take it anyway. It’s good to have him home.
“Nice. You got everything you need.”
“Snacks, books, binoculars,” I say.
“But only one chair,” he says. “I call dibs.” He plunks himself into it.
I upend my bucket of snacks and sit near him.
“Lots of stars,” he says, looking at the night sky, which is draped down around us. “It’s really clear now, washed fresh from the rain.”
“You ever gonna tell us how you got lost?”
Bud opens my bag of chips and eats a few. “Don’t think so.”
“That’s OK. It’s like the pig, I guess. I got real sick of talking about it and saying I was sorry.”
“It was an accident,” Bud says. “Right?”
“Not really. I didn’t check the gate like we’re supposed to. I heard Jelly Bean squeal, and I ran back and saw Bubba—”
“That’s all right. I get the picture. You didn’t check twice, and Bubba got the pig.”
“Yeah. I left the gate open.”
“Yeah, I made mistakes too. Over there.”
I grab the binocs and look at the moon. Waiting.
“I guess we both feel sorry for stuff,” he says finally. He takes the binoculars from me. “Ever see the man in the moon?”
“Nah, I keep looking, but I just don’t get it.”
“Me neither. I just don’t get it.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “If it helps, I forgive you.” He hands me back the binoculars.
“Yeah. Same for you. Even if you did make mistakes, that doesn’t mean you’re not my brother anymore. Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
He love-punches my shoulder. “Same goes for you. I think Elaine still loves you too.”
“Maybe.” I look through the binocs. “Maybe we’ll see a flying saucer tonight.”
He laughs a little. “Just stop teasing her about it. She’ll stop seeing them some day.”
“I guess.”
That’s when we hear the ladder rattle against the house. I rush to the side. “It’s Elaine. She’s never been up here. You better help her.”
“Easy,” Bud says. “One rung at a time. Go slow. I’ll help you over the ridge.”
I hear Elaine say, “Stupid tree.”
Then she’s on the roof. She looks out of place, standing there looking at my camp. She doesn’t say anything at first. It’s like she’s trying to get her bearings.
“So what brings you up here?” Bud asks.
“Dad. He asked me to find you. The guests are wondering what happened.”
“Yeah. We better get back to the party.”
Bud looks at me. “You sleeping up here tonight?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I think I want to come back inside.”
Elaine looks me square in the eyes, and for a second, I think I might fall off the roof when she says, “Yeah. School starts soon. You better come inside.”
“OK,” I say. “Mom will probably make me now anyway.”
“Cool,” Elaine says. “Cool.” Then I think I’m gonna cry, but I don’t because of the party and because of Bud.
• • •
The next day, Dad hauls a basket of peaches into the kitchen.
“They ripe?” Mom asks.
“Just ripe enough for ice cream,” Dad says.
I’m sitting at the table eating a tuna sandwich. “Really, Dad? Ice cream?”
He tussles my hair. “Yep. I’m gonna go get rock salt, and we’ll make ice cream after your mother finishes peeling and slicing.”
I look at Mom. She just smiles and says, “I’ll get my knife. Joycie, you can help.”
After I help peel about nine peaches, I look at Mom and say, “Remember the day we got the telegram. The first one?”
She nods but doesn’t say anything.
“I went outside that day and the peach tree was just starting to get her peaches. The flowers were pink and white, and I stood there and watched and then one of the buds broke off the stem and tumbled to the ground. I saw it. It was like super slow-motion. And it made me worry.”
Mom drops more sliced peaches into a bowl. “Why?”
“I was afraid it meant Bud was dead. It felt like everything might die. I thought there’d be no peaches or anything else that is good. Ever again.”
“But Bud is here,” she says. “Home safe and sound. And here are the peaches. The only way for the peaches to grow is if the buds fall off. It’s nature’s way. Some things need to die before other things can grow.”
At first, that doesn’t make sense. I think about Brian’s brother dying. And I think about Jelly Bean. What is growing in their places? Elaine hating me? Sadness? Nothing sweet like peaches. I think about Bud too, even though he didn’t die like Brian’s brother, not completely anyway, but he is definitely not the same Bud.
• • •
A couple of days later, I ride my bike down the alley behind Brian’s house just to see if maybe he changed his mind and came back. No, his house looks like no one lives there anymore.
When I get to the end of the block, I see Beezo standing in the alley. He’s holding a sign, and I remember Brian and his sign. I think of all that happened because I moved to the roof and read Brian�
�s sign.
But even so, I stop to read Beezo’s sign. It says, Kittens. $1.00.
“Whaddja do?” I ask. “Steal them?”
Beezo lets out a noise and says, “Nah, our cat had another litter, and my old man is makin’ us get rid of them. Says they all go to the SPCA if we don’t find homes for them.”
So I drop my bike and go inside Beezo’s garage. Rat’s there with a basket of kittens. Four of them. Pure white, furry and soft, with huge blue eyes. They meow and try to claw out of the basket, but Rat keeps pushing them back.
“Come on,” he says. “You know you can’t resist.”
My eyes light on the scrawny one in the back. She’s nuzzling the basket kind of like Jelly Bean used to nuzzle her cage or Elaine’s neck. This kitten is the only one with a patch of brown, the same color as my mother’s coffee after she adds cream, the same color as the patches on Jelly Bean’s wide middle, the same color as some of the camouflage on Bud’s army pants. And that’s when I know what’s right to do. I reach into my pocket and pull out four quarters from my flying saucer money. “I’ll take the scrawny one. Should be only fifty cents, considering how tiny she is.”
“You’re nuts,” Beezo says. “A buck or go home.”
I ride home with the kitten in one hand, snuggled up against my neck. I steer with the other. I pull into my front yard, drop my bike, and go racing into the house. I dash upstairs, hoping Elaine is in our room. I stand at the doorway and see her sitting on her bed as usual with her sketchbook.
I tuck the kitten under my shirt.
“Hey,” I say. “Whatcha doin’?”
Elaine looks at me for about half a second, but that’s better than before when she wouldn’t look at me at all.
I reach under my shirt and pull out the kitten. I pry one of her claws from my skin, but I don’t care how much it hurts. “Look.” I move closer to her bed. The kitten meows and mews. She sounds a little like Jelly Bean, only softer.
I reach the kitten out to Elaine. “She’s for you. I know I can’t give you Jelly Bean back, but maybe this kitten—”
Elaine doesn’t move. She looks back at her book and scribbles, hard.
“She’s soft,” I say.
I wait for her to at least look at me. Look at the kitten. But she just keeps scribbling.
“Please,” I say.
Finally, Elaine looks at me.
I can see in her eyes that she’s not sure what to do. And I can almost see a neon sign over her head flashing: No. It’s too soon.
But the longer I stand there with the kitten trying to get back inside my shirt, the more faint the sign grows until Poof! It’s gone. I wait for Elaine to make a move. She sets her pencil down.
My heart pounds.
She moves her book to the side.
My heart pounds faster.
“Please? She needs you.”
Elaine reaches out. I see her eyes glisten like she’s really gonna turn on the waterworks now. I place the kitten in her hands, and she pulls it close to her neck. The kitten mews and nuzzles her.
I feel my toes curl like they do when I’m really scared. When I’m not sure if I’m doing or saying the right thing or I have to stand up in front of the whole class and deliver a book report on a book I didn’t finish reading.
“I really am sorry,” I say. “I know I’ll spend my whole life bein’ sorry, but maybe the kitten—”
Elaine looks at me, and I stop talking because I figure I can’t say anything else that would make a nickel’s worth of difference.
“It’s OK,” she says. But she doesn’t say it in the way that makes me feel like I’ve just been brushed aside. I take a deep, shaky breath and let it go.
“She’s really soft and warm and…and…and listen… She’s purring,” I say.
I move closer. Slow. But then I sit next to Elaine, and she all of a sudden pulls me in to her. I hear the kitten purr between us, and I know it really is OK or at least it’s gonna be OK.
And that’s good enough for me. I’ll live with “It’s OK.”
Acknowledgments
Stories rarely come fully formed. They take a lot of hard work and digging to become complete. This was certainly true for Jelly Bean Summer. I knew I wanted to write about this true event from my childhood, but it took the wise counsel of many people to get it just right. First, I need to say think you to the folks at Highlights Writers Workshops who helped me shape and get to the core of the story: the great and wonderful Patti Lee Gauch and the amazing Kathy Erskine. I also need to thank my dear friend Pam Halter who reads every word I ever write before anyone else. My beloved CRUE—an incredible assortment of friends who love and support me and my work and demonstrate the best love and friendship has to offer. I also need to thank my agent Sally Apokedak for getting this book into the best shape possible and then getting it into the hands of my editor, Steve Geck, who further shaped it into the book it is today. I love you all!
About the Author
Jelly Bean Summer is Joyce Magnin’s third book for young readers. Joyce grew up in Westbrook Park, Pennsylvania, which is near Philadelphia. She now lives on the other side of the country in Vancouver, Washington, with her very tiny dog named Minnie. Joyce enjoys books, video games, old movies, and cream soda.
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