Crunch.
The raft jolted alarmingly, and one corner sank. The plastic milk jug came undone, its twine tie floating downstream before their eyes. The knots were coming undone. The edge of the raft was sinking. Now it was submerged. Now the raft itself was taking on water. Peter stopped poling and bent down. He cupped his enormous hands together and flung water back into the river. But it was no use. The raft was going under.
CHAPTER THIRTY
HANG ON!
In desperation, Cricket turned back toward the shore.
“Vole!” he shouted. “Voooooooole!”
There was an enormous splashing. The father giant was in the river and upon them. He scooped Peter up and turned toward the shore, Peter struggling in his arms.
Vole heard Cricket’s cries from the deck of the boat where he stood, also frozen. He had watched the entire scene with horror. Firefly was still falling, and there was no sign that she would regain consciousness in time to stop herself. The young fireflies below were crying now.
“No, Firefly, no,” they moaned.
Vole shut his eyes for a moment, sickened as the memory of the flood came rushing back over him. He had lost everything that night: his grandfather, his friends, his entire way of life. Everything.
No, he thought then, not everything.
Vole opened his eyes and pushed himself away from the railing.
“I’m coming!” he heard himself shout. “Hang on!”
Vole had never moved so fast in his life. Remember what you’ve learned, he told himself, remember. Around the deck to the mooring rope he ran, and he knelt on his hind paws and tried desperately to undo the knot. But it was swollen by many years of water and disuse. Vole grabbed his filet knife and sawed through the dense twine. He used all his strength, and the twine broke free.
You’ll know when the time is right, his grandfather had said.
Now was the time. The boat leaped away from the shore as if it had been waiting for this moment, its sail catching the breeze and puffing out white and full. Vole ran to the rudder and began tacking to the sinking raft, using the maneuvers he had taught himself from the River Vole’s Guide.
Now he saw the outline of Cricket, clinging fast to the neck of the rubber duck.
“Hang on, Cricket!” he called, and he glanced up at the heavens.
Firefly was close now. So close. The fireflies and crickets began to chant in unison.
“Save her!”
“Save her!”
“Save her!”
On the shore, Peter’s parents knelt with their backs to Cricket, their arms around their son, trying to soothe him. Peter shook with sobs, trying to break free.
“Don’t let her die!” he screamed. “Don’t let her die!”
Vole was only a foot away from Cricket now. He held on to the rudder with one paw and extended the other to Cricket, but the little cricket shook his head. He was paralyzed with fear, clinging to the duck’s neck.
Vole took a deep breath, calmed his voice, and aimed it directly at Cricket.
“This is it, Cricket,” he said. “You can do this. You can make the catch.”
At that, Cricket stared at Vole, his dark eyes glowing. You can do this. You can make the catch. His legs loosened on the duck’s neck.
“There’s no time left,” said Vole. “Don’t think. Just do it.”
Cricket jumped off the rubber duck’s neck and landed lightly on the deck of the boat. He glanced up and crouched down. Above him glimmered a thousand stars, but he paid no attention to their twinkling. He kept his eyes steady on the tiny firefly floating her way toward him out of the dark.
Let it come to you, he chanted silently. Let it come to you.
Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your eye on the ball.
The cricket and firefly nations watched from the shore. Peter stopped struggling against his parents’ arms and held his breath. Firefly, unconscious, drifted down on the breeze. A little to the left—and Cricket leaped, and now a little to the right—and Cricket leaped, and now back again.
At the exact right moment, he extended his wings and adjusted his footing.
And Firefly fell straight into his wings.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
IS SHE BREATHING?
The world around Cricket and Vole silenced itself, as if every living being in Firefly Hollow were holding its breath at the same time, waiting for Firefly to wake up.
Vole maneuvered the boat back to its hidden berth behind the clump of lilies and dropped anchor in the shallows. His heart pounded. She needs air, he told himself, air and space. He scooped up both Cricket and Firefly in his shaking paws and carried them gently to a smooth patch of sand.
The fireflies amassed above them, a column of light that lit the sand.
“I missed her so much,” one of them wept. “I never told her I missed her.”
“Neither did I,” said another one.
“Me either,” said a third.
The crickets hopped and leaped their way down the shore and gathered beside them. Teacher stood on her hind legs, taller than all the others, Gloria still piggybacked on her carapace.
Everyone waited.
Down the shore, Peter cried and cried.
“Don’t be dead,” he cried. “Please, Firefly, don’t be dead.”
He broke free of his parents and ran down the beach, the mother and father giant following. The three of them stopped on the shore, Peter pushing his way into the crowd next to Firefly, his parents looking in dismay at the raft.
“He’s so upset—he spent weeks working on that raft,” said the mother giant, “and now it’s sinking.”
“Should we try to save it?” said the father giant.
The mother giant nodded. “I’ll go get the duck and the ball,” she said, wading into the water, “and you go after the raft.”
And off they went, never noticing the little creatures gathered on the sand, intent on Firefly.
“Is she dead?” said Peter.
“We don’t know,” said a cricket.
“We hope not,” said a firefly.
There’s a miniature giant right next to us, thought the fireflies and crickets then, and he sees us and hears us.
On an ordinary night, this would be astonishing. But this was not an ordinary night. No one said anything else. Everyone watched and waited as Cricket unclenched his wings. There, on their glimmering outstretched length, lay Firefly. She was a crumpled ball, her wings still folded tight to her body. Her eyes were closed.
Peter reached out his enormous pinkie finger and stroked Firefly’s belly. Nothing. The cricket and firefly nations drew closer. Peter stroked her belly again: nothing.
Then he began to whisper the baseball song.
“Take me out to the ball game
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack
I don’t care if I never get back.”
Firefly’s eyes opened. She stared up, first at Cricket, then around her. Then she tried to sit up and realized that Cricket was holding her in his wings.
“What are you all doing here?” she said.
At that, the firefly and cricket nations let out their collective breath. All around rose the sound of their voices: “She’s alive. Firefly’s alive.”
It was at that moment that Cricket realized exactly what had happened. He’d caught her. He’d caught her! He, Cricket, had held out his wings to Firefly, falling from the sky, and just when it seemed that she would fall straight into the river and drown, he had caught her. This was the catch of his life.
I did it. I did it.
Was this what it felt like to be Yogi Berra?
No. This was better.
He felt a furry paw on his shoulder. Cricket looked up. Vole towered above the cricket nation. But even standing on his hind legs, he came only to Peter’s ankle. Next to Peter, the boat, bobbing lightly on the water, looked like a little paper boat.
“You did it, Cricket,”
said Vole.
“You did it too, Vole,” said Cricket.
“You did what?” said Firefly. “Vole did what?”
She struggled again to sit up, and this time she managed. Then she spread her wings, flexed them, and tried to hoist herself into the air. But she was exhausted beyond measure, and she slipped to the ground and rested on the sand instead.
“Cricket caught you,” said Vole.
“Vole untied the boat,” said Cricket.
“What are you talking about?” said Firefly. “Cricket can’t catch anything but dandelion fluff. And Vole never unties the boat.”
“He did tonight,” said Vole and Cricket together, pointing to each other.
Firefly shook her head, trying to take it all in. She looked down the beach. Peter and the creatures followed her gaze to the mother and the father giants, who were wading back out of the river, empty-handed. All that remained of the raft was the red balloon, bobbing on the surface of the waves. Firefly’s eyes widened. Everything seemed to come back to her at once, and she struggled up to her feet, her spindly legs wobbling beneath her.
“I was trying to fly up to the moon,” she said. “But I failed, didn’t I?”
One of the elders floated forward and cleared her throat.
“No, Firefly,” she said. “You didn’t fail. You flew. Farther than any of us thought possible.”
With that, the smallest of the fireflies pushed forward through the crowd and hovered above Firefly.
“I missed you!” he said. “I was just about to say that when you took off.”
“Me too,” said another firefly. “It’s boring without you around. I’m glad you’re not dead.”
And they all began to talk at once. Firefly looked at them in wonder. She remembered flying up and up and up. She remembered being cold. She remembered stars gathering inside her head. She remembered the sound of Elder’s voice in her head: I’ll be watching over you. She remembered, at the very end, spreading her wings out wide in parachute formation.
Peter rose to his feet and stepped back a few paces. He took in the whole scene. Fireflies buzzed and blinked as they darted back and forth. Crickets leaped and chirped on the sand, cheering in unison.
“Cri-cket!”
“Cri-cket!”
“Cri-cket!”
Then Peter watched as the red balloon broke free from the sunken raft and skimmed away, tugged this way and that on the air currents, until it passed around the bend and disappeared from sight.
The getaway raft was gone.
Charlie was gone.
But Firefly was alive.
Firefly flapped her wings experimentally and lifted herself into the air. She hovered in front of Peter’s face.
“It’s not true, you know,” she said.
“What’s not true?”
“The part in the song that says you don’t care if you never get back.”
She did a loop-de-loop around his head, and then she butted him gently on the nose. “I cared,” she said, before she flew back to the fireflies and crickets.
Peter turned and ran to his parents, who were waiting on the sand and watching him anxiously.
“We couldn’t save the raft, honey,” said his mother.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” said his father. “I tried to grab it, but it was too late.”
“Charlie’s gone forever,” said Peter.
“Yes,” said his father. “He is.”
Peter nodded once, and then he took a deep breath.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay what?” said his father.
“Okay,” said Peter. “I’ll go back to school.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE GRINDING SOUND OF THE SCHOOL BUS
The morning after Cricket’s great catch, the chill in the air was unmistakable.
Soon would come the first hard frost, and then snow would not be far behind. There would be many months of no cricket song, no soft glow in the clearing. Stillness would settle over Firefly Hollow.
The getaway raft was gone.
Peter was going to school.
Firefly and Cricket, battered and bruised, huddled by the rock, listening to Peter’s footsteps—pound, pound, pound—coming down the hall in the giants’ house. They waited while he ate his cereal—clink, clink, clink—and then pushed back his chair—scrape—and put his bowl in the sink—thunk—and ran water into it—ssssssssss.
Then he came out the front door. At the exact same time, the door to the other giants’ house opened, and the new boy, Jack, came trudging out. Peter looked at Firefly and Cricket and gave them a tiny wave. Then he turned to Jack.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Peter.”
The new boy’s face lit up in a smile. He stubbed the toe of his sneaker in the dirt and then looked straight at Peter.
“Who were you waving at?” he said.
“My friends.”
“Where?” said Jack. “I don’t see anyone.”
“They’re right there.”
“A cricket and a bug?” Jack said, pointing.
“Yeah. That’s them.”
The new boy tilted his head.
“I heard about your other friend,” he said. “Charlie. Did you used to play together a lot?”
“Yeah.”
“I could play with you,” offered Jack. “If you want, I mean.”
“Maybe,” said Peter.
Down the sand, the boat moored once again to the white birch, Vole watched the scene unfold. He watched as the boys, their heads down, began to talk. He watched as they talked more, and looked at each other, and nodded and kept talking. He watched as Firefly and Cricket wavered and hopped their way back to the boat, where all three of them sat quietly on the deck.
Next morning Firefly and Cricket hid on a ready-to-burst milkweed pod next to the bus stop so that they could spy safely.
The front door of the giants’ house opened, and Peter, wearing new orange sneakers, ambled out. The blue backpack was slung over his shoulders. The father and mother giants stood on the front porch and watched as he scuffed his way to the bus stop.
Jack’s front door opened, and he ran down the road to where Peter stood waiting. He too was wearing a blue backpack. His mother and father giants joined the other giants on Peter’s front porch, and all four of them waved.
From far off, down the driveway, down the giant road, around the bend of the woods, came the grinding sound of the school bus. The little creatures could feel its vibrations in the very air itself. Firefly couldn’t take it any longer. Peter was standing right there, right next to them. They had to do something, didn’t they? Say something? Were they just going to let him go?
“Come on, Cricket!”
And with that, Firefly ignored her sore wings and flew off toward Peter and Jack. Cricket’s muscles gathered themselves again and
SPROING!
SPROING!
SPROING!
—he followed Firefly’s flight until he landed a foot away from Peter, right on top of a dandelion. The dandelion swayed under his weight, and Cricket shifted from leg to leg, trying to keep his balance.
“Hey,” said Firefly.
She floated back and forth in front of Peter, who was standing next to Jack. His blue backpack hung off his shoulders, and one shoelace of his new orange sneakers was already untied.
“Peter! Can you hear me?”
Cricket balanced on the dandelion and gathered his strength for another leap. LEAP! And there he was, perched on Peter’s orange sneaker. Cricket wrapped his two front legs around one of the eyelets and hung on grimly, braced for the slightest movement.
Grind.
The school bus was coming closer. But Peter didn’t seem to hear them. Or see them. Look at Firefly, zigging and zagging right in front of his face, and he didn’t even blink.
“Should I dive-bomb him?” she called down to Cricket.
From his precarious perch on the sneaker, Cricket nodded.
Firefly backe
d up in the air a few feet, spread her wings, and zoom! She flew straight at Peter’s face. She bounced off his cheek and dropped a few inches in the air before she recovered herself.
Peter blinked. And then he turned to them and focused. Cricket leaped off the sneaker, back onto the milkweed pod, and Firefly did a midair flip. Peter held out his finger, and she alighted on it. He touched her wings very lightly.
“Good-bye, Firefly,” he said.
The school bus was in sight now, lumbering around the bend of the woods. Now the bus was at the end of the long driveway. And then it wheezed to a halt right in front of them all.
The door whooshed open and blew Cricket right off the milkweed pod. He tumbled over and over, his carapace knocking against gravel and packed dirt, until he came to rest upright against the exposed root of the big maple tree. He cleared the dust from his eyes—everything was a blur—and when he could finally see again, he looked up—
—and Peter was gone.
Cricket leaped back up to his milkweed perch and watched Peter through the dusty bus windows as he and Jack made their way to a seat near the back. Firefly buzzed back and forth in the air above Cricket.
“Wait!” she called. “Wait!”
But the bus was so huge. So powerful. There was no way that even the fastest and bravest firefly in the history of the world could keep up with it.
SCRAPE.
Peter waved from behind the window.
“Are you coming back?” called Firefly.
He tilted his head as if he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“Do you promise?” she asked.
Peter put his hands around his mouth and started to call something. But the enormous engine roared into life again, drowning out his words, and then the bus lumbered off down the road, a cloud of dust in its wake.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A KINDRED SPIRIT
Do you think he’s going to keep going to school?” said Firefly.
Cricket pictured the morning just past, and then he pictured tomorrow morning, and all the mornings to come. He pictured the door flying open, and Peter running out, his blue backpack strapped to his back. He pictured Jack running out of his own house down the road, his own blue backpack slung over one shoulder.
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