Wild Blue Wonder

by Carlie Sorosiak

  Did he just completely change the subject, or are we still talking about his parents? “What?”

  “I was just curious about The Hundreds. You hear about American summer camps in the . . . er . . . the summer. Never in the winter. So what happens?”

  “Not much, really.”

  “I suppose it could be classified as this big, existential question: one of those if-a-tree-falls-in-the-forest things. But surely I’ll find out next week, right?” I look at him askew. “When I’m . . . eating Thanksgiving dinner . . . at your house?”

  I blink.

  “Bugger,” he says. “You didn’t know?”

  It hits me like a sack of fish. Nana. “My grandmother invited you, didn’t she?” I don’t intend to say this out loud, or meanly . . . but what will he think of the Sad Sawyer Family? And I’m just not up for making new friends. I’m not sure I even know how to make new friends anymore.

  Alexander grimaces. “She bumped into us in the frozen aisle at Hannaford . . . and . . . What did she say, exactly? Something about not missing an American tradition . . . But it’s okay, it’s completely fine, we don’t have to come, we—”

  “No, I’m sorry.” And I am. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

  “If it helps matters, I can dress like one of your countrymen for the occasion. Perhaps an American flag T-shirt?”

  I manage a smile. “Only if you pair it with a fanny pack.”

  “But in all seriousness—”

  “Who says that fanny packs aren’t serious?”

  “—we won’t come if it’s in any way a problem. We British are nothing if not outrageously polite. Once, I accidentally pushed the button for the wrong stop at the bus, and I got off even though I knew it was the wrong stop, so I wouldn’t disturb the other travelers. I walked a mile home in the rain.”

  “That is a really weirdly sad story.”

  I appraise the situation: If Alexander comes to Thanksgiving, he’ll walk directly into a hot pot of tension. But if I say no, I’ll look like an asshole . . . and there’s a small part of me that actually wants him there. He’s funny. He’s a little bit charming. And even with his nervousness, something about him . . . settles me. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because of his nervousness that I feel calm. All his fumbling over words and awkward movements suggest that I’m not the only one who’s struggling; I’m not the only one who thinks the world is a sweater that’s three sizes too tight.

  “Okay, yeah,” I say. “See you at Thanksgiving.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Brilliant,” he says, a smile inching up his face, and I wonder what the hell Nana’s just gotten me into.

  After school, Hana and I find her already in the barn, slats of filtered light laying tracks along the dusty ground. She’s on her knees, prying open tubes of epoxy mix. For the first time in years, her hair’s in a loose, gray braid that sweeps along her shoulders, instead of up in a bun; how the pencils manage to stay in is beyond me.

  I drop my backpack by one of the other boats. “The new boy, Nana? Really?”

  “He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?”

  Hana concurs. “I really like him.”

  “Totally not the point.”

  “I just thought,” Nana says, rising and dusting off her knees, “that as good neighbors, we can’t let our obligations stray, especially for their first Thanksgiving in America.” She’s unable to control a sly smile.

  “But you hate Thanksgiving,” I point out.

  Her eyebrows crinkle at me. “Since when?”

  “Since literally every year when you give us that speech about the massacre of Native Peoples by vicious Pilgrims with smallpox blankets, and how Thanksgiving is a commercial holiday perpetuated by greeting-card and mass-market food companies to trick us into excess consumption, and then you and Dad argue about canned cranberry sauce because he likes the perfect rings in the jelly and you think that aluminum cans give us Alzheimer’s, and—”

  She holds up a hand to silence me. “Point made. I show your dad new studies every darn year and it doesn’t seem to make a bit of difference. . . .”

  “See!”

  Nana rolls her eyes, and I’m vaguely sure that grandmas aren’t supposed to do that. “It’s going to be fine, Cookie. I promise you—it will be fine.”

  “How can you say that? You know our family. You know what we’re like now.”

  At this point, Hana wanders off a bit to give us our privacy.

  “I’m very well aware,” Nana says, blowing on her hands to warm them. “However, everyone will be on their best behavior, I can assure you.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Now, I ordered the new engine shaft and propeller this afternoon, and there are some extra epoxy scrapers in the Time Machine. They’re in the trunk, in a box marked Quinn Should Forgive Her Grandmother.”

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Twenty-five percent forgiven.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Effectively, that was that. I decided to banish the Alexander’s-coming-to-Thanksgiving thought with a swift mind kick and deal with it when the time came.

  But the time came really, really quickly.

  The first days of Thanksgiving break passed in a blur of epoxying all the holes in the Chris-Craft, fixing the dent in the bow, fastening nails, and installing the new engine shaft and propeller. We fell into a routine: up early in the mornings, Hana over midafternoon, Motown in the evenings, until the boat started to look incredibly seaworthy.

  By Thanksgiving Day, we have it completely sanded and prepped for paint and varnish . . . but I still haven’t been inside it. Nana and Hana have done all the interior work. You gotta bite the bullet sometime, Cookie, Nana is fond of reminding me.

  But not now.

  Not today.

  Today, I shroud the Chris-Craft in blue tarp, shake the wood dust from my hair, and sift through six outfit options before settling on a chunky beige sweater and my cleanest pair of jeans. Across our bedroom, Fern’s putting the finishing touches on her makeup; she’s dressed in crushed red velvet with knee-high socks.

  “You look pretty” slips out before I can drag it back.

  She eyes me, pauses. “I guess you don’t look terrible, either.”

  I’ll take it.

  In the kitchen, Mom’s just finished setting out the construction-paper turkeys made from our kindergarten handprints, and Galileo’s already on the countertop (thinking he’s so, so stealthy that no one notices), sniffing at the oven door, where a turkey has been overbaking for the last hour. Someone has stuffed yellow and red feathers into Galileo’s collar, and I’m counting down the time until he consumes said feathers and subsequently vomits them onto the feet of our guests.

  Our guests.

  Who are at the door right now.

  Who are knocking once, twice, three times.

  “Oh God,” I say. “They’re here.”

  Mom draws out an “Okaaay,” like she’s waiting for the bad news. Oh God, they’re here, and I forgot to tell you they have rabies. What am I supposed to say? That I’m afraid my barely functioning family will scar them permanently? That the first and last time I saw Alexander’s grandmother, I was trespassing with Hana, who thought she was a ghost? “Get the door, please,” Mom prods, wiping her hands on a dishcloth, then on her shawl.

  “Could I maybe—”

  “Quinn. Door.”

  When I finally swing it open, I notice that there’s a heavenly scented dish in Mrs. Kostopoulos’s hands. She’s wearing a fashionable white coat, a white dress, and a blue ceramic eye on her necklace—which is half cool, half heebie-jeebies galore.

  And Alexander—he’s stepping forward to greet me, kissing me quickly on both cheeks before I even know what’s coming. “Charoúmeni Iméra ton Efcharistión,” he says, then in English: “Happy Thanksgiving.” The double kiss has me shaking my head slightly, like the kisses will fall right off.

  He gesture
s to the American flag T-shirt under his peacoat. “I’m dressed for the occasion.”

  I let out a laugh—can’t hold it in.

  Mrs. Kostopoulos passes Alexander the dish, kissing me twice as well, and then she reaches out and takes one of my hands with both of hers, her palms squishy as sponges and seriously warm. “Chaírete,” she says, which means . . . hello? I think? The melody of her voice is very soothing, like it was made to sing lullabies. Dropping my hand, she pulls a small jar, thick with amber filling, from her canvas purse. “You must be Quinn. Please, call me Theia.”

  “Theia,” I repeat.

  She pushes the jar of honey into my hands. “I brought a few with me from Greece, from my hives.”

  “Wow, thank you.” There’s even a honeycomb floating in the middle. “Well, come on in. Kitchen’s to the—”

  But Mom’s quicker. “Hello! Hi, hi. Come into the kitchen. Oh, you must be freezing, and LOOK, you’ve brought food AND honey, how great—welcome! Welcome. I’m Jade.” This is why campers give her all the gold stars: her energy is infectious. Alexander seems to be enjoying the fanfare. In the kitchen, he passes Mom the steaming dish like they’re exchanging some sort of treaty.

  “It’s moussaká,” he explains. “Baked meat, eggplant . . . I . . . er . . . know it’s not traditional Thanksgiving food . . .”

  Mom beams. “You’ll learn that very few things are traditional about our family.” And the Understatement of the Year Award goes to . . . “This is perfect. Would either of you like something to drink?”

  And so begin the festivities. At least none of our other kooky relatives are popping from the woodwork: Uncle Rasmussen with his banjo, Cousin Ben and his wolverine sock puppets. Fern offers a polite but halfhearted hello, retreating to the just-set table and texting an endless stream of messages on her phone, probably to Harper: Family holidays = shoot me now. Dad is gregarious as usual, and Nana’s her chipper self. But Reed is . . . surprising.

  When Mom calls him down from playing Dark Ops Resolution, he’s hatless. Gruff-less.

  “Hello,” Alexander says, stretching out for a handshake. “I’ve . . . yes, I believe I’ve seen you around.”

  “Yeah.” Reed awkwardly returns the shake. “I’ve seen you, too. Nice to meet you.” Five seconds later, Reed still hasn’t bolted, his modus operandi now: exiting with a swiftness rarely seen outside of dogs chasing squirrels.

  “Alexander brought moussaká,” I blurt, trying to hold on to the moment.

  And I see it—so brief it’s like the flash of passing headlights: a smile from Reed. “I was wondering what that smell was. Thanks, dude.”

  The doorbell rings.

  The doorbell? Are we expecting anyone else?

  Reed says, “I’ll get it,” and the way his tone is like a pack of intensely happy puppies, I can tell who’s waiting on the porch.

  Mom runs over to greet him, too: “Charlie! Welcome, welcome, welcome.”

  Exactly the way she did with Dylan.

  Except Dylan would’ve been here for hours already. He would’ve been sneaking stuffing from cooling pans and telling us the cranberry sauce needs more sugar. He would’ve been kicking our asses at Dark Ops Resolution and doing a victory dance when he won. He would’ve been saying, I should get back to my house . . . but just one more minute, curling up on our couch with his socked feet on the coffee table.

  Alexander says, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  My brain’s only half in the reply. “Hmm?”

  “What exactly are these things hanging around our heads?”

  Oh. Oh, right. Most families don’t have pieces of paper dangling from their rafters on string. One of them is almost tickling my nose.

  “Wishes,” I explain. “From the campers.”

  Alexander reaches a few inches from his face to cup one. “‘I wish,’” he reads, “‘that when my dog Sally pooped, she pooped marshmallows.’”

  “Some of them are more profound than others.”

  “Assemble!” Nana says to us all, like we’re a superhero team. “Eat while it’s hot.” We crowd around the table—Alexander and Theia flanking my sides—and sit as Nana begins her customary Thanksgiving prayer, although the word prayer is a stretch. “Everyone, hold hands.” This is not optional, I’ve learned; how else will the supernatural energy pass between us? To my right, Theia’s hand is still warm, and to my left, Alexander fumbles the handhold. We clash at first, can’t quite figure out if we’re interlocking fingers or not. I worry that my skin is sticky from cranberry sauce. I worry that I’m worrying too much. And when our hands finally meet, I expect us to do what strangers do: stiff fingers, palms hovering millimeters apart. But this is . . . together.

  Nana clears her throat. “We gather here today to thank the Mother for our good health, for our family, for our . . .” I kind of accidentally tune her out, because I can’t stop thinking about Alexander’s palm and how his skin is very much on my skin.

  When the prayer ends, I quickly let go.

  We serve ourselves heaps of turkey, moussaká, yams, cranberry sauce from an aluminum can (Dad: 16, Nana: 0), and mashed potatoes. I’m all about the mash, because (a) AMAZINGNESS, and (b) Fern, Reed, and I used to stuff our mouths full of it and stick our tongues at each other when Mom and Dad weren’t looking. But this year, gotta admit, the moussaká is the star.

  “This is incredible,” Dad says, shoveling in another forkful of eggplant, and oh dear God, he has béchamel sauce in the wisps of his beard.

  “Oh . . . er . . . thank you,” Alexander says. “I can get you the recipe, if you like.”

  “Please do.” I paw at my chin as a signal—Sauce! Beard!—but Dad’s totally oblivious. “So how are you liking Winship, Alexander?”

  “Cone of silence,” Mom adds, literally drawing the shape in the air. “I’ve lived here my whole life, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see its flaws. Maine feels a lot less like ‘Vactionland’ in the winter, and Winshipians don’t necessarily understand people who haven’t lived here forever.”

  Alexander sets down his fork. “It’s . . . I have to admit, it’s quite cold. There is a lovely dinosaur park, though.”

  I smile.

  It’s Charlie who bluntly asks the next question: “So why’d you move here?” My ears perk at this, because honestly, I’ve been wondering the same thing. No one moves to Winship just before the winter. Every time I try to broach the subject, though, Alexander’s like a fish slipping from my hands.

  “Well,” Alexander says. “Right. That’s a . . . that’s a good question. You see . . .”

  Theia steps in. “My good friend Belinda Atwood passed away near the end of October. I was planning on coming to live with her, to take care of her, but we did not make it that far. She was a photographer.”

  I don’t even have to glance over to know that Fern’s eyes snap up from her phone.

  “Quite a famous one,” Theia continues. “We met at the Athens School of Fine Arts, where I was studying to become a potter. When I found out she was sick, that she was barely leaving her house, I knew I had to come. And Alexander came with me.”

  This is remarkably close to the answer Alexander gave me: I . . . you see . . . I came with her.

  But came with her why?

  “Well, it’s so very nice to have you here,” Mom says, hand on heart.

  For the rest of the meal—as we chat about the best places to eat in Winship, about Charlie’s rock-climbing courses—I wonder why, why, why.

  Despite our groundbreaking moments earlier, my brother stays close-lipped until dessert, and when he asks for another piece of Mom’s carrot cake in less than two words, I want to throw my voice across the table and clobber him with it. Speak more! Speak to me! Still, I’ve gotten through the whole sixty-minute Thanksgiving meal without eye daggers from anyone, and this is so much progress that, as Alexander and Theia offer to clean up the plates, I develop a theory: magic moussaká.

  “Quinn,” Mom suggests, “wh
y don’t you show Alexander around while Theia, your grandmother, and I have a chat over coffee?”

  It doesn’t seem optional—more like a directive—so I wave Alexander into the living room, where I say, “This is the living room.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “It’s where we do our living.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “So . . . the rest of the camp, then?”

  We shrug on our coats, scarves, and gloves, and outside the sunset is streaking everything with gold. The last autumn leaves are barely hanging on. Soon, skeleton trees. The birches don’t talk to each other as much during winter—fewer whispers, fewer secrets between them—not like in summer, when they can barely shut up. Especially in contrast to the trees, that blueberry bush is as full as ever, ripe fruit in icebox air.

  As we’re trudging over the slate path through our garden, I consciously lead Alexander away from the blueberry bush, so he doesn’t spot it—how would I explain that?

  He rolls both hands over his stomach. “Is it normal to feel like I have consumed twelve dinners in a single sitting?”

  “If you didn’t feel like that, then I’d have to say you didn’t do it right.”

  “I think I may have to invest in a larger T-shirt.”

  “You can get one in a Black Friday sale. Just try not to get punched out over a plasma TV. . . . Do you have Black Friday in London?”

  “Er . . . yes, sort of. But not on the same scale.”

  “What about, like, other things? Trick-or-treating?”

  “We have that. We just call it ‘flimsy whimsy.’”

  “Really?”

  He grins sheepishly. “No.”

  “That is mean,” I say, returning the grin. “You know I would’ve gone my whole life telling people, ‘In England, they call trick-or-treating flimsy whimsy’?”

  We’ve stopped at the crest of the hill, frigid light sprinkling our shoulders. I’m surprised by how natural this feels: us, bantering back and forth.

  “My friend Edward,” Alexander says, “once convinced an American tourist that Big Ben was originally a sausage factory.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jeez, I hope I’m not that gullible. . . . You must miss them, your friends.”