Out of the Blue

by Sarah Ellis

Betsy was becoming a real whiner. “Oh, all right.”

  “Megan, I have a theory that Princess Mayonnaise is going to get married.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Betsy, you’ve already handed in your story. You beat Kevin Blandings. Why are you still making up things about Mayonnaise?”

  “I just like to think about her. She’s going to have five bridesmaids and one flower girl. The flower girl gets to wear nylons, lipstick, perfume, and nail polish.”

  “I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. Who’s she marrying?”

  “I haven’t made up that part yet. A prince.”

  “I thought she was going to be a superhero.”

  “She still is, but I’m not thinking about that. The flower girl carries a big bunch of tulips and daffodils and those white ones with pink middles.”

  “Does she drop them?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Does she come first down the aisle?”

  Betsy paused. “Does she?”

  “Yes, and everybody stares at her. She can’t make any mistakes.”

  “Well, she doesn’t.”

  “No? She doesn’t have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the wedding? But she can’t leave so she pees her pants?”

  “No! That’s not what happens.”

  Megan laughed. “And the whole wedding has to be called off and the prince sent home?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Okay, okay, just kidding. What really happens?”

  Betsy did not reply.

  “Come on, tell me the rest of the story.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Sheesh, can’t even take a joke. Forget it, then.” Megan patted the edge of her bed and Bumper, with a woof of delight, jumped up beside her.

  “Hey! You’re not allowed to have Bumper on the bed.”

  “So tell.” Megan put her cassette headphones over her ears and turned up the volume loud. Streetlight seeped in along the sides of the dress in the window and fell on Betsy’s shelf of stuffed animals. Their staring eyes glowed. Megan turned to the wall. This room was too crowded. This house was too crowded. This family was too crowded. In her mind she pushed her canoe off from shore and paddled straight ahead toward the line where the ocean falls off the edge of the world.

  Chapter Twelve

  “IF SHE’S COMING, I’M NOT COMING.”

  Megan sat on an overturned bucket in the garage. Dad was kneeling on the floor, painting an eagle onto the side of a huge box kite.

  “But you have to come,” said Dad. “It’s Kite Day. I’ll need your help. Betsy’s too short and Mum doesn’t concentrate.”

  “But why is Natalie coming?”

  Dad squinted as he painted a small yellow dot in the eagle’s eye. “Perfect. There’s a raptor if I ever saw one.” He blew on the eagle eye. “Don’t you think you might get to like Natalie if you knew her a bit better?”

  Megan picked at the scab on her knee. “No.”

  “She’s coming because it’s our chance to meet Franklin the fiancé, apparently.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “What I’m hoping,” said Dad, “is that some kind of brave eagle spirit will get into this kite and save it from . . .”

  “Crashing?” said Megan.

  “Yeah,” said Dad. “There is nothing more depressing than winding up the string of a kite that has committed suicide. Not to mention embarrassing.”

  “Well, you should know.”

  Dad flicked his paintbrush at Megan. “Brat face. I realize I had a slight problem last year.”

  “And the year before that.”

  “But that was the year it rained. According to the weather station the percentage possibility of precipitation for Saturday is zero. This is my year for triumph. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “You mean this is your year to be dynamic and innovative?” said Megan.

  Dad snorted. “You are a wicked, cruel child.” He held up the kite and turned it slowly. “So, what about it? Will you come?”

  It was a big park. There would be lots of room to escape. “Okay.”

  The percentage possibility of precipitation remained at zero and Kite Day dawned with sunny skies. A gentle but steady wind blew in off the sea. The park was busy with strolling clowns and musicians, a balloon sculptor, joking jugglers, and a huge blue sky full of kites.

  Betsy made a friend, and they found a piece of wood and spent their time floating it back and forth across the pond. Franklin was arriving at suppertime, and Mum and Natalie sat on the blanket and talked. Why bother coming? thought Megan. She and Dad took part in the Great Kite Fly-By and then lay on the grass and watched the fighting kites battle it out. Prizes were awarded to the biggest, smallest, and most beautiful kites, and to the oldest and youngest fliers. The eagle didn’t win a prize, but it didn’t crash either. Dad launched it for a final flight.

  “Want a turn?” he said, handing the reel to Megan “I’m going to take a break and see how everyone is doing. It looks like they’re in that face-painting lineup.” He pointed toward a long, meandering line of people.

  Megan held the reel high and let the kite pull her, gently but definitely, toward the beach. She played out the string until the pressure slackened, but not too much. She stopped in the middle of the field. All around her other kite fliers were standing or slowly walking, all with the same look of concentration. She guided the eagle through a big figure 8.

  At the far end of the field, near the marina, there were a couple of remote-control planes flying tight circles in the air. The snarl of their engines started to bug Megan. She had tried it once and it had been fun for a while, and then boring. The plane just went wherever you made it go. She stared up at the eagle kite. You can make a kite do what you want, but not always. If you’re too bossy, it just crashes. But if you get it right, it is as though a little bit of you goes out your fingers and up the string and gets to be where the kite is, high and free.

  She turned around and looked back toward the face-painting tent. The line was shorter. Time to go back. She carefully reeled in the kite and strolled back to the others.

  “He said he would be here at five,” said Natalie. “There aren’t two face-painting tents, are there?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Mum. “Anyway, if Franklin is a bit late, it’s just as well, considering how slowly this line is moving.”

  “Yes,” said Natalie, “this hasn’t been very well planned. You’d think they would have more face painters at peak times. Or some system whereby you could take a number or book a time in advance. It wouldn’t be that hard to organize.”

  “I don’t know,” said Dad. “I find it a bit of a relief doing something that doesn’t involve an appointment. So much of life is scheduled.”

  Natalie looked earnestly at Dad. “But poor organization just erodes time and causes frustration.”

  Dad shrugged. “You’re probably right.”

  He turned to Megan. “So, a crash-free day so far, kiddo. What do you think? Shall we quit while we’re ahead?”

  Megan handed the kite to Dad and then sat on the ground and leaned back against her elbows. A yellow sun kite floated overhead, drawing big slow circles on the blue. Bright fighting kites whipped and snapped and scribbled around it. An airplane trailing a banner that said KEEP FIT AT ARNIE’S GYM buzzed behind it all.

  Betsy was in a panic of choice. As each painted face emerged she changed her mind.

  “I think I’ll have a unicorn.”

  “No, maybe a rainbow and stars.”

  “Oh, look, a dog face.”

  “Maybe polka dots are better.”

  She was bouncing from foot to foot, with a new idea on each bounce.

  “Hope this face painter is the decis
ive type,” said Dad as Betsy went into the tent.

  She must have been, because Betsy came out minutes later with a wide grin and the bottom half of her face painted like a big piece of watermelon. After the first round of admiration Natalie said, “There he is. Franklin! Over here!”

  A tall, thin man with a beard loped over the field toward them. When he was introduced he shook everyone’s hand, including Megan’s and Betsy’s. He didn’t do it as though he were being cute.

  Mum laid claim to a table by the duckpond and started unpacking the picnic. Covered bowls, plastic bags, thermoses, bottles. It was like a pile of presents. By the time everyone was crowded in at the table, with rearrangements of left- and right-handed people to avoid fork collisions, Megan was starving. She purloined a roll to tide her over until the dishes were properly passed.

  “Potato salad, Franklin?” said Mum:

  “No, thank you,” said Franklin. “I don’t,” pause, “eat eggs.”

  Franklin was a slow talker; well, not exactly slow, but he left gaps.

  “Oh, too bad,” said Mum, passing a thermos. “Mushroom soup?”

  “Soup on a picnic?” said Betsy.

  “Remember last year?” said Mum. “We were all so cold.”

  “Does this have a . . . meat base?” asked Franklin, holding the thermos frozen in the air.

  “Yes, chicken stock. Oh, Franklin, I’m sorry. Natalie told us you were a vegetarian, but I forgot about chicken stock. Tell you what, there’s lots of salad and stuff. Why don’t you just help yourself?”

  “That would probably be the . . . best approach,” said Franklin.

  That little pause that Franklin put into the middle of sentences, thought Megan, was always the same length. Like three beats in music.

  Betsy turned to Franklin, who was sitting beside her. “Are you a picky eater?”

  “Betsy!” said Mum.

  “No, that’s a legitimate question,” said Franklin. “If you mean do I pick my food carefully,” beat, beat, beat, “then you could say that I am.”

  “Goody,” said Betsy. “I’m a picky eater, too. But I never met a grown-up who was one.”

  Mum looked embarrassed and gave a little laugh, but Franklin just gave Betsy a slow, serious nod and went back to peeling an apple.

  “So, Franklin,” said Dad, “where are you from?”

  Franklin put down the apple. “Many places, really. Where are we all from?”

  Dad looked confused.

  “Franklin’s family moved a lot,” piped up Natalie.

  Dad looked confident again. “Oh yes, military family, were you?”

  “No, not military.” Megan beat three beats on her celery stick. “Just peripatetic.”

  Megan stared at Franklin’s beard. It was very dark brown but thin. You could see his chin through it. It moved up and down with each chew. She felt her fingers making a pair of scissors to cut it off and make his face tidy. You could also see, under his mustache, that his lips were sort of wet-looking. What would it be like to kiss Franklin? You’d get that mustache in your mouth. Yuck. But Natalie must like it. Funny that somebody as pretty as Natalie . . . Megan caught herself. Oh, all right — she crunched down hard on her celery—Natalie was pretty. Anyway, she didn’t seem to match with Franklin, who was sort of odd-looking.

  Between rounds of food (what would pasta salad and potato chips be like as a sandwich filling in a bun? A spirit of scientific inquiry demanded that she try it) Megan spied on Natalie to see how a person about to be married looked. Apart from staring at Franklin and reaching over to take a piece of leaf out of his hair, Natalie acted fairly normal. Where was all that running toward each other in slow motion through a field of wildflowers stuff? Maybe that was for private. Or maybe that was for shampoo commercials. Did real older sisters talk about all that with real younger sisters?

  Natalie had an evening lecture, so she and Franklin left right after chocolate cake. As they were standing up, Dad gave Franklin a big arm-pumping handshake. “Real good to meet you.”

  Megan watched them walk across the field toward the parking lot. They weren’t even holding hands. No shampoo ad there.

  “Gosh,” said Dad, “Franklin’s pretty heavy going.”

  “He’s a serious young man,” said Mum. “Obviously thinks deeply about things.”

  “And what did he say about his family? I couldn’t catch it. Epileptic or something?”

  “Peripatetic.” Mum was burping Tupperware in an impatient way. “Means moves around a lot.”

  “Doesn’t he seem like a bit of a stick to you? A bit dull for Natalie?”

  “Not at all. I think she’s very proud of him. Apparently he’s a brilliant young geophysicist.” Mum’s face started to get that dried Play-Doh look.

  “That’s it, then,” said Dad. He grabbed the last piece of cake before Mum could wrap it up. “He spends too much time with rocks. He’s slowed down to their pace. Rocks don’t exactly live in the fast lane.” He grinned.

  Mum did not. “I don’t think geophysicists spend that much time with rocks. They examine theoretical questions about the origin of the earth.”

  Dad nodded his head, pretending to be serious. “Oh.”

  Mum continued. “And she is almost a PhD, after all. You wouldn’t expect her to be engaged to some used-car salesman or something.”

  Dad raised his eyebrows. “Or some hack writer with half a B.A. I guess.”

  Mum threw a handful of cutlery into the picnic basket. “Did I say anything about writers?”

  “Okay, okay. But come off it, Judy. Didn’t you find him a bit pompous?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Lying, thought Megan. Lying again.

  “All right,” said Dad. “Difference of opinion. I’m going to pack up the kite.”

  In the car on the way home there was an extra passenger, an argument. Megan hated that unexploded feeling when two people are fighting and pretending that they aren’t. Dad tapped on the steering wheel and Mum stared out the window. Betsy sat hunched in her corner and picked her fingernails. She hadn’t done that since the first week of second grade. Megan reached over and covered her hand.

  Betsy pulled away and sat up straight. “Rocks do, too, live in the fast lane,” she said.

  “What?” said Mum.

  “Rocks do live in the fast lane. Remember that rock that fell off that rock truck and bounced down the road and broke the window in our car when we went camping at that lake with the million mosquitoes?”

  Dad snorted and Mum’s shoulders lost their frozen look.

  “Good point,” said Dad.

  “Anyway, I like Franklin,” said Betsy.

  “Good for you,” said Dad.

  “Oh well, you like everyone,’” said Megan.

  Betsy bounced on the seat. “Do not.”

  “I was a little defensive with that hack writer remark,” said Dad.

  Mum turned to him. “Am I sometimes a pain in the neck about Natalie?”

  Always, always, thought Megan.

  “Sometimes,” said Dad, “a bit obsessed.”

  Mum got pretzel mouth. “Sorry.”

  “Ditto,” said Dad.

  The extra passenger got sucked out the open window.

  “I do not like everyone,” said Betsy. “I don’t like Kevin Blandings. I don’t like the rat in Charlotte’s Web. I don’t like that mean lady in the school store. I don’t like Herod. I don’t like . . .”

  “Okay, okay, okay. I take it back.” Megan sighed. Sometimes with Betsy you had to lose in order to win.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THERE WERE STILL THREE weeks until the wedding, and already it had thoroughly invaded the house. The kitchen was action central, as catering plans geared up to full swing. Wonderful food kept appearing, only to disappear hours later into t
he freezer. Little meatballs and tiny quiches, walnut squares and pans of brownies. Now you see them, now you don’t.

  “There’s never been so much good food in the house,” said Dad mournfully, “and we aren’t allowed to eat any of it.”

  And Mum’s conversations were bizarre. “How many celery sticks would you eat at a buffet lunch?”

  “If they have cheese in them, I would eat ten,” said Betsy.

  “None,” said Dad. “You get those long strings in your teeth, and if you don’t have your dental floss— and who’s going to bring dental floss to a wedding? —then you spend your whole time trying to suck the celery strings out from between your teeth, without looking like you’re doing it.”

  Megan didn’t offer an opinion. Mum didn’t notice.

  Then there was the business about the Gift. Natalie and Franklin wanted a tent for a wedding present. So outdoor equipment catalogs began appearing, with complicated descriptions of aluminum alloy poles and geodesic construction.

  “This yellow one is jolly,” said Dad.

  “No,” said Mum. “It has to be dark green. Natalie says that bright colors on tents are a form of visual environmental pollution.”

  “Come off it,” said Dad. “What about dandelions and, oh I don’t know, yellow birds. Are they environmental pollution?”

  “Well, don’t ask me,” said Mum. “She just feels very strongly about this.”

  “Oh well, if Natalie has spoken.” Dad rolled his eyes and retreated to the garage. The garage had never been so neat. Even the nails were sorted.

  Megan’s retreat was her room, and she felt, as she closed the door, like someone in a medieval castle pulling up the drawbridge. But that wedding-free zone didn’t last. One day Megan found Betsy sitting on the bedroom floor taking coins out of her fuzzy-dog purse and piling them up into towers.

  “What are you doing?” asked Megan.

  “I need four hundred more cents.”

  “So, save your allowance for four weeks.”

  “But four weeks is after the wedding, isn’t it?”

  “Is this another wedding-present idea? You know, we’re included in the tent thing. We don’t have to get Natalie a present on our own.”