“No, I just, I never said sorry,” Joe said, his cheeks suddenly flushed.
“For not doing karate?” Max was confused.
“For punching you that day,” Joe said, putting the book down but not quite looking at Max. “It was a jerky thing to do and I’m sorry.”
Max hadn’t even thought about the punch in what felt like ages. But the fact that Joe had thought about it and apologized — that meant something to Max. Though of course he wasn’t going to say that. “No big deal,” he said. “But now that I think of it, you do kind of owe me.”
Joe laughed and put down the book. “I think not,” he said. “What movie are we watching?”
“How about The Deathly Hallows Part 1?” Max asked. “But let’s get the popcorn first.”
Max opened the door of his bedroom and the boys walked down the hall. The girls were spread out in sleeping bags across the small living room, passing bowls of chips and pretzels as they watched a movie with a lot of girls wearing pink. The chips looked irresistible, so he snuck a bowl from the table, and headed to the kitchen for sodas.
“I think I already have a headache coming on,” his dad said as the girls in the living room all began shrieking. “They seem to do that every ten minutes or so.”
“What are they screaming about?” Joe asked.
Max’s dad shook his head. “Girls are a mystery, Joe,” he said. “Who knows why they do anything?”
“It’s you boys who are the mystery,” Max’s mom said, coming up behind him. Her long hair was coming out of its ponytail. “Why you feel compelled to leave your socks on the living room floor every night is the biggest mystery out there.”
Max passed Joe the chips and headed out, sodas in hand, leaving his parents to have the sock conversation for the millionth time.
Once they were back in his room, he began flipping through his DVDs to find The Deathly Hallows.
“Your family’s really nice,” Joe said.
Normally Max would have made a joke about them but, glancing at Joe, he didn’t feel like he needed to. “Yeah, they’re pretty cool,” he said.
When the movie was loaded, they settled on the floor, bowl of chips between them. As the opening credits began, Max’s mind was only half on the screen. He was thinking about how easy it was to be with Joe, how comfortable it was to just say whatever he wanted without worrying about being the funniest guy in the room or the next prank he was going to pull.
Over the music of the movie, Max heard another round of shrieking start up in the living room. Joe pretended to cover his ears, and Max laughed.
Max wasn’t sure if they would ever find GB, but he did know this: He owed GB the biggest, best thank-you ever. Because this year, thanks to the Angel Tree, Max had a new home on its way, a new friend, and the freedom to make a choice. For a while Max had been getting tired of being the class clown. But it was only now that he’d made a new friend just by being himself that he could imagine retiring from his life of pranking. Of course, he would still pull off the occasional stunt; skills like this could not be contained forever.
But after years of being the funny guy, Max was ready to just be Max.
The snow was coming down in thick, wet flakes as Cami made her way through town to the square. It was dinnertime on a Sunday, so the square was pretty deserted and the stores on Main Street were mostly dark. But the Angel Tree was there, lights shining through a fresh layer of snow, as Cami hung her wish. The branches swayed gently in the wind and for a moment it looked like Cami’s wish might take flight.
Cami knew it was too late for her real wish, the wish to get her own violin back. And it was probably too late for this one too. But it had felt like the only thing to do and so she was here, in the middle of a near blizzard, trying to fix the mistake she had made almost a month earlier.
The weekend at her aunt’s had been awful. Everyone was all worked up about some math camp Willa had been accepted to. And whenever they had stopped crowing about that, they had talked in rapturous voices about the important work she was doing at the hospital. Cami and the other cousins had been swept to the side, mere shadows in the face of Willa’s bright light. The worst had been watching her grandmother fawn all over Willa like she was the favorite granddaughter, with Cami a distant second at best. And not a single person asked Cami about her violin.
Between the awful weekend and the failure to find GB, Cami was officially giving up. She would never be as good as Willa. She had tried and she’d failed. There was only one thing she was really good at and she had stupidly tossed it aside. She had sold the one thing that was really, truly her.
Which was why she was here. Her violin was gone but maybe someone in town would take pity on her and buy her another, or work out a rental with Palomino Music. Before, Cami had been a snob about the quality of the violin, appreciating that hers was top-notch. But now she would play anything; she was like a starving person, desperate to play music any way she could.
As she headed back home, the snow falling softly on her cheeks, Cami realized that she was asking for more than a violin. She was asking for her heart back.
That night after dinner, as Cami and her grandmother were washing up, the doorbell rang.
“My land,” Cami’s grandmother said. “Who could it be at this hour?”
“I’ll get it,” Cami said, drying her hands on a dish towel before hurrying to open the door.
There, on the snowy front stoop, stood Mr. Carmichael, the conductor of the school orchestra, his black peacoat studded with melting snowflakes.
“Hello, Cami,” he said in his velvety voice. “I haven’t seen you at orchestra rehearsals, so I wanted to stop by and see how the solo is coming along.”
Cami stood stricken and silent in the doorway, her mind whirling in panic as she fought for some kind of rational response. How could she possibly admit what she had done? And why hadn’t she thought to tell him that he would need to find another soloist? This was a disaster.
“Cami, don’t leave Mr. Carmichael out in the cold,” her grandmother scolded gently from behind her.
Cami managed to step aside so Mr. Carmichael could come in, but she did not release her grip on the door — she needed to hold on to that or she might collapse.
“I came to check in with Cami about her solo for the Gala,” Mr. Carmichael said. “I wanted to be sure she’s feeling prepared.”
“How thoughtful of you,” Cami heard her grandmother say. “I’m sure she’ll be set for the concert with just a bit more practice.”
Cami could not bear to turn around and face what was going to have to happen.
“Sweetie, close the door and go upstairs and practice your solo,” her grandmother said. She was using her polite-for-company voice but Cami heard the order underneath the softness.
Cami swallowed and shut the door slowly, then turned, her eyes down.
“Darling, take your violin and go upstairs to practice,” her grandmother said.
There was no avoiding it: Cami had to tell her the truth. She raised her eyes and then she froze, her mind coming to a grinding halt.
Her grandmother was holding a violin, her violin, in her arms.
“Take it, darling,” her grandmother said gently.
So Cami did, a rush of tears coming into her eyes as her hands closed over the case.
“And now go play,” her grandmother said.
Cami flew up the stairs clutching her violin close. Up in her room, she opened the case and feasted her eyes on her beloved violin, the softly curved wood feeling perfect in her hands as she picked it up. She tuned it lovingly, then lifted it and tucked it securely under her chin.
There were tears on her cheeks as she began to play, but Cami didn’t notice. She was unaware of anything but the music pouring through her.
Hours later, Cami headed downstairs for a snack, her feet light and her heart soaring as she headed into the kitchen. Her grandmother stood at the stove, heating water for her tea.
It was
only then that the questions came to Cami. “How did you know about my violin?” she asked.
Her grandmother turned with a raised eyebrow. “Did you honestly believe Ms. Tennyson would let a twelve-year-old girl sell her most precious possession?”
Cami was confused. “But she told me she sold it.”
“Well, I suppose in a matter of speaking she did,” her grandmother said, taking out her box of peppermint tea. “As soon as you left the store, she called me and asked what I wanted her to do.”
“What did you say?” Cami asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down at their small kitchen table.
“I asked her to sell it to me,” her grandmother replied. “Which she only agreed to do because I insisted she tell you that the violin had sold. And of course then she gave all the money I’d given her to you. I hope you spent it well.”
“Yes,” Cami said, thinking of the gifts for her grandmother tucked under her bed. “But why did you want me to think it had sold?”
Her grandmother turned and looked at Cami through the steam rising from her teacup. “Because you wanted to sell it,” she said simply. “It seemed obvious to me that you were working something out. I figured I’d hold on to your violin until you realized how much you needed it.”
Cami cocked her head. “How did you know to give it to me tonight?”
Her grandmother grinned as she sat down across from Cami. “I think Mr. Carmichael had spies on the Angel Tree twenty-four hours a day. He was in quite a tizzy about you and that solo. But I told him you’d come around before Christmas.”
That all this had been happening without her having the slightest hint was astounding to Cami.
“So did you?” her grandmother asked.
“Did I what?” Cami asked.
“Work out what needed working,” her grandmother said. “Because for you to have given up that violin, I’m thinking it must have been something pretty big.”
Cami looked down at the table. “I wanted to be more like Willa,” she said softly. “And do things that help people so you would be proud of me.”
Her grandmother was silent. When Cami finally screwed up the courage to look at her, she saw that her grandmother was slowly shaking her head. “Darling, how could you, for one second, not know how incredibly proud I am of you and that beautiful music you make?”
“It’s just, you were telling Aunt Aisha how great Willa was and how you wished I was more like her,” Cami said, rubbing her finger along the edge of the wooden table.
Her grandmother reached over and smoothed back a braid that had fallen over Cami’s face. “Willa’s having a hard time right now,” she said. “She’s been the target of some pretty mean-spirited bullying at school. Everyone in the family has been working to lift her back up. And her parents too. They feel like they failed her and so we’re all rallying around, trying to give them back what’s been taken in all this.”
Everything was shifting in Cami’s mind as she took in her grandmother’s words.
“But it seems I took something from you,” her grandmother went on. “And that I never meant to do. Not when I’m so proud of you and your talents and your good heart.” She reached out and set her hand gently on top of Cami’s. “You do help people. Your music brings everyone who hears it pure joy, a moment away from their lives where they can feel at peace. And Lord knows we all need that. Hearing you play is a gift, and I’ve been thankful for it since you first picked up that violin.”
Cami jumped up from the table and threw her arms around her grandmother, almost knocking over her tea.
But her grandmother just laughed and held Cami close, her soft cheek pressing against Cami’s. “You just wait till you get an earful of all that boasting I’ll be doing at the Gala,” she murmured in Cami’s ear.
Cami let go of her grandmother. “I should have told you what I was planning to do before I sold my violin,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
But her grandmother waved her apology away. “Sometimes we need to live something before we know it,” she said. “I’m guessing you found out some pretty important truths these past few weeks.”
“I did,” Cami said, feeling the certainty of this.
“Then it was a journey well taken,” her grandmother said.
That night, in the moonlight shining through her bedroom window, Cami could see her violin on the chair next to the music stand. Knowing that it was right where it belonged, and that her grandmother felt the same way, made Cami’s heart sing.
So I hear I have your helping hands this afternoon,” Ms. Marwich said as Max walked into the library during his one free period of the day.
“Yeah,” Max said glumly. Last week Max had gotten caught with a small can of shaving cream in the computer lab and now he was stuck with a makeup detention. He swore to himself that it would be his last.
“Well, I’m thrilled to have the assistance,” Ms. Marwich said, as though Max had chosen to come. Still, she looked like she meant it, which lifted his spirits a bit.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked.
“Let’s get you started with shelving,” Ms. Marwich said, walking him over to a big cart of books. “I’ve had so many returns lately that I’ve fallen behind. It’ll be great to get these back where they belong. You remember the system?”
Max nodded. This was not his first detention in the library. “I’m on it,” he said.
Max wheeled the cart to the nonfiction section of the library and picked up the first book. The Mysteries of the Digestive System Revealed. Who checked out a book like that? Maybe it was for a science paper. Still, when Max flipped through the book and saw a diagram of the digestive system, with its slimy coils of intestines, he was thoroughly grossed out. Some things were definitely better left mysteries.
The library was quiet; the only sound was the clicking of Ms. Marwich’s fingers on her computer keyboard and the occasional clank from the radiator. The smell of lemon cleanser and books was somehow soothing, especially given the cozy warmth of the room, and soon Max was lulled into a routine, barely even noticing the names on the books as he checked numbers and shelved. Until he came to a familiar title: Create the Dress, Create Yourself. That had been the title of the book on the dress patterns Olivia Potter had gotten from her Angel Tree wish. It was just strange enough that it had stuck in Max’s mind.
Max checked the number on the spine and put the book in the craft section, all the while thinking about what this might mean. Possibly nothing but possibly — Max knelt in front of the cart of books, scanning the titles. On the second row he saw one that set off bells: Pastries and Cakes from Around the World. He pulled it off and turned to the table of contents. Sure enough, there was a section on Russian pastries, exactly what Lana Levkov had wished for at the Angel Tree.
Max was fired up as he started shelving books again, his mind only partially on the task in front of him. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, a problem that had brought down many a spy in some of his favorite movies, but the evidence seemed convincing. Whoever had fulfilled these wishes, and possibly others he didn’t know about, had done so using the school library.
Max began looking at titles as he shelved, thinking about how others, like Home Makeovers or Computer Programming Made Easy might have been used to make a wish come true. He hoped the gross digestion book and another he picked up about hang gliding weren’t involved in wishes, but others definitely had the potential to be. Which, Max decided, could mean one of two things: A lot of people just happened to use the school library when they plucked wishes from the Angel Tree. Or, GB used the school library as one of her resources for coordinating all the wishes from the tree.
It seemed unlikely that a whole slew of people stopped by the school library for help with wishes. Most of the people who took the white scraps of paper were adults who were far more likely to use the public library right in the town square. Which left the other possibility: GB was using the school library. And the only reason she would do that, Ma
x reasoned, would be if she had some kind of connection to the school.
“How’s it going?”
Max jumped.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the librarian said. “You certainly are focused.”
“Yeah, I just want to be sure to get everything in the right place,” Max said, embarrassed by his reaction.
“I’m sure you’re doing just fine,” Ms. Marwich said, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re nearly done and I can finish up these last few. You’ve given me the help I needed to be able to go home a bit early for my book club.”
“You do more reading outside this?” Max asked, gesturing at the room filled with books.
Ms. Marwich laughed. “I actually don’t get to read during the day, though you’d think I would! I’m too busy helping other people pick out books. So I’m in a classics book club to read the great authors and then I’m also in a mystery reading club. That’s the one meeting today.”
“Sounds fun,” Max said, though honestly he couldn’t imagine wanting to spend all that time reading and talking about books.
Ms. Marwich was smiling as though she could read his mind, which she probably could. “I enjoy it,” she said.
It occurred to Max that she might know who had borrowed some of the books he’d been shelving. “I was wondering, actually,” he said, “if you know who took out some of the books I shelved. Like there was one called Create the Dress, Create Yourself. And another about pastries.”
Ms. Marwich seemed surprised at the question. She looked at Max intently. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”
Max felt squirmy under her gaze. “No, I was just curious,” he said.
“Okay,” she said, her eyes still on Max’s face. “But I’m sorry, I don’t like to give out information like that. The librarian-reader relationship is confidential, at least in my book.”
“No problem,” Max said.
Ms. Marwich smiled at him, the intensity gone. Or maybe Max had just imagined it in the first place. “Go ahead and take the last few minutes to relax.”
The Angel Tree Page 12