by Cynthia Lord
“Nonsense,” Grandma Lilah said. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
“The twins are too young,” Aunt Pat said. “I’ll have to stay here with them.”
“Dad and I have Loon Patrol tomorrow,” Emily said.
Grandma Lilah looked at me. “What do you think?”
The mountain in the photo looked like a real climb, not a little hill. And Grandma Lilah had said she had knee troubles when we were getting into the kayaks. How could she climb a mountain? Didn’t the rest of the family see that? Or maybe I was wrong? “Where is Cherry Mountain?” I asked, to change the subject.
“It’s the pointy mountain that you see across the lake,” Emily said.
“Nine o’clock, then. It’s best to get an early start,” Grandma Lilah said. “Wear some good shoes. Do we have your phone number?”
“My phone number?”
“In case we need to confer on the weather.”
When Mom had given me my cell phone, she said not to give out my phone number to strangers. But these were our next-door neighbors, so it was probably okay. I wrote my cell phone number on the edge of the loon survey form and let go a relieved breath when I saw Nate’s dad coming with his laptop. I gave him my camera’s memory card.
“Oh, how pretty!” Grandma Lilah said as the first photo came on the screen. “Birch trees!”
I blushed to see my “Lines” photo on the screen. “Wait, these are older photos! Let me scroll through to the photos of the loon.” I didn’t want them to see the photo I’d saved of Nate skipping rocks.
“Lucy’s doing a photography contest,” Nate said. “That’s the photo for ‘lines,’ and our cottage might be ‘heading home.’ Show them your list, Lucy.”
“It’s just for fun, really.”
But Mr. Bailey said he’d like to see, and Mrs. Bailey nodded. So I pulled the list out of my pocket and passed it around.
“These are wonderful photos, Lucy,” Mrs. Bailey said as I showed them the photos I had taken of their cottage from the water.
I opened my mouth to tell her about Dad being a famous photographer, but I didn’t want to share her praise or have to give it away to Dad. So I just smiled — until I saw the next photo. It was the photo Nate had taken of me in the kayak. I looked like some weird half-girl, half-boat creature with everything below my waist inside the kayak. I clicked past it immediately.
The first loon photo was a horribly blurry shot of the male. “I’m sorry. My hands were shaking,” I said. “He scared me when he suddenly popped up.”
The next one was in focus, but the loon’s black head didn’t stand out very well against the dark muddy greens of the pine and spruce trees reflected in the water.
With each photo, the loon was a little farther away. But as he got smaller in the frame, the water around him was only blue, setting off his coloring better. I clicked through a whole series of almost identical shots.
“He’s grand, isn’t he?” Grandma Lilah said.
“I love his stripes and checkered wings,” Mr. Bailey said. “You wouldn’t think such bold patterns would make for good camouflage, would you? But even the white on his breast has a purpose. It makes it harder for the fish to see him up on the surface. Loons are underwater predators, after all.”
Emily shot me a look. “See, I told you, Lucy. We get science lessons all the time.”
Mr. Bailey threw a magazine at her playfully. “Well, maybe if you remembered my lessons, I wouldn’t have to keep giving them!”
I smiled, even though their happy teasing made my dad feel even more gone.
In the next photo, the female loon was on the nest. Surrounded by yellow-green grasses and weeds, she had her head tipped down to the side, so close to the water she was almost touching it, watching me with that ruby eye. There was intense emotion in the way she looked ready to come after me if I got one inch closer.
“Wow!” Mr. Bailey said. “That’s an amazing photo. But it’s obvious you kids were too close.”
Nate was trying to explain how fast it all happened, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. The photo was in focus and had good contrast, but it was so much more than just grass and a bird. The loon’s body language was full of feeling, and looking at it made me feel it, too. I wished I could show this photo to Dad and watch his face brighten with excitement. “Now there’s a story, Lucy,” he’d say.
“Don’t you think so, Lucy?” Nate said.
“Huh?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the screen.
“I said that would be a great photo for ‘at the shore,’” Nate said. “You wanted something different, right? And it’s definitely at the shore.”
“Do you see the egg?” Grandma Lilah asked.
“No, but I did take a few more.” I clicked ahead to the next shot. The loon had lifted her wing slightly. In the photo after that one, she had lifted it a little more. I’d been shooting so fast, it almost looked like animation as I scrolled through. In the last photo, the loon had shifted even more.
“Wait a minute. What’s that?” Nate asked.
I clicked the magnifier to enlarge the image. A little black head looked out from under her wing.
“We have a chick!” Grandma Lilah yelled. “Nate!”
He grinned, hugging her from behind. “I know! I’ll write it down.”
That night, after a pizza takeout supper with Mom, the sky was so thick with clouds I couldn’t even see the mountains on the other side of the lake — like they had simply vanished. In between unpacking boxes, I sent Dad text messages so he’d have lots to read from me as soon as he landed.
The Baileys next door are nice. There are lots of them!
I might go mountain climbing tomorrow.
Loon Patrol was fun. I didn’t fall in the lake. But something touched me. Maybe a fish.
Part of me burned to send Dad the photo I’d taken of the loon on the nest, but I was afraid he’d just text back Wow! and that would be the end of it.
I miss you. Ansel says “Woof.”
How are the rare bugs in AZ? The bugs in NH aren’t rare at all.
Text me when you get this, OK? Even if you think I’m asleep.
The wind blowing through my open window felt wet and energizing, threatening a thunderstorm. I hoped Dad’s plane was far away, and he was safely reading or chatting with the person in the airplane seat next to him.
Ansel paced around my room with his ears back. Sometimes I think he forgets that he has a home now and we’ll take care of him, so he doesn’t have to worry about storms. I hoped all the animals outside had found a safe place, too. I imagined the squirrels racing for their dreys, the chipmunks diving into their burrows, and the loon chick safe and dry under the adult’s wing on the nest. But loons live so much in the water that maybe rain doesn’t bother them.
I watched a car pull up next to the Baileys’ cottage. The car’s headlights lit up the rain as Nate dashed off the porch and into the backseat.
The not-so-nice part of me hoped the movie Megan had invited him to would be boring. But even as I thought that, I felt guilty. She hadn’t done anything wrong. I just had the feeling she didn’t like me.
The shade over my window slapped the screen. Heat lightning lit the sky, followed by a crash of thunder. Ansel ran under my bed.
“Hey, buddy.” I got down on my hands and knees to look at him wedged between the boxes I’d stored down there. His eyes looked huge and he panted with his tongue out. “Are you hiding?” I asked. “It’s okay. It’ll be over soon. Come on out.”
At my voice, his head moved slightly. I could see in his eyes how much he wanted to come to me, but being scared took everything he had.
I pulled boxes into the middle of my room until I could fit under the bed with Ansel. It had to be confusing for him to be in a new place with all these new smells and scary sounds. His whole world had turned upside down and he didn’t even know why. I lay on my stomach with my legs out in the room but my head under the bed next to him. “It’ll be okay.” I reached acr
oss to run my hand over his shaking back.
But with each clap of thunder, Ansel cringed, his ears flattening against his head. I didn’t know what to say, so I sang to him. First I tried “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” but Ansel doesn’t like water. So I switched to “Bingo,” except with his name.
There was girl who had a dog, and Ansel was his name-o.
A-N-S-E-L,
A-N-S-E-L,
A-N-S-E-L,
And Ansel was his name-o.
Every time I sang his name, Ansel slowed down his panting — until the next thunder boom.
“Lucy?”
I saw Mom’s feet first. Then her knees as she knelt down. Finally her face looked under the bed. “I came in to tell you to shut your window. What are you doing?”
“Ansel’s shaking like a washing machine.” Thunder crashed again, and his whole body tensed. I covered his ears. “Shh.”
I heard the window slide closed, then Mom lay down on the floor with us. As she rubbed Ansel’s face, he licked her finger. “It’s just thunder,” she said.
The rain pattered like popcorn popping against the roof. “I sent Dad some texts, but he hasn’t answered me yet. What do you think he’s doing?” I asked.
Mom sighed. “He said he’d call when he was all settled. But it’ll be late when he gets there, so probably we’ll hear from him tomorrow before he heads off to see his first location. And then he’ll be out in the middle of a field or standing in a stream, surrounded by mosquitoes. And not even noticing because he’s totally wrapped up in taking photos or thinking about taking photos.”
“I’m sure he notices the mosquitoes,” I said. “But the photos are more important.”
“Ah, well,” said Mom. “That’s why I’m glad I have an indoor job. I don’t think I could ever forget about the mosquitoes. But Dad wouldn’t do well with my life, either. He needs more than that.”
He needs more than us, I added in my head. We lay on the floor listening to the rain until the thunder finally stopped and Ansel fell asleep against my arm.
The first thing I did when I woke up the next morning was to check my phone. I grinned to discover three texts from Dad.
I’m in AZ! Off to bed now, but I’m excited to see it all in the morning. I bet the sunrises are beautiful here.
Have fun mountain climbing today.
I miss you, too.
The texts made me feel a little better. I replied, even though he was probably still asleep.
Miss you more. Hope you get some great photos!
When Dad goes on a long trip, it’s always hardest the first week. That’s when I feel the hole of him being gone the worst — at every meal where his chair is empty, every bedtime when he doesn’t say “good night.” It’s a sharp hurt, every day.
There’s one good part about that first week, though. Mom and I do and eat all the things we both like but Dad doesn’t.
“I was thinking maybe we could go out to lunch today?” Mom said during breakfast. “We could drive to North Conway and explore the shops there. The unpacking will still be here when we get back.”
“That sounds fun. But could we do it another day?” I asked. “The Baileys invited me to go mountain climbing.” I felt bad that she looked so disappointed. “I’m sorry, Mom. It all came up kind of fast. Do you want to come with us?”
“No, that’s okay,” she said. “I should keep unpacking. It’ll be nice to feel more settled.”
“We can go shopping in any weather,” I said, trying to make it seem less like I was choosing the Baileys over her. “And today’s supposed to be nice out. But maybe you and I could have banana splits for supper? Like we did when Dad went to British Columbia last year? We got hot fudge sauce and whipped cream and everything. Remember?”
She smiled. “Yes, that would be fun! I’ll go to the grocery store this afternoon and get everything we need.”
When I’d woken up, I had wondered if climbing Cherry Mountain was just an idea or a real plan. But as I was getting dressed that morning, Nate texted me:
Do u have bug spray u can bring 4 r climb? We r out.
It was exciting to get a text from someone who wasn’t my family. And who used funny text abbreviations. And was a boy.
Sure, I texted back, and then after I hit the SEND button, I wondered if that sounded blunt and maybe I should’ve used more words. So I sent another one. We have lots.
At nine o’clock, Nate was outside our door. I looked around him for the others, but it was only him.
“Is Grandma Lilah coming?” I asked.
He shook his head. “She couldn’t walk that far, forget climbing. So I snuck out. I felt bad doing it, but she was in the kitchen talking to Emily about the baby loon. I don’t think she even remembered about climbing.”
“But it was her idea. Won’t she be upset that we left without her?” It didn’t seem right not to tell Grandma Lilah.
“She’ll be more upset if she can’t make it up the mountain,” Nate said. “She gets mad when she thinks she can do something and we say it’s not safe anymore. Or she tries and she can’t do it. Honestly, she’ll be happier at home hearing about the baby loon from Dad and Emily. Do you still want to go?”
I paused. “Okay, sure. If you do.”
“Yeah. I was thinking maybe you could bring your camera and take some photos of our climb for Grandma Lilah? That way she’d get to see it, without having to do it herself,” Nate said. “And maybe you’ll even find some things to shoot for the contest? My mom said she’d drive us to the trailhead whenever we’re ready.”
As I followed Nate toward his family’s van, I looked over at the beach and to Grandma Lilah standing on the dock with her clipboard. I still felt a little guilty. She had seemed so excited and happy last night, like she really wanted to go. “Nate, can you run in and grab that old photo of you and Grandma Lilah on the mountaintop? I have an idea.”
He grinned when I told him my plan. “I’ll be right back!”
The Cherry Mountain Trail began with an official-looking sign, but once Nate and I had walked several hundred feet, it became a green tunnel through the woods, the path nearly swallowed by ferns and trees. Every time I looked ahead and saw another fat yellow rectangle of paint someone had stroked onto a tree to mark the trail, I breathed out in relief.
Not lost yet.
The ground under my feet felt squishy from last night’s rain, like walking on foam. My ears rang with the quiet of tiny sounds: a faraway bird cawing, the hum and buzz of insects, an occasional red squirrel pipping or moving about through the leaves. And my own breath as I climbed.
As we walked, I worried I was breathing too loud. Or talking too much. Or not enough. Don’t be dumb. It doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t have asked you to come if he didn’t want to be friends.
Maybe this was how it was supposed to feel when you had a boy as a friend? Part exciting and part weirdly confusing?
“I didn’t realize it’d be so muddy,” Nate said. “But I guess we did get a lot of rain last night.”
“Yeah. Ansel was so scared of the thunder that he hid under my bed. I went under there with him.”
Nate laughed. I wanted to ask him about the movie he went to see with Megan, but I really only wanted to hear that it was bad.
Roots reached out like fingernail scratches raking across the path. Some of the roots felt spongy with decay, and the green-black smell of wet leaves and soil was everywhere. I tried to walk around the worst patches of mud. I had brought a small backpack with my camera, water, sunscreen, bug spray, the contest list, and some snacks, but I didn’t think to bring extra clothes. It’d be embarrassing to slip and end up covered in goo.
A few stripes of sunlight stretched across the path, and I glanced quickly along the side of the trail for anything colorful to shoot. Chipmunk-sized holes disappeared into the darkness between the roots of a big pine tree, and scattered around the tree were mushrooms in different sizes and colors. Tiny white umbrellas, bumpy tan bouquets, and a
few squat ivory ones like marshmallows grew in the moss. A few feet away, there was even a tan flat one that looked like a pancake with one bite gone. Most of the mushrooms were too ordinary and plain to be interesting. But a little banana-colored umbrella mushroom caught my eye. I removed some distracting bits of bark and arranged some dark wet leaves behind it to make the yellow pop against the darker background.
“That’s pretty,” Nate said when I showed him my shot on the screen.
It was pretty, but I could just hear Dad saying there was no surprise in my photo, nothing to make it more than what it was. “Yeah, but it’s only a mushroom,” I said, deleting it.
As I walked behind Nate, I wished something amazing would happen — like a moose would cross the path ahead of us. But even when you’re in a likely place, sometimes nothing happens. The animal doesn’t come. Or he sees you first.
“The leader on the trail gets all the spiderwebs!” Nate waved his arm in the air in front of him. “They feel weird across my neck every time I walk into them.”
“Do you want me to —?” I let out a little gasp.
“What is it?” Nate asked.
Against the rough bark of the tree trunk, the toad was almost invisible, blending perfectly except for his eyes. “Look right here,” I said, pointing. “If he hadn’t jumped, I never would’ve seen him.”
Nate stooped beside me. “Hey, Mr. Toad.”
It wasn’t a moose, but it was something. Holding my camera away from me, level with the toad, I moved it slowly sideways. “I want the contrast of green leaves behind him, not just tree trunk,” I explained. “The toad’s probably less scared of the camera moving than he’d be of my whole body moving around him.”
Trying to hold everything steady, I got off several shots before a drop of sunlight fell on the toad’s face. He blinked and hopped into the ferns.
I switched on my screen. Most of the photos were terrible. In one shot, I had missed the toad completely.
But in one photo, the toad stood out beautifully against the leaves. I showed it to Nate.