need Dad right now, too.
In the water near our boat, a seal lifts his head up, locking eyes with mine. “Look, Aaron,” I say.
He raises his head off Dad’s shoulder just as the seal tucks into a dive, smooth as a wave.
“Wow,” Aaron says.
“Don’t let those big eyes fool you,” Dad teases. “They’re a bunch of thieves. Seals stick their heads into lobster traps and eat up the bait or the lobsters, sometimes ruining the trap in the process. So we fishermen have nothing good to say about them.”
“ I’m a fisherman,” I say, “and I think they’re beautiful.”
“They have to eat, too,” Aaron says quietly.
I nod. “That’s right. They just want their supper.”
“Will you still feel that way if one of those robbers has eaten your lobsters?” Dad asks me, picking up his gloves.
“Yes!” But when my trap is hauled, it’s empty. Even the bait bag is gone. I shrug. “Anyone can have one bad-luck day.”
“Or a good-luck day, if you’re a seal,” Aaron says.
It’s so surprising to hear him joke that for a second I can’t believe he really said it. “Yes, it’s a very lucky day for a seal,” I say.
And even Dad smiles.
A fter supper, I take Aaron over to Mrs. Coombs’s house to get the music book for the Fourth of July picnic. The cooling-down evening smells like Christmas trees and salt air. As we walk, I spin around counterclockwise to reverse the bad luck of Aaron saying “drowned” on the boat. When I twirl for the third time, he looks at me like I’m crazy. He should be grateful I’m protecting him, because bad luck is as real as good luck.
As we come up her walk, Mrs. Coombs opens her front door — before we’ve even knocked. I should’ve known she’d be watching for us.
“Hello!” I give her a wide, cheesy grin.
She narrows her eyes. Mrs. Coombs thinks any happy kid is up to no good. “I marked the songs for you to play.” She hands Aaron a thick, spiral-bound music book, Beloved Tunes of the American People. A fringeof yellow Post-it notes juts from the pages. “I picked all the favorites.”
I want to ask, whose favorites? But if I said that, Mom’d hear about it — probably even before I got home. Mrs. Coombs has the fastest phone-dialing finger in Maine. And I bet she has Mom on speed dial.
“Be at the picnic no later than eleven,” she tells Aaron. “I’ll borrow one of the music stands from church. We can set it up that morning on the parish hall steps.”
“Okay,” he says.
As Mrs. Coombs closes her door, Aaron sticks the songbook under his arm.
“It’s nice of you to do this,” I say. “Everyone will love it.”
“I hate playing what other people want.” He fingers the yellow bits of paper. “I probably don’t even know half these songs.”
“There’s a piano in there.” I point to the parish hall next door. “You could try the songs out. And if you don’t know one, maybe I could hum it for you.”
Aaron looks uncertain as he shifts the music book under his arm. “Don’t they keep the door locked?”
“Not usually. There’s nothing worth stealing in there, unless a thief wanted a load of bean supper plates and rummage sale stuff.”
Aaron hurries across the lawn. He almost drops the music book as he runs.
“Wait! Don’t walk on Mrs. Coombs’s grass! She’ll —” I glance back to the house, half-expecting to see her charge out of her front door, brandishing her phone.
Not even a curtain quivers in the window, so I run across the grass after him.
Inside the parish hall, Aaron sits at the black upright piano and dusts the keys with the bottom edge of his T-shirt. Then, striking a note, he wrinkles his nose. “Ouch.”
“It doesn’t get played much. Just for special events like the talent show or our island holiday party in December.” My voice rings in the empty room, sounding like I’m more than one person. I flip light switches on and off until I find the one that controls the lights above the
In the water near our boat, a seal lifts his head up, locking eyes with mine. “Look, Aaron,” I say.
He raises his head off Dad’s shoulder just as the seal tucks into a dive, smooth as a wave.
“Wow,” Aaron says.
“Don’t let those big eyes fool you,” Dad teases. “They’re a bunch of thieves. Seals stick their heads into lobster traps and eat up the bait or the lobsters, sometimes ruining the trap in the process. So we fishermen have nothing good to say about them.”
“ I’m a fisherman,” I say, “and I think they’re beautiful.”
“They have to eat, too,” Aaron says quietly.
I nod. “That’s right. They just want their supper.”
“Will you still feel that way if one of those robbers has eaten your lobsters?” Dad asks me, picking up his gloves.
“Yes!” But when my trap is hauled, it’s empty. Even the bait bag is gone. I shrug. “Anyone can have one bad-luck day.”
“Or a good-luck day, if you’re a seal,” Aaron says.
It’s so surprising to hear him joke that for a second I can’t believe he really said it. “Yes, it’s a very lucky day for a seal,” I say.
And even Dad smiles.
A fter supper, I take Aaron over to Mrs. Coombs’s house to get the music book for the Fourth of July picnic. The cooling-down evening smells like Christmas trees and salt air. As we walk, I spin around counterclockwise to reverse the bad luck of Aaron saying “drowned” on the boat. When I twirl for the third time, he looks at me like I’m crazy. He should be grateful I’m protecting him, because bad luck is as real as good luck.
As we come up her walk, Mrs. Coombs opens her front door — before we’ve even knocked. I should’ve known she’d be watching for us.
“Hello!” I give her a wide, cheesy grin.
She narrows her eyes. Mrs. Coombs thinks any happy kid is up to no good. “I marked the songs for you to play.” She hands Aaron a thick, spiral-bound music book, Beloved Tunes of the American People. A fringeof yellow Post-it notes juts from the pages. “I picked all the favorites.”
I want to ask, whose favorites? But if I said that, Mom’d hear about it — probably even before I got home. Mrs. Coombs has the fastest phone-dialing finger in Maine. And I bet she has Mom on speed dial.
“Be at the picnic no later than eleven,” she tells Aaron. “I’ll borrow one of the music stands from church. We can set it up that morning on the parish hall steps.”
“Okay,” he says.
As Mrs. Coombs closes her door, Aaron sticks the songbook under his arm.
“It’s nice of you to do this,” I say. “Everyone will love it.”
“I hate playing what other people want.” He fingers the yellow bits of paper. “I probably don’t even know half these songs.”
“There’s a piano in there.” I point to the parish hall next door. “You could try the songs out. And if you don’t know one, maybe I could hum it for you.”
Aaron looks uncertain as he shifts the music book under his arm. “Don’t they keep the door locked?”
“Not usually. There’s nothing worth stealing in there, unless a thief wanted a load of bean supper plates and rummage sale stuff.”
Aaron hurries across the lawn. He almost drops the music book as he runs.
“Wait! Don’t walk on Mrs. Coombs’s grass! She’ll —” I glance back to the house, half-expecting to see her charge out of her front door, brandishing her phone.
Not even a curtain quivers in the window, so I run across the grass after him.
Inside the parish hall, Aaron sits at the black upright piano and dusts the keys with the bottom edge of his T-shirt. Then, striking a note, he wrinkles his nose. “Ouch.”
“It doesn’t get played much. Just for special events like the talent show or our island holiday party in December.” My voice rings in the empty room, sounding like I’m more than one person. I flip light switches on and off until I find the one that controls the lights above the
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