Authors: Maria Padian
re•de•fined
I hadn’t counted on the heat. Nasty heat. Humid, out-of-season, early heat that catches you unawares when your skin is still pasty winter white and you haven’t gotten used to wearing shorts yet. The type of out-of-season heat wave that causes a run on fans at Rite Aid and gives overweight people heart palpitations.
Michael manages to bring up that delightful fact as the sweat pours off us one bright afternoon. We are clearing out the Gnome Home garage, by order of the Great Almighty Clearer Outer: Mom. The lease on the house is due to run out by the end of May, and we are busy removing every trace of Nonna, from the kitchen to the attic to the garage. None of us can bear throwing anything away, so what we don’t
give
away we pack into our house or have Mr. Beady truck to his garage. He seems grateful to be busy. I wonder what he will do with himself once we finish the job.
“You know, people drop dead in this sort of weather,” Michael pants. Perspiration forms two wet patches under the arms of his gray T-shirt and soaks the hair on the back of his neck. Helping the McCarthys Clear Out is Punishment #337 handed down by Uncle Jack and Aunt Lorena to their newly redefined son.
Michael Dwyer:
Online Chess Grand Master, Law-Abiding High Honors Student, Trustworthy Good Kid.
Now:
Michael Dwyer, Redefined:
Underage Driver, Thief, Sneak, Brett McCarthy’s Hero.
“Thanks—now I’m really having fun,” I remark. We dig through stacks of cardboard boxes. The contents are completely random. Some contain long-forgotten McCarthy family treasures, like Dad’s junior high yearbooks from the 1970s. Others are filled with old bank statements, moldy shoes, yellowing envelopes…trash. You don’t know what you might find, so you have to go through it all. Just in case.
Clearing out the house is way easier. That’s because Nonna left a list. Short and sweet, which really helps. For example, she’d written: Florence, World’s Fair Spoon Collection; Kathy Livingston, snowshoes and cross-country skis; Beady, my fly-fishing pole and tackle. It saves us having to think about who might like what, and for that last act of generosity my parents are extremely grateful. Thinking too much still brings their tears, but sorting, packing, sweeping, mailing…that they can handle.
Michael and I have sorted through maybe half the garage when the Great Almighty Clearer Outer decides to have mercy on us.
“You guys want some lemonade?” Mom stands at the entrance carrying a tray with a tall pitcher and two glasses. We don’t need a second invitation. Filling the glasses, we wander over to the hammock in my yard. We ease ourselves, cross-ways, onto the ropes, swinging gently as we sip.
“So…are you coming this weekend?” I ask him.
Mom, Dad, and I, plus Mr. Beady, plus Mrs. Augmentino and the Fifth Period Class, are going to Spruce Island. This is the weekend we McCarthys traditionally open the cottage windows, beat dusty blankets with sticks, and sweep mouse poop from the floors. It is the weekend we usually move Nonna to the island, the
Dolly Llama
low in the water, weighed down by Nonna’s bags. Instead, Mr. Beady is going to fire up the lighthouse, and I will build fairy houses with Monique Rose.
It is the first island weekend without Nonna, and I don’t think I can bear it if Michael is missing too. But Punishment #85 is No Going Back to the Island This Year.
“It took a lot…and I mean
a lot
…of begging, but they agreed to let me come. I told them I didn’t want to let you down, and that did it.”
Michael’s eyes are about six inches from mine, so he can’t duck my next question.
“Did you mean that? About not letting me down? Or was it just a strategy?”
“What do you think?” he says. Not teasing. Serious. I have to look away.
“You’re a good man, Dante,” I say quietly, giving the hammock a little push. We rock slowly. Heat shimmers across the pale green lawn that stretches between my house and the Gnome Home. A van pulls into Nonna’s driveway, stopping just short of the stacks of boxes Michael and I have dragged from the garage.
“Company,” Michael comments.
“It’s Diane,” I say. I stick one foot out, putting the brakes on the hammock, and somehow detangle myself from the ropes without dumping Michael in the dirt.
“Excuse me? Did I miss something here?” he says, eyes wide. “You are speaking to Diane?” I just give the hammock a playful shove that sets him swinging in answer.
“I’ll explain when I get back,” I reply, walking toward the house, still holding my glass. “Don’t go away.”
Little does Michael realize that I couldn’t answer his question even if I tried. I’m not sure to what extent I am “speaking” to Diane. She’s just come to collect.
It shouldn’t have surprised me. Shouldn’t have surprised me to see “Diane Pelletier, madeleine pans” written on Nonna’s list. But there it was, sure enough. So Mom called Mrs. Pelletier. We scrubbed the pans and wrapped them in tissue paper, like they were gifts. We arranged a time for the Pelletiers to stop by. This afternoon. As I cross the lawn, I see Diane emerge from the van. I take a deep breath.
“Hey,” I say as I approach.
“Hey back,” she says. “Hot enough for you?”
“Don’t kid yourself,” I reply. “This is Maine. It’ll probably snow next week.”
“True,” she says. She stands awkwardly alongside the van door. I wonder if we’ll keep talking about the weather.
“How’s it goin’?” she asks.
“Oh. You know. It’s pretty sucky right now,” I say.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “I’ll bet.” There is genuine sympathy in her voice. We haven’t spoken since Nonna died. Diane and her mom came to the funeral, but it was too crowded for us to say much then. Just a hug, a hurried I’m-so-sorry. Brief and surreal.
“Why don’t you come inside?” I say. “We have lemonade.”
Diane follows me into the Gnome Home kitchen, which is cluttered with half-full cardboard boxes. Pots and dishes are stacked on the counters.
“Wow,” she says. “You guys are already packing up?”
“The owner wants to rent it to someone else.” I shrug. I open the fridge, which is empty except for the lemonade. I pour a glass for Diane. “It’s good, in a way. Keeps us busy. Especially Mr. Beady.” I hand her the glass and take a long, cool sip from mine.
“Brett, I’m so sorry,” Diane says, her eyes locked on me.
“Thanks,” I reply honestly. “She was the most amazing person I’ve ever known.”
We’re quiet for a minute, until I gesture toward the wrapped pans on the counter.
“I’m glad she wanted you to have those,” I say. “No one else could do them justice.”
“I’ll bet you could learn,” Diane says. “Are you sure you want me to take them?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Only you have to agree to one thing. The first batch you make? You have to share them with us.”
Diane smiles. “Absolutely,” she repeats. “We’ll have a madeleine party. In honor of Nonna.”
“Just one other thing,” I add. Mischievously. I can’t resist. “Can we
not
invite Jeanne Anne?”
To my surprise, Diane laughs out loud.
“I think that’s something you can count on. Especially since we’re not speaking.”
“Really?” I ask. “Since when?” I try not to look completely shocked.
“Oh…it’s a long story. I don’t know exactly since when. Let’s just say you were right about her.” Diane picks up the pans from the counter and begins heading toward the kitchen door. My head buzzes with questions, but it’s obvious Diane has said all she’s going to about Jeanne Anne. I’ll have to interrogate Michael later and find out what he knows.
Just before she walks outside, Diane turns, as if she’s forgotten something.
“What did Nonna leave you?” she asks.
“Kind of everything…except the madeleine pans,” I joke. She laughs softly, shaking her head. “But actually…since you’ve asked…check this out.”
There are three cardboard boxes stacked near the kitchen door. I open the top one and pull out a notebook and a sheet of paper. The notebook is one of the ordinary, college-ruled spiral variety, unremarkable except the cover has scribbled on it:
Journal 1981.
The rest of the boxes are filled with similar books. Diane’s eyes widen.
“She left you her diaries?”
“Every one of them. They start when she was ten years old. They’re, like, antiques.”
“That is
so
cool,” Diane says. “Have you read any of them?”
I shake my head. “Not yet,” I say, then stop. A lump comes to my throat and I can’t say anything else. Diane hesitates, then puts one hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
“I’ll see you around, Brett,” she says. I nod, staring hard at the floor, as Diane leaves. I return the notebook to its carton and place the sheet of paper on top. Before I close the box, I read the words Nonna scrawled on the paper.
“To Brett, the Family Keeper of Stories.”
A new defining characteristic, a surprise, one I have never considered myself. But then, that’s how definitions work. They come and go, shift and change, and even when they surprise you, you realize they haven’t arrived overnight. They come upon you slowly. Like the tides and the seasons. Like new friends. Like maybe old new friends, reconstituted with laughter and tears, and redefining everything.
Maria Padian
has worked as a news reporter, an essayist for public radio, a press secretary for a U.S. congressman, and a freelance writer. An avid tennis player, gardener, skier, and hiker, she is also the mother of two teenagers, who provide countless inspirations and insights for her writing. A graduate of Middlebury College and the University of Virginia, she has also attended Oxford University and the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. She lives with her children, her husband, and their Australian shepherd in Maine, where she is at work on a new novel. To learn more about her, visit
www.mariapadian.com
.
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Maria Padian
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Random House for permission to reprint “Still I Rise,” copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou, from
And Still I Rise
by Maya Angelou. Used by permission of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Padian, Maria.
Brett McCarthy: work in progress/Maria Padian.—1st ed.
p. cm.
SUMMARY
: Eighth-grader Brett McCarthy—once good student and best-friend-to-Diane, now suspended and friendless—faces school and family troubles as she grapples with her redefined life.
[1. Grandmothers—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 4. Cancer—Fiction. 5. Junior high schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Family life—Maine—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Brett McCarthy: Work in progress.
PZ7.P1325Fo 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2007004415
eISBN: 978-0-375-84940-4
v3.0