Inside that phlegmy-green, stamp-covered envelope, there was a slightly cleaner piece of notebook paper with a few pen-scrawled lines. Milton adjusted his glasses and read:
Dear Milton,
I’m looking forward to your visit. It’s pretty tricky to get here, so I arranged your flights. I’m enclosing the itinerary.
I’ll be waiting for you at the airstrip. See you on June 8.
Uncle Evan
P.S. Tell your dad the Incredible Symphonic Cicadas should be emerging soon, and this might be his last chance to hear them.
Behind the letter was a paper filled with flight numbers and times and finally, at the very bottom, these words: ARRIVAL: The Lone Island.
“Can this possibly mean what I think it means?” Milton asked. His parents both wore huge, frozen smiles—the kind of smile you smile when you’re trying to convince someone that a letter contains wonderful news.
“It means you’re going to the Lone Island for the summer!” Milton’s father cried, sounding peppier than he had all year. “You get to stay with Uncle Evan.”
“It’ll be like visiting a real Isle of Wild,” Milton’s mother added.
Milton glanced back and forth between them, openmouthed and bug-eyed. “Well, that’s—that’s very—egad. Really?”
“You’ve been wanting to go there ever since Uncle Evan’s visit,” his father replied. “Remember?”
Of course Milton remembered. During that visit seven years ago, Uncle Evan had taken Milton and his parents birdwatching and hiking and even camping. Over roasted marshmallows, he had told them about his life on the nearly deserted Lone Island and about the island’s famous explorer, Dr. Ada Paradis. Dr. Paradis claimed the island’s jungle was filled with never-before-seen creatures like a pachyderm that burrowed underground, a tree that shot poison arrows, a bird with stars in its tail feathers, and thousands more just waiting to be found. And Uncle Evan had been sure, absolutely sure, that he would find them all.
That visit had been the start of Milton’s Nature Phase. His parents had gotten him a pair of neon-green binoculars with seagull decals on the sides, and he had spent many an after-school hour in their row house’s minuscule backyard cataloging types of grass and peering up at pigeons and crows. On Sundays, Milton and his parents (and sometimes Dev) would head to a local park. These expeditions had been the highlight of Milton’s week, and he had been pretty sure they were the highlight of his parents’ week too.
Yes, if he’d gotten this letter a year ago, back in fifth grade, Milton would have wept tears of joy. But things had changed. His parents hadn’t offered to take him on an expedition in months, and he hadn’t asked. His Nature Phase was over.
“I used to want to go there,” Milton said. “I’m not entirely certain that I still do.”
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” His mother hadn’t stopped smiling, but Milton could hear the impatience that had become nearly constant this year creeping into her voice. “And your father and I, we need—we need some time to sort things out.”
“You mean … getting-back-together things?” Milton asked, even though he knew the answer.
Milton’s father shook his head. Milton’s mother stopped smiling.
“No, Milton,” she said softly. “The opposite is what I mean.”
Now Milton understood.
The opposite. Like his father cleaning out the last of his stuff. Like finalizing the custody plan. Like divorcing, completely, at last, for good. The End.
And they didn’t want him here while that happened.
The kids at school, they didn’t want him here. Not even Dev, who mostly pretended he didn’t exist.
No one wanted him here.
So long, Milton.
“Well, that is a very tempting offer,” he said. He folded up the itinerary and the letter and replaced them in the envelope. “And I truly do hate to disappoint Uncle Evan, but unfortunately, I must decline.”
From the corner of his eye, Milton could see his parents exchanging glances—say-something, no-you-say-something glances—but neither of them spoke, and when Milton reached for his HandHeld, his mother gave it to him.
He had been right though. When the screen lit back up, Sea Hawk was dead. Milton would have to start over.
“I have plans with Sea Hawk this summer,” he said. He pressed Restart, and the shipwrecked naturalist sprung back to life. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Onward! Ever onward!” Sea Hawk bellowed.
“Indeed,” Milton agreed.
But as he maneuvered Sea Hawk toward the bay where the territorial cephalopod was once again hiding in the shallows, Milton had this (very disturbing) thought: This was the first time in months that his parents had been together in the same room without biting each other’s heads off.
If they’d been willing to do this, if they’d been willing to work together and smile and be as patient and peppy as possible—well, then they really might mean business.
Milton might be going to the Lone Island.