CHAPTER 8

Why Don’t Oceans Freeze?

On the sidewalk after school, I watch while Amber helps Slate get into her family’s van and fastens his seat belt. Then she hops in too and starts talking with Ivory, even though they were fighting this morning. Mrs. Lane must say something funny, because Amber bursts out laughing. I miss making her laugh. How come their family gets to fight one minute, and be happy again the next?

“Here I am at last, Tweety,” Marianna says as she walks up to me. “Oh, look! There goes Am!” She waves as Amber’s mom pulls away from the curb.

Amber lowers her window and practically falls out of the van, waving back to Marianna. “Bye, Emmmm!” she cries as they drive away. “See you tomorrowwww!” She doesn’t even look at me.

“It’s too bad you can’t come to her sleepover, Tweety,” Marianna says as we start to walk along. “What does your dad build, anyway?”

“Houses, garages, decks . . . stuff like that.”

“Did he build your house?” Marianna asks. She looks up and down the block. “Where do you live, anyway?”

“Not far,” I reply. “My house is by the lake. My dad didn’t build it.”

“I know where the lake is. Let’s walk by your house! You can show me your room.”

“No one is at my house right now,” I say. “That’s why I have to go to the library. Besides, it’s not on the way to Large Marge’s, and we have to stop there first.”

“The pizza place? Reuben and I ate there once.”

I nod. “I have to buy supper.”

“How come? Doesn’t your mom cook either?”

“She cooks,” I say. “Just not . . . lately. Her schedule changed.”

“What about your dad?” Marianna persists. “Doesn’t he cook?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “But he’s working late too.” I take a breath and relax a little. The fibs are coming easier now.

“Reuben is a total cooking geek,” Marianna says. “It’s a thing with him.”

A minute later, we walk into Large Marge’s Pizza and Sub Shop. Some older kids are sitting at a booth, eating fries, and a man in a suit and tie is reading a newspaper.

A woman behind the counter smiles at us. “What can I get for you, girls?” she asks. I’ve seen her—Marge—before because my parents love the food here. But usually they do the ordering. Today, I’m in charge.

“I’d like two subs, please,” I say.

“Coming right up!” Marge replies, snugging a pair of plastic gloves over her hands. She takes a bread knife and slices open two buns. “What would you like on them?”

I look at the sandwich fixings behind the counter’s glass shield and repeat what Mom told me to say this morning. Alphabetically, of course, because librarians are into that. “Cheese, lettuce, peppers, sprouts, tomatoes, and turkey, please.”

“Got it,” Marge says, going to work on the sandwiches.

“Two subs?” Marianna says. “Don’t you need three?”

My stomach flip-flops. I glance at Marianna. “Um . . . my dad doesn’t like subs,” I say. “He’ll eat something else later.” I turn back to Marge. “Could you put extra peppers on that one?” I point through the glass as she works. “My mom loves them.”

“Sure thing,” Marge says, adding more peppers to Mom’s sub. Red, yellow, green, orange. A pepper rainbow. “Who’s your mom?”

“Emily Byrd,” I reply. “She’s the head librarian at the Oak Hill Public Library.”

“Oh, sure!” Marge exclaims. “I know your folks. How’re they doing?”

“They’re fine,” I say. “We’re all fine.”

Marge nods. “And who might you be?” she asks Marianna, wrapping the sandwiches in paper.

“I am Marianna Van Den Heuval,” Marianna replies. “I moved here from Seattle this summer. My mom will be coming soon. She’s an artist. So is my dad. The only one who doesn’t do art in my family is Reuben.”

“Your brother?” Marge asks.

Marianna shakes her head. “My stepdad.”

“Well, I look forward to meeting your whole family,” Marge says.

Marianna nods. “My mom will be here any day now. She promised.”

I pay for the subs, then we head out the door.

When we get to the library, I expect Marianna to keep walking straight home. But she heads up the steps with me. “Good-bye?” I say, when I get to the door. “This is the library. You can go home now.”

“I know it’s the library,” Marianna replies. “I’m going in with you.”

“UmWhy?”

“UmHello? Homework? That’s what friends do after school, Tweety.”

“But won’t your stepdad wonder where you are?”

“I texted Reuben from school.” She grabs the handle on the door and pulls it open. “Hello, Mrs. Byrd!” she calls out when we get inside. “It’s me, Marianna Van Den Heuval! Your daughter is here, safe and sound, just like I promised.”

A couple of kids look over from the DVD rack. A woman glances up from her laptop.

Mom appears from behind a bookshelf. “Thank you for letting me know, Marianna. But, please, use your library voice in here.”

“This is my library voice, Mrs. Byrd,” Marianna replies loudly. Then she turns to me. “Don’t just stand there, Tweety, start moving chairs. Let’s build one of those book hook things you’re so crazy about.”

“Book nook,” I correct her, looking at Mom. The library isn’t too busy. She gives me a nod.

I set the take-out food on Mom’s desk and lead Marianna to a back corner. We crawl under one of the reading tables, cage ourselves in with chairs, and take out the math worksheets Ms. Little gave to us at the end of the day.

“Math is one of my best subjects,” Marianna tells me. “My friends are always asking me to help them solve their problems.”

“I can solve my own problems,” I say, taking out a pouch of pencils and erasers I keep in my backpack.

“You must make a lot of mistakes,” Marianna says, watching as I dump out the pouch. “You’ve got, what? Five erasers there? I saw even more in your desk at school.”

“Collecting erasers is my hobby,” I explain. “I’ve got lots of different kinds. Animals, flowers, rainbows, fruit, candy . . . I’ve even got one that’s a hamburger you can take apart and put back together again.”

Marianna sniffs. “My hobby is collecting sea glass.”

I frown. “What’s that?”

Marianna straightens up and shows me her necklace with the milky blue pendant. “It’s glass that comes from the sea,” she explains in a teacher voice. “You know, bottles and jars that end up in the ocean? The rocks break them into little pieces. Then the waves tumble them around and around, pounding down their sharp edges so the jagged parts are smooth. When they finally wash up onshore, all that ugly glass has been changed into something pretty, see?” She twirls the pendant. “My mom’s house is right by the ocean. We comb the beaches in Seattle for sea glass all the time.”

“You’re going to need a new hobby, then,” I say. “We don’t have any oceans in Oak Hill.”

“There’s a lake in town,” Marianna says, adjusting the necklace. “You live by it. As soon as my mother gets here, we’ll hunt for glass there.”

“You better hurry before the snow falls and the lake freezes.”

Marianna cocks her head. “What do you mean . . . freezes?”

“Lakes are made from water,” I explain, like I’m the teacher now. “Water freezes when it gets cold. The ice on Pickerel Lake gets so thick you can walk on it. People even drive their cars across it. My dad sets up a little house out there every winter. It has a hole in the floor so he can cut through the ice and stay warm and snug inside while he fishes.”

Marianna blinks. “Are you fibbing me, Tweety?”

I shake my head. “It’s the truth.”

“Weird,” Marianna replies. “I wonder why the ocean doesn’t freeze like that.”

I shrug, then move a chair aside and look around for Mom. I spot her a few tables over. “Mom?” I call out in a loud whisper.

She glances up from a book she’s showing to the woman with the laptop. “What is it, Wren?” she whispers back.

“Why don’t oceans freeze?”

Mom purses her lips. “Look it up,” she says, then starts talking quietly with the woman again.

I crawl back inside the book nook. Marianna and I huddle over my phone while I type in the question.

Why don’t oceans freeze?

Marianna reads the answer that pops up. “Some oceans do freeze when the temperature is cold enough. But warm currents, depth, and salt in the water keep many oceans from freezing.”

I click off my phone. “So that’s the answer,” I say. “Oceans have currents and salt, plus they’re deep. Pickerel Lake is too little. No salt.”

Marianna nods. “True, but Pickerel Lake doesn’t freeze solid, or the fish would die. So that makes it big too.” She shrugs. “Some things are like that, Tweety. Big and little at the same time. Weird.”

Stretching out her legs, Marianna starts talking in her teacher voice again. Like she’s bigger than me.

*   *   *

“This will be fun!” Mom says later as she pushes aside papers and pencils on her desk to make room for our supper. “We can have an indoor picnic.” I set my sub on the corner of Mom’s desk and pull up a chair. Marianna left a few minutes ago. Her stepdad sent a text saying supper was almost ready, so she should come home. I wonder what she’s eating. Crab and caviar? She said her stepdad likes to cook. I bet he even sets the table for supper.

I unwrap my sub and take a bite.

“How was your day?” Mom asks, unwrapping her sandwich too. She opens two bottles of water she keeps by her desk.

“It was fine,” I reply.

“Any homework?”

“I finished it already.”

“You and Marianna seem to be getting along,” Mom comments. “You’re both good readers. Her stepdad stopped by earlier to return her books. Did you know he grew up here? Your dad and he played basketball together in high school.”

I hate when she says your dad instead of just Dad. Like he belongs to only me now.

“Marianna must be sad about her mother’s plans changing,” Mom adds, then takes a bite from her sandwich.

I look up from my sub. “What do you mean?”

Mom swallows and takes a sip of water. “Didn’t Marianna tell you? Her mother’s project has been delayed. Reuben said it will be another month, at least, before she moves here.” She bites into her sandwich again.

My eyes scrunch with confusion. “Are you sure Marianna knows? She was just saying her mom will be moving here any day.”

Mom shrugs, chewing. “I assume she knows. Reuben didn’t act like it was a secret or—” She makes a strange face, then drops her sub and grabs some water.

“What is it?” I ask. “Don’t you like your sandwich?”

“Hot!” she says, waving her hand in front of her mouth. She takes a gulp of water. “Peppers!”

“I asked for extra,” I say. “I know how much you like them.”

“I like sweet peppers,” Mom replies, after she catches her breath. “Your dad likes the spicy kind.” She wipes a tear from her eye and grabs a tissue to blow her nose.

I slump. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mom replies, picking bits of peppers from her sandwich. “Next time you’ll know.”

I sigh, chewing slowly.

Next time doesn’t feel like a picnic.

Next time feels like a chore.

When Mom and Dad told me they were getting a divorce, they said it had nothing to do with me.

But I’m the one who has to walk to the library with Marianna Van Den Heuval.

I’m in charge of getting supper now.

I’m eating at a desk, surrounded by stacks of books and messages scribbled on sticky notes, instead of at a table with dishes and silverware.

I’m the one without a best friend.

Mom’s phone chirps. She looks at the screen. “Chew fast,” she tells me. “It’s your dad. I’m not getting it.”

I swallow and snatch the phone from Mom before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello? Dad?” I say.

“Hey, Squirt!” he says. “I thought I was calling your mom’s phone.”

“You are,” I say. “I’m here with her, at the library. Did you want to talk to her?”

“Actually, I tried calling your phone a bunch of times, but you weren’t picking up.”

“Oh!” I say. “Ms. Little makes us turn off the ringers during school. I must have forgotten to turn mine back on. Why are you calling? It’s Thursday. You’re not in charge of me until tomorrow.”

Dad chuckles. “I can call you any day of the week, Squirt. Got time for some quick questions? It’s been a while.”

I sit up taller. “Okay! You start.”

Dad thinks for a minute. “How was your first day of school?” he asks.

“Good!” I reply.

Mom glances over. Then she looks away again and takes a sip of water.

“What did you do?”

“The usual. Math. Reading. Spelling. I got put in the Red reading group. Ms. Little didn’t say so, but I think it’s got the best readers in it.”

“Way to go, Squirt! Do you still like your new teacher? Or do I have to find a replacement?”

“Yes! I mean, no! I like Ms. Little a lot.”

“Does she serve spaghetti and meatballs for milk break?”

“No!”

“Did she call on you during math today?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know the answer?”

“On the second try.”

“Good job! Are your classmates nice?”

“Mostly.”

“Did you kiss any boys?”

“Da-ad!”

“Heh-heh. Do you have any homework?”

“No. Marianna and I just finished.”

“Marianna?”

“The new girl.”

“So you’ve made a new friend?”

“Not exactly. She acts like the boss of us.”

“I see. At least you haven’t made any enemies, right?”

I don’t answer, thinking about Amber.

Mom looks at me and taps her watch. Chop-chop, she mouths, with no sound.

“Still there, Squirt? That was a joke, by the way.”

“I’m still here, but I should finish eating now. Can we talk later?”

“Sure thing,” Dad says. “I didn’t realize it was suppertime already.”

“It’s not. I mean, it is. I mean . . . I’m eating at the library because Mom is working.”

“Got it,” Dad says. “How about I call later to say good night? Turn your phone on, okay? When do you go to bed these days? Six o’clock?” He chuckles again.

I roll my eyes. “Mom says I can stay up until nine this year.”

“Call you before then. Now, put your mother on the phone for a minute, please.”

I brighten. “You want to talk to Mom?”

“Yes, Squirt, I do.”

“Okay, just a minute! Here she is.” I hold the phone out to Mom. “Dad wants to talk to you.”

Mom sets down her sandwich slowly. She wipes her fingers on a napkin. Then she takes the phone. “What is it?” she asks. Pause. “Of course she knows about riding the bus. I made a schedule.” Pause. “Don’t be ridiculous, no one is keeping her from calling you.” Pause. “She has school now, Jeff. Her schedule is diff—what? That’s not my responsibility! You’ll have to remind her yourself.” Pause. Pause. Pause. “Yes, I’m still here, but I’m at work. Talk to her about it this weekend. I’m hanging up now.”

Mom sets down her phone. She refolds the paper over her unfinished sub and throws it in the trash.

“What’s wrong?” I ask in my smallest voice. “You sounded mad.”

Mom wipes crumbs from her desk. “No one is mad. Your dad was just confused about . . . your schedule. Wren, you know you can call him any day of the week, don’t you?”

I didn’t really know that, but I nod.

“And you may call me on the weekends, if you wish. Understood?”

I nod again.

“Good,” Mom says, brushing the last of the crumbs from her fingers. “That’s done. Now, chop-chop. Finish your supper. It’ll be time to go home soon.”

“I’m finished,” I say, pushing my sub away. “May I be excused from the table? I mean, desk?”

“Yes, but you’ve hardly eaten a thing.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, slipping out of my chair and going back to the book nook.

Lying down, I rest my head on my backpack. Then I close my eyes and think back to when I was little. I’m snuggled up in my jammies. Dad is reading me a bedtime story. Mom comes in and tucks the blankets around me. I smile as they both kiss me good night, then walk out of my room, hand in hand.

I open my eyes. When was the last time they held hands? I ask myself. But I can’t remember the answer.

Unzipping my backpack, I take out my phone and turn on the ringer. I wish I could call Amber. We’ve always talked to each other about everything, even the bad stuff. But this secret is worse than bad. And now she seems happier talking to Marianna than to me.

I look up the word happy.

Happy

Next, I type content.

Content

I click off my phone and lie down again. When did Mom and Dad stop being happy? I ask myself. How come no one told me we needed more?