Chapter 8

The morning the Young Scientist position begins, I wake up after Mama’s already come home from work and gone to bed. The smell of coffee wafts in from the kitchen; Dad’s probably already filling his travel mug, packing it into the truck with a turkey sandwich and a bag of chips. When I come out to pour some cereal, I see my backpack, laid out on the table with a water bottle and a brown paper sack next to it.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, pointing to the bag.

“Don’t thank me,” he says. “That was your mama.”

“Really?” I ask. “When did she pack it?”

“After work, I guess,” he says. “Left it out there for you.”

I picture Mama’s hands, her fingers knobby and strong, shaking open the paper bag. I peek inside.

“No way!” I say. “A Fluffernutter!” I hardly ever get these. Mama always freaks out about all the sugar in Marshmallow Fluff. Filling cavities costs a lot, she used to tell us, and ruining baby teeth doesn’t help the adult ones. “I think the last time she made them for us, we were, like, five.” Then I cover my mouth with my hand, realizing I’ve done it again—said us.

Dad wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, but so quickly, he might just have been blocking the sun.

And then I think about Amos. For just this one perfect second, his skinny tanned legs swim into focus, and they’re running away from me. I see him, I really see him, holding his Fluffernutter, racing along the beach. “Can’t catch me!” he’s screaming. I’m laughing, stumbling after him, my Fluffernutter squished in my palm. “Can too! Can too!”

Then I’m tripping, falling, knees hitting sand. The Fluffernutter flies out of my hands. Tears come as I scramble to the sandwich and find it covered in grit. Ahead of me Amos stops, turns. Sunlight catches his hair and turns it golden. His eyes darken and he begins to run back toward me. I’m wiping at my sandwich, crying. “Addie,” he’s saying. “Addie.”

Then he kneels beside me while I cough and sob. He holds his Fluffernutter out.

“It’s okay,” he’s saying. “You can have mine.”

I can still smell it, half sweet, half salty. I still remember how it felt to take it, soft and warm, from his hands. I remember how I tore the sandwich in half, sniffling, and handed one half back. How we ate it in five bites each, listening to the waves.

I close the bag and put it in my backpack.

“Ready to go?” Dad asks.

As we drive up the road to the biological station, Dad’s fingers softly tap the steering wheel.

“So I’ll pick you up after,” he says. “And take you over to the farm so you can keep getting acquainted with that calf. Rascal, right?” It feels like he’s talking more to himself than to me.

“Okay,” I say. I haven’t talked to Liza since we brushed Rascal. I know she’s been helping Uncle Mark feed her and the other calves, probably staying at Rascal’s pen for an extra minute to rub her ears.

But Liza feels far away now, here, where thick trees near the shore mostly hide the lake. If I watch carefully, I can see flashes of blue between the shivering green leaves.

“You’ll be careful,” Dad says.

“Yes, Dad.”

“You can change your mind, you know,” he says. “Just call me. Or your mother. Don’t worry about waking her. Use the iPhone.”

“I’m not going to change my mind, Dad.” But I can feel my heart pounding.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I know.”

He pulls up to the biological station. It looks the same from the outside as I remember it, kind of like a big log cabin, set so far back in the trees it almost looks like it grew right out of them. Inside I know there’s at least one lab, because Mr. Dale told me about it, and different rooms where the researchers can have meetings or give presentations. There’s even a mini-museum open to the public with pictures and dioramas and explanations about Maple Lake’s history from the time of the glaciers till now. Amos and I used to sometimes go look at the displays after we were done hiking the trails.

As we walk up the path leading to the biological station, my phone buzzes. It’s Liza.

You still coming over later?

My chest tightens, just for a second.

4-ish, I text back.

Mr. Dale opens the door before we get a chance to knock. “Addie!” he says. “Welcome.” He sticks his hand out to Dad, who waits for just a second before shaking it.

“Hello, Mr. Lago.”

Dad nods. “Hello,” he says.

“Did you want to come in?” Mr. Dale asks. He steps aside just a little, and sunlight from overhead cuts through the dark doorway behind.

I look up at Dad, who swallows hard and puts his hand on my shoulder. I know, and he probably does too, that if we go inside, we’ll see the windows that open out onto Maple Lake. I don’t know if Dad wants that.

But he nods. “Sure. Wouldn’t mind taking a look around.”

Mr. Dale motions us both inside. Dad hesitates, like he might take back what he just said, but he stays right behind me as I walk in.

“Here’s the main lobby,” Mr. Dale says. “It’s a great spot for visitors who want to learn a bit about the lake. We’ve got some informational pamphlets over here, a topographical survey of the geographic region, hiking trail maps, camping tips, a diorama of the lake and surrounding mountains—” He points to each item.

I follow Dad’s eyes as they travel up the walls to the wooden ceiling, skipping over the windows that look out on the lake. I don’t know if Dad’s ever been in here. Usually when he’s anywhere near Maple Lake, he’s on it, fishing.

“The lab’s just down this hallway,” Mr. Dale explains. “But maybe you want to see the beach first? It’s not too far from the public one, but we have our own boat launch. It’s helpful for collecting water samples and traveling to farther points on the lake.”

From Dad’s favorite perch spot, we can see the biological station, but I’ve never been on this beach, just the public one where Amos and I would wade in the shallows after we hiked.

“I know you’re quite an expert on Maple Lake,” Mr. Dale says as he opens the door. “I should probably be asking you for fishing tips.” Mr. Dale fishes too; our boats have even crossed paths, and when they do, we always wave. Of course, it’s been a while.

Dad stuffs his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. “Don’t know about that.”

“It’s true,” I say. “Dad doesn’t even need one of those fish-finders people rig onto their boats. He knows right where to find them, any month of the year.” I’m talking fast, trying not to look out the window at all that blue.

Dad shakes his head, embarrassed, but Mr. Dale’s already leading us out. As I step through, I’m hit with the smell of water, clear and cold, and gritty sun-warmed sand. My hands start to shake, so I ball them up into fists.

Maple Lake is five miles long and a mile wide. Two big mountains—Mount Mann to the west and Bevel Mountain to the east—run almost the whole length of the lake. Between Mount Mann and the shore, there’s a narrow road that twists and turns, but on the other side, Bevel Mountain plunges straight into the water; there’s no room for a road. Because of those mountains, boating out into the middle of Maple Lake makes me feel closed in, like I’m in a big, open-topped tunnel filled with blue. I’ve hiked the trails up above, on skinny paths that twist into narrow outcroppings flanked with cedar and pine. The lake folds out below, flat and smooth as a blue bedsheet from all the way up there, where birds swoop and dive.

Mr. Dale keeps looking at Dad and me like he’s worried. I bet he can guess that for us, seeing Maple Lake rolling in, wave after wave, might feel like too much. I remember Barbara Ann saying it was good to walk right through fear. But at this very moment, I don’t like how tight my chest feels. I see Dad’s jaw clench as he looks toward Mount Mann, jutting up from the lake in hard slabs of granite and trees tipped sideways, their roots hanging on rock.

Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. Mr. Dale’s talking again, but I can’t hear. I reach back with one hand and tap the pocket that holds Amos’s notebook. As soon as I touch it, I do breathe, shakily at first, then steady. It’s okay, I say. It’s Maple Lake.

Dad shifts back and forth on his feet, checks his watch. “Time for me to go,” he says, right in the middle of Mr. Dale saying something about the prevalence of cedar trees along the shore.

Mr. Dale looks surprised but recovers quickly. “Of course,” he says. “We’ll see you later, then, Mr. Lago,” and he reaches out his hand again. Dad takes it but looks sideways at me, his eyes asking, Are you sure?

I nod. You don’t have to be sure to say you’re sure. And sometimes saying it helps it come true. I reach up and hug Dad, my forehead pressing into his neck. “See you later, Dad,” I say. And then I watch him go right through the door without looking back even once. The lake murmurs behind me. The waves tickling the sand sound like little whispers, telling me to stay.

“Ready to see the lab?” Mr. Dale asks.

“Sure,” I say, then: “I mean, yes. Yes.”

We walk back into the main building and down the narrow hallway ending in a door that Mr. Dale pushes open.

“I’d like you to meet Dr. Li,” he says, gesturing to a slim woman with long, straight black hair pulled into a ponytail at her neck. She rises from a table with papers spread out on it and smiles gently.

“You must be Addie.” She speaks with an accent, her voice clear and bright as music. “I’ve heard so much about you. I understand you want to be a scientist too someday?”

I nod. Suddenly I’m feeling shy.

“Well, I’m so glad your teacher was able to bring you to the station this summer,” she says. “We have a lot to work on, and from what Mr. Dale has told me, I know you’ll be a big help.”

I feel my chest swell just a little, imagining myself peering over Dr. Li’s deskful of papers, studying them closely. Somehow I can already tell that working with her is going to help me a lot.

“You know your teacher, of course, but these are a couple of my other graduate students, Jake and Tasha.” Jake, red hair cut close to a pale, freckled head, waves from his desk next to the wall. “Hey there, Addie,” he says. Tasha, standing next to Dr. Li, sticks out a brown hand ringed with silver bracelets and smiles. “Welcome to the club,” she says as we shake.

Then Dr. Li looks around. “Hmmm,” she says. “I seem to have lost that boy. Again.”

Just then, past the window, I see the boy she must be talking about, black hair flapping as he leaps over dead logs and stones on the shore, clutching a soccer ball under one arm. Then he stands still, holds one arm up high, and spins the ball on a fingertip. Dr. Li narrows her eyes. “It will be a miracle if we ever get him back into this lab,” she says.

“That’s Tai,” Mr. Dale tells me. “Dr. Li’s son. He’s your age, actually. Right, Dr. Li? Twelve?”

“Twelve indeed,” she says, frowning.

Even from inside, we can hear as Tai whoops and laughs, now juggling the soccer ball with his knees as his feet make deep prints in the sand. Then he sets the ball down, runs right into the lake, and starts to shriek. I cover my own giggle with one palm. Well, yeah, I think. Of course it’s cold.

Dr. Li shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. “I’m sure there aren’t too many local residents who would run into Maple Lake in mid-June,” she says. “Right, Addie?”

“Pretty much right,” I say. “Then again, my family’s a little crazy. We go ice fishing when it’s fifteen below. We swim even when it’s raining. And my brother—” I gulp, letting the word sit in my mouth. I gesture out at Tai, now hopping away from the lake, hugging his shoulders. He picks his soccer ball back up and runs past the window. “My brother’s kind of like him.” Mr. Dale doesn’t flinch at the present tense, and neither do I. If Dr. Li knows about Amos, she doesn’t show it.

I hear a door slam, then a ball bouncing on hard tile, and footsteps running fast. “Towel!” Dr. Li yells.

“Oops, forgot!” says the voice on the other side of the wall. It’s a quick voice, bright like sunshine. More footsteps, a loud clang, then: “Coming!”

Tai bursts into the lab wearing swim shorts, not-quite-dripping wet. He rubs the towel hard over his face and hair, then lets it drop from his shoulders onto the soccer ball while he fumbles around in a bag on the floor and grabs a T-shirt featuring what Liza would probably call abstract art on the front. I’m staring at the mass of lines crisscrossing all over it when Dr. Li’s voice cuts in: her tone has shifted, sharpened.

“Tai, this is Addie, the Young Scientist from the local middle school,” she says.

Tai grabs the soccer ball with one hand and my palm with the other. “Hey, Addie,” he says. “I’m Tai Jiang. The… Young Stowaway from Brooklyn? That has a nice ring to it.” Then he lightly sidesteps around the center table and gives Jake and Tasha high fives; I see Dr. Li cringe as a few papers flutter to the ground. But I can’t stop smiling.

“Sorry, Mom,” Tai says, shuffling the papers together. Then he stands up straight and runs his fingers through his wet hair. “Cold out there.”

“It just feels cold because you got wet,” I say. “Besides, the lake won’t really warm up until later in July. And even then, you’ll want to be good and hot before jumping in, or else you’ll freeze when you get out.”

“Hey, it’s refreshing,” says Tai, shivering. “And my mom says it’s still fine to swim in, even if it’s probably kind of polluted. Right, Mom?”

Dr. Li shakes her head slowly, reorganizing the papers Tai scattered. Then she looks up. “I don’t want to alarm Addie,” she says carefully. “But yes, we are noticing some harmful algal blooms popping up in the shallow, warmest parts of the lake. Have you ever seen any, Addie? Kind of a bluish-green color on the surface of the water?”

I try to remember if I’ve seen anything like that in Maple Lake. “I’m not sure,” I say. Maybe I should ask Dad when he picks me up, but then again, I don’t think he wants to talk about the lake any more than Mama does. Dropping me off and picking me up most days is probably more than enough for him.

“The blooms often don’t show up until late summer, early fall,” Dr. Li says. “But people began reporting them this past year, and we’re on the lookout for more so we can confirm their presence and investigate causes.”

“I mean… I know that every time we put our boat in or take it out, we have to check for milfoil,” I say. I’ve never paid much attention to it, but I think Dad has to remove it from the hull sometimes. “Is that what you mean?”

“Eurasian watermilfoil,” Dr. Li says. “That’s what we call an invasive species—a plant that is not native to this area that is likely to cause harm to the economy, the environment, or human health. It’s different than the algal blooms I mentioned, but yes, it is still a problem.”

“Could the milfoil be causing the algal blooms?” I ask. “Or, I mean, could the pollution in the lake make it easier for an invasive species like milfoil to grow?” Even though I don’t know exactly how it all works, it feels like these different problems with Maple Lake could be connected, like the fine threads of a spiderweb.

“Good question,” Dr. Li says. “A debatable question, actually. Milfoil wouldn’t necessarily be connected to pollution the way harmful algal blooms are, but it does indicate an ecological imbalance caused by human actions.”

Imbalance. I picture the lake teetering on one side, about to slide away; I guess I never thought of Maple Lake as being able to balance or not. I never thought it could be anything except what it was—blue and deep, fresh and cool. And sometimes cruel.

Mr. Dale claps his hands together. “Great start,” he says. “Addie, I’d like to sit down and talk with you a bit more about what you’ll be learning this summer, and how you can help. Care to join us, Tai?”

“Go with them,” Dr. Li says before Tai can answer. She pokes him lightly and he squeals, clutching his shoulder.

“Owwww, Mom, my arrrrm!” he yelps. Then he looks at me and smiles, but he stands still, not moving toward Mr. Dale or me at all.

Dr. Li pries the soccer ball away. Her movements are slow, even gentle, but her mouth is set in a hard line. Tai squeezes the ball a little tighter against his hip at first, then gives up and lets it drop into her hands.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll go.” He falls into step with me and leans toward my ear.

“No offense,” he says. “I’m just not a huge science fan.”

“No worries,” I say. This is my thing anyway. I tuck my hand into the back pocket that holds Amos’s notebook, fighting the urge to pull it out right away and write harmful algal blooms and imbalance and everything else Dr. Li was talking about—it’s all evidence of something. I’m not quite sure how it could possibly fit with Amos’s clues, but I want to find out.