Hope

Cooper’s eyes are still closed when Caddie knocks on his door.

“Put your bathing suit on, Cooper. It’s summer. We’re going down to the beach. Mom says.”

Cooper puts on his bathing suit. Tucks his secret notebook into the secret pocket of his bathing suit. Says goodbye to Amicus.

Caddie smears sunblock on him like soap, head to toe. The coconut oil she spreads on her arms and legs makes her glimmer like a wet seashell.

“It’s so hot out,” she says, tiptoeing across the mossy yard, side-stepping sticks and acorns.

Cooper follows, scanning the path for toads and beetles and other creatures he can rescue from the mean and scary world. Creatures that might like to inhabit Tezorene.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Caddie says, hurrying across the hot sand to stand in the dark circle of shade beneath the birch tree.

“I wish we had something to float on,” she says. “Even blow-up rafts. That would be kind of fun, wouldn’t it?”

When Cooper shakes his head, he feels Caddie’s eyes follow his head as it turns from one side to the other and back again.

Caddie lays her beach towel out on the sand. “You’re scared of the water, aren’t you, Coop?”

Caddie is right. She is always right. But she doesn’t need to know this truth. He shakes his head again. Faster now, harder, so she won’t misunderstand.

Caddie lies down on her stomach. Her hands under her chin. “Yes, you are. But I don’t get it.”

“A person can drown in less than one inch of water,” he says. “I read it in a book on water safety.”

“But you used to go swimming all the time, remember? Remember how Grandpa used to play Marco Polo with us? And tag? And then he’d have to drag you out of the water when it was time for bed. You’d get so cold your whole body was blue and shaking.”

Yes, he remembers. Of course, he remembers. He can picture Grandpa in his baggy swimming trunks. Tying the strings across his big belly. Like yesterday, he can see Grandpa carrying his fishing gear to the boat. Dragging the old wooden fishing boat out of the boathouse. His prized possession. In Cooper’s mind, the rusty wheels of the boat trailer screech like a flock of frantic pigeons.

“I am wiser now,” Cooper says. His eyes shift from the boathouse to the stretch of blue in front of him. He stares, watching every molecule of water glint in the sun.

“Maybe you read too much.”

What Caddie says is not a joke, but it is funny. Still, he cannot laugh.

“Would you do it for me?” Caddie asks.

“What?”

“Go swimming.”

As if he is already under water, Cooper gasps for air. He is working hard to not embarrass Caddie one more time. He wants to make her happy. Protect her at all costs. But he cannot go swimming. Ever. “If you were drowning, I would save you.”

Cooper slips his notebook from his secret pocket.

Sometimes you must do what scares you to help someone you love.

“Oh, Cooper.” Caddie mounds sand under one end of her beach towel like a pillow. Lies down on her back. Closes her eyes. “I miss him too, you know.”

“Dad?”

“Sure,” she says. “But I meant Grandpa.”

Cooper doesn’t want to talk about Grandpa. He is dead. And there is nothing you can do about it now.

Except be sad.

And protect his mother.

And Caddie.

And Amicus.

And everything else that matters.

Because everything matters.

All the time.

Cooper crawls across the sand. Gathers acorns. He builds a parapet on a turret of Tezorene. Strengthens the fortification to protect the Tezornauts.

“Oh, my God,” Caddie says. She sits up. “What’s the date today?”

Cooper thinks. Pictures his calendar again. “It is July 25th.”

“You know what that means?” Her voice worries Cooper. He watches her closely. “Today is the anniversary of Grandpa’s death. No wonder Mom is so sad.”

Cooper can’t believe he didn’t know. Can’t believe he wasn’t counting the days.

“Whatever you do, don’t say anything to Mom,” Caddie says.

Don’t say anything to Mom. Don’t say anything to Mom. Don’t say anything to Mom.

Caddie lies back down on her sand pillow. “Remember when he’d tell us stories about helping his dad on the farm? Remember how the cow stepped on his foot? And how he put ice in a bucket and wore it to school like a shoe? He told that same story over and over again. I thought I was going to lose my mind.”

Cooper crouches on the grounds of Tezorene, acorns in his hands.

Of course he remembers. All of it. Grandpa did everything the same over and over again. Covered his fried eggs with ketchup. Lit his pipe with a single puff. Shaved without a mirror, his chin pointed into the air. Roasted the marshmallows until they caught on fire. Told the same stories. Over and over again. The same way. Until they bored Caddie silly.

See ya later, alligator, Grandpa said.

In a while, crocodile, Cooper hollered back.

Every time. Every time they pulled out of the driveway and headed home.

Cooper sits. Thinks. Writes. Makes the letters as perfect as possible.

Sometimes the things that bore you silly are the same things that make you feel safe.

“It’s not the same up here anymore. He always made everything better,” Caddie says. “Especially . . .” Caddie stops talking.

A horse fly lands on Cooper’s kneecap. He blows it into the air. “Especially what?” he says.

Caddie doesn’t answer. Her face is scrunched, her lips and eyelids pressed together so hard their tiny muscles are shaking. A wet stripe runs from her eye. Tears collect in her ear.

Caddie is sad. As sad as his mother. Cooper’s breaths go deeper and deeper and deeper, making room for more sadness. Caddie’s and his mother’s. Filling himself with their sadnesses is the only way he can help. He does not know how to make everything better the way Grandpa did. He wants to tell Caddie to think happy thoughts, but he knows happy thoughts don’t work. If Grandpa were here, he’d say, “There, there, Caddie-girl.” He’d wrap his big arms around her and say the same thing over and over again. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.

But Cooper isn’t sure it will. And he cannot tell Caddie a lie.

So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Caddie reaches for her T-shirt. Dabs at her face with its sleeve.

The sun is hot. Tezorene has melted. It must be rebuilt if the Tezornauts are to survive. They will need a new shelter where no one is allowed to be mean. Or sad. Cooper fills the red bucket with lake water at the shore. Pours the water on the ancient ruins of Tezorene.

“Do I make you sad too?” he asks. The words are hard to say. They catch in his throat like a horsefly in a spider web, but he knows the backs of his flailing words do not glisten in the sunlight.

Caddie sits up and tries to smile. “No, Coop. You just drive me crazy.” She pulls her T-shirt over her head. “Not always. Just sometimes.”

“What about Mom?”

Caddie shifts to her stomach, leans on her elbows. Stares Cooper in the eyes. “I think it’s more complicated than that,” she says.

“Do you think he will ever come back?”

“Who?”

“Dad. I believe I scared him away.”

“Just say think, Cooper. You think things happen. No one says, ‘I believe.’ ” She sits up on her towel. Pounds her fake pillow. Sand sticks to her shiny legs. Her face is red, but not from the sun. “Besides, it’s not your fault.”

This time Cooper cannot believe her words. They can’t be true. Perhaps Caddie has run out of all the things she knows to be true. Cooper knows he is at fault. Everything is his fault. “Why do you say that?”

“Because . . .” Caddie kneels next to Tezorene and grabs the red bucket. Fills it with wet sand. Packs it down with all her might. “Because sometimes things just happen. And because that stupid little plant isn’t your fault either.”

“But I was supposed to water it.”

“Cooper, see? This is what I mean.” Caddie holds her hands out like a preacher reaching for the congregation. Reaching for the believers.

Cooper is not a believer.

That Boy is not a believer either.

“Think of all the dead plants in the world. Were you supposed to water those? Think of hurricanes and floods. Are they your fault? Think of wars and cemeteries.”

Cooper closes his eyes. “I do.”

Caddie screams. Not a real scream. A fake scream.

He must write this down:

Sometimes fake things are worse than the real things they copy.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“But that’s the whole problem, Cooper. You don’t have to be sorry for everything. Especially for things you didn’t do. It’s not your fault.” Caddie’s voice quivers. He can’t tell if she is mad. Or sad again. Or both.

“You have nothing to do with things that can’t be helped. Or things that happened a hundred years ago. Or things that happen on the other side of the world.”

“What about this side of the world?” he says.

When Caddie shakes her head, Cooper trembles with worry. Caddie doesn’t understand. There is so much to think about. So much to worry about. His mother and The Father. And mean words. And Caddie. And lost turtles. And lonely people. And endangered species. Missing children. And poor Mr. Bell. There is too much to worry about. And That Boy is thinking the same thing. His work is overwhelming. Grandpa died and it was all his fault. He can’t let it happen again.

Cooper feels his hands reaching. Reaching into the air. Reaching for the water. The everlasting water . . .

“Cooper, don’t do this.”

But Cooper isn’t listening. He scrubs his hands. Rubs them and turns them and turns them and rubs them.

“Cooper, I mean it.”

His hands tumble over each other in the air. Sand scrapes between his fingers like crystalized soap.

“Please, Cooper.”

But That Boy has taken over. Cooper cannot stop washing his hands in the air.

“Now you’re driving me crazy, Cooper.” Caddie grabs at his hands. Misses. Grabs again. She wraps Cooper’s arms around the bucket. Squeezes her hands against his. Dumps the bucket full of sand upside down. She throws the bucket at the hill. Pats with Cooper’s hands in hers. Makes him pat the mound of sand.

And then something changes inside her. He can feel it. She ignites like wildfire. She pats and pats with his hands. Slaps them harder and harder until the sand scrapes like razors against his skin. Scraping and scraping and scraping. She slaps the sand with his hands until his skin burns like fire.

But he does not make her stop. Does not say, “You’re hurting me.” He does not say anything. He knows she is trying to help him. And he needs all the help in the world. No, he cannot take all the help in the world. It isn’t fair.

His eyes burn. He looks down so Caddie can’t see his face. He knows she feels him shudder.

Caddie stops patting the sand with Cooper’s hands. Stops in mid-air. “Oh, Cooper,” she says. She puts her arms around him. “Cooper.” She squeezes him until he cannot breathe. He does not cry out. He wants her to know he would die for her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

He coughs. Gagged by boiling hot tears. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t know what I mean,” she says.

Caddie lets go all at once. “Let me—” She sniffs against the back of her hand. “Let me help you, Coop.” Her voice wobbles. “Please let me help you. Get another bucket of water.”

Cooper gets another bucket of water. And another. And another.

Caddie molds the wet sand like an artist. She helps him build towers and walls and bridges on Tezorene. They build and build and build.

Side by side, they build Tezorene bigger and better and taller than ever. Until it sparkles in the sun. Caddie has an idea. She makes Cooper sit still with his eyes shut. He can hear her run to the cabin. Hear the screen door squeak open and snap shut. Two times. Hear her run back down the hill.

“Keep ’em shut, Cooper.”

He does. And he hears her dig and rip and slap. Over and over again. When he opens his eyes, Caddie is pouring water into a deep moat lined with plastic wrap.

“There is no water on Tezorene,” he says.

“We’ll call it lava,” Caddie says. “Trust me. It will be okay.”

He believes her.

He believes her.

He believes her.

Lava. Burning a thousand degrees hotter than his tears. When it cools, it will be as hard as a rock. A rock wall around Tezorene is a good idea. The Tezornauts will be safe. He will not have to worry about them.

Sometimes bad things can turn into good things.