Swing Sideways Read online

  “Puh, no. My name is California.” She raised thick eyebrows and hitched up one side of her mouth. “He thinks it’s a hippy name, so he calls me Catherine.”

  “California,” I repeated.

  “Right. As in the state.” She popped something into her mouth, then tilted her cupped hand toward me. “Just picked these, right off the vine.”

  Raspberries. She was holding a handful of real, fresh-picked, straight-from-the-bush raspberries. “Where’d you find them?”

  “Down past the woodpile. There’s an early crop starting to ripen. Want some?”

  Mom would have a fit. I nodded, and it felt like a string that had been wound around my neck eased up.

  “Come on then,” she said. “Let’s get more before he finds me.”

  She sprang away. The imaginary string fell from my neck and let loose something wild and careless. I ran after her, through a maze of brush and tall grass. We skirted the edge of the corn rows, ran past the house, and finally stopped by a large, shady tree where the ratty weeds gave way to a sloping field of soft, pale-green grass. It was the kind of hill that begged a girl to roll herself into a ball and laugh all the way to the bottom. Especially a girl like me, who had more opportunity to trip on museum steps than to tumble down a grassy hill on purpose.

  On the far side of the tree, behind a neatly stacked pile of logs, a broken chain-link fence ran down the hill and disappeared into the woods. California headed for the fence. Thick vines with heart-shaped leaves wove in and out of the steel links.

  “He doesn’t bother with these anymore,” she said, kicking aside a rusted watering can. “That’s why there aren’t a lot of berries. Raspberries need attention, someone to care for them. Like people. But we’ll take what we can get, right?”

  “Who’s ‘he’?”

  California scrunched her forehead and ruffled her hands through the leaves. “That crazy old man is my grandfather, so if you want to laugh, or say something about how creepy he is, go ahead; let’s get it out of the way.”

  For once in my life I had the good sense to keep my mouth shut. California reached down and yanked hard on a thick weed, jerking side to side until a spidery root popped out of the earth.

  “I’ll have to burn that sucker later so it doesn’t creep back over.” She tossed the whole thing by the woodpile. “Come on, take some for yourself. You know which ones to pick?”

  When I didn’t answer, she twisted a fire-engine-red berry from the vine. “When they’re still this color, they’re sour.” She threw it down and gently pulled a berry the same ruby color as the stain on her hand. “This one’s ripe. Try it.”

  I squished the berry against the roof of my mouth with my tongue.

  “You like?”

  “It’s a thousand times better than chocolate.”

  She smiled wide, then pulled a navy-blue kerchief from her pocket and tied the four corners together to make a pouch.

  “When you carry raspberries, you have to hold them like they’re baby chicks so they don’t get bruised—gentle, but firm.” She plucked two and dropped them into the cloth.

  “I’ve never held a baby chick.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much,” she said, still picking. “But just imagine.”

  She walked along the fence pushing leaves away, squinting and searching for ripe berries. Half of them she ate, the other half she piled into the pouch.

  “Have you ever held a baby chick?”

  “Tons of times.”

  “Where?”

  “Back home, in Oregon.” She wrenched the fence upright where it leaned too close to the ground. “That’s where I live. Now I’m here, for a while, anyway.”

  “For the whole summer?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. He says I’m going to school here in the fall, but I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Otherwise you go back to Oregon?”

  California narrowed her eyes. “You sure do ask a lot of personal questions.”

  My face flushed hot. I couldn’t go anywhere without everyone knowing when I was embarrassed. She didn’t notice, just raised the berries up in both hands like she was weighing the bounty.

  “That ought to be enough, don’t you think?”

  “Enough for what?”

  “For you to take home. What’d you think I was pickin’ them for?” she said, holding out the bundle of perfect, right-off-the-vine berries—bacteria and all.

  Mr. McMurtry’s voice cut through the air. “Catherine!”

  California glanced toward the house and crinkled her nose. “Snap. He’s going to make me do math all afternoon. I hate math.”

  “I can help if you want. My mother’s a math professor, and I—”

  “No, that’s okay. Piper says I’m as good as any college kid. But I’m homeschooled, so Grandfather thinks I didn’t get a real education.”

  She pulled the knot of the kerchief tight and patted the top, then tilted her head and studied me.

  “There might be something else you can help me with, though. Something much more important than math.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll see about it tomorrow. It’s an adventure. You do like adventures, right?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and disappeared into the brush. The weeds closed up behind her, and I touched my cheek to be sure I wasn’t dreaming, that the girl was real and had actually left me standing on McMurtry’s farm with a bundle of perfect raspberries in my hands, and the promise of a real-live adventure tomorrow.

  FOUR

  When I got home, the blue Volvo was parked snug against the steps. I dodged behind the rhododendrons, stuffed the last of the raspberries into my mouth, and ran to the deck where I could see through the sliding glass door. Inside, Mom and Dad sat shoulder to shoulder, bent over a big, open book spread out on the coffee table. Fabric samples. She’d already dragged him to the decorator. Dad had bribed her by promising that since I got my summer of freedom, she could redecorate the house. He flipped a page, she lifted a square of dark material from the binding, and they laughed together.

  I wiped my face with the kerchief, shoved it inside Dad’s and my firefly jar, and rolled it under the deck. The glass door swooshed when I slid it open.

  “Hi!”

  A big smile plastered across Mom’s face plunged when she saw me. She leaped from the sofa, grabbed a wad of tissues from a box, and flailed them in the air, her voice rising at least two octaves.

  “What’s all over your face?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “And your hair—” She reached for me, and I stepped back.

  “I don’t know what—”

  She tugged my elbow and spun me around to face Grandmother Stockton’s antique mirror. “You have a rash!”

  A raspberry-colored stain circled my mouth. A long, thin smudge ran all the way to my left temple. My braids were loose, and bits of dried weeds clung to the ends. I groaned. Mom whipped us both around to show Dad.

  “Richard—what is this?” She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. “No fever, but really, one day in and already—this charade of a summer is not going to work if—”

  She was right. This freedom thing wasn’t going to work if every time I came home I had to go through an interrogation. I’d rather spend the entire summer holed up in my room. My jaw tensed, and the euphoria of my magical morning slipped away. I pulled at my T-shirt, positive I was about to choke to death right there in the living room.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  Dad jumped up, grinning. “Hey, you’ve been picking raspberries, right?”

  “Raspberries?” Mom spit out, as if he was talking about illegal drugs. “Where would she be picking raspberries?”

  “Behind the boathouse,” Dad said. I took one tiny, hopeful breath. “Same bushes were there when I was a kid.” He winked at me, then sat down and tapped a page of the fabric book. “Vicky, stop fretting over her. Come tell me what you thi
nk of this color.”

  She stood perfectly still, fingertips on my shoulder, like she couldn’t truly let go in light of my pending Death by Raspberry. Dad jerked his chin toward the stairs.

  “Go on, Pumpkin, get yourself cleaned up. Babe, what do you think about red? It might make a nice change from navy. My mother was always particularly fond of red for summer.”

  At the mention of imitating Grandmother Stockton, Mom released me and I bolted upstairs. I needed a bath. Fast. A hot bath would bring me back from the edge of a full-blown panic attack. My throat was already tightening. I sprinkled lavender beads under a stream of hot water and inhaled until the gripping sensation around my neck began to fade. By the time I sank into the tub, the panic was easing.

  At lunch they talked nonstop about colors and fabrics and couches. Mom gave Dad a lesson in the difference between French Country decor and Country Contemporary decor. Dad nodded and smiled at all the right times, like he was actually enjoying it. Maybe he was, who knew? I didn’t care because no one asked about my morning, and no one complained that I didn’t eat.

  The next morning Mom was in the kitchen packing food into a wicker hamper, her face bunched up tight like a ball of twine. Item by item, she arranged liver pâté, crackers, Camembert, red grapes, bottles of Perrier, and triangular packets of cucumber sandwiches deep inside the basket. Only my mother would take that kind of stuff on a picnic. I’d stopped letting her pack my lunch after fifth grade when Robbie Knight dipped his finger into my pâté and told everyone I was eating poop.

  She smiled when I came in and automatically glanced at the refrigerator to check the spreadsheet. But there was no spreadsheet, only the blank, white door. Her eyebrows stitched for a second, then she forced a smile, as if it didn’t bother her one bit.

  “We’re going to sail and have lunch with the Radcliffes. Do you want to come?” She held up a chocolate cake, as if the idea of eating cake might tempt me.

  “No, thank you.”

  I opened the refrigerator and stuck my head close to the cheeses and fresh fruits. The back of my knees felt like someone had snapped a rubber band against them. Mom never expected me to say no to anything she suggested. The Freedom Plan was about to be tested.

  “Where are you going?”

  I shuffled strawberries and Brie around and pretended not to hear.

  Dad sidled up and poked his finger in my side. “Tommy Radcliffe should be there,” he teased. “Sure you don’t want to come along?”

  Tommy Radcliffe had been like my big brother since I was five and he was six. He’d been as predictable a part of my summers as Mom’s spreadsheets. We’d gone to camp and sailed together, he’d taught me how to swim, and we’d played tennis since I was big enough to grip a racket. But on the last day of last summer, Tommy tried to kiss me. He’d lunged across the sailboat, his mouth all puckered up like he’d been sucking on a lemon. I’d shrieked and pushed him backward against the mast, toppling off my side into the water. The next day we said awkward good-byes and retreated to different corners of the state to start a new school year. So no, I didn’t want to see Tommy Radcliffe. Not yet.

  “No thanks.” I pulled the pitcher of cranberry juice from the fridge. “Too hot.”

  Mom opened her mouth to protest. Dad stepped in between us and pointed to the picnic basket. “Vicky, that’s fabulous—exactly the way my mother would have done it.”

  Her eyes flickered between the hamper and me. “It was your mother’s basket. We always take it to the beach the first day.”

  “I know; good old traditions standing the test of time.” He draped his arm around her shoulder.

  “Which is why I really want Annabel to go with us—”

  Dad put a finger to his lips. Several long, uncomfortable seconds ticked by. Finally, she shook off his arm and turned away, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like swear words. Dad gave me the thumbs-up.

  “Have a nice day, Pumpkin.”

  FIVE

  “Hey, girl, I’m up here!”

  Three rows into the orchard, the leaves of a sturdy-looking tree jiggled. I climbed through the fence and went to the base. California sat high on a fat limb, swinging her legs, wiggling long, ugly toes in the air. Two chunky yellow braids hung down over a red shirt. She smiled like she’d been dinged in the head.

  “Hi!” I said.

  “Hey, what’s your name?”

  My name? She didn’t know my name.

  I could be anyone.

  I could totally leave Annabel behind, reinvent myself on the spot. I could pick a different name, something adventurous, exciting. I could tell her I was a descendant of Amelia Earhart’s secret love child, or an astronaut’s daughter, or a child prodigy writing the sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird. I’d picked the name Scout from that book for the story I was writing because it sounded a little wild, and a lot brave. If I told California my name was Scout, maybe she’d think I really was both those things. Maybe I’d even become a little wild and a lot brave.

  I squeezed the notebook against my chest. The name was right there, written all over the pages, trying to come out of my mouth. It almost did. I almost said it, but at the last second I caved.

  “Annie. Annie Stockton.” It wasn’t Scout, but it wasn’t Annabel, either. Step one. “What’s your last name?”

  She stuffed a section of orange into her mouth and dropped the peel to the ground. “Just call me California.”

  “Don’t you have a last name?”

  “You can make one up if you want.” She kicked at the leaves with her bare toes. “Hey, you coming up here or what?”

  Getting up in that tree posed a problem. There’s a big difference between regular summer camp activities—the kind where you might actually climb a tree—and the Summer Science Camp Dad and I did together. I had no idea how to scale even the first branch.

  “Is there a ladder?”

  “A ladder? Haven’t you climbed a tree before?” When I didn’t answer, California swung her legs over the branch and shinnied down the trunk. “Where are you from, anyway?”

  “New York City.”

  “Huh, a city girl. No wonder. Never mind; it doesn’t matter. Watch me.”

  She puckered her mouth, scrunched her forehead, and wrapped long arms around the tree. Lacing her fingers, she braced one foot against the trunk and hitched her way up till she got to the lowest limb, easily swinging her leg over to straddle it.

  “Come on; now you do it.”

  California made it sound like I could do anything she did. I lay the notebook in the grass, ignored my long history of clumsiness, and gave it a try. First problem was, when I reached my scrawny, much-shorter-than-California’s arms around the trunk, my face pressed into the bark. I tried to grip the sides instead, but as soon as I put one foot up, my fingers pulled away and ripped my skin.

  “Ouch!” Blood seeped from the side of a fingernail.

  “Come on, try again. You can do it.”

  The New-and-Improved Annie Stockton took a breath and clawed at the tree. I lifted one foot, bounced a few times off the other, and pushed, imagining myself rocketing skyward to the nearest branch. Instead, I sailed back and landed in the grass with a thud.

  “Oh, my butt!”

  California jumped down and smacked a hand against her forehead. “Holy beans, you might actually be hopeless!”

  “Wasn’t it hard for you the first time?”

  “Can’t remember. I was climbing trees before I could walk.” She grabbed my hand and pulled. “Come on, I’ll help you. Stand there and hold on tight.” She crouched behind me and leaned her shoulder against the back of my thigh. “Okay, put one foot on the trunk. On three you pull up and I’ll push, ’kay?”

  “I guess. . . .”

  “One, two, three—”

  She heaved her shoulder into me. I tried, I really did, but in the end we both landed in a jumble of arms and legs on the ground. California rolled away and laughed, bellowing great, big honking noises
through her nose.

  “Annie-girl, you’re so skinny! You must not even weigh a hundred pounds right out of the river. I ought to be able to fling you up there myself. No matter, I have a better idea.”

  She hopped up and sprinted across the orchard, hurdled the fence, and disappeared into the barn. Moments later she called, “Found it!” and loped out holding a ladder over her head.

  “Let’s just get you up there this time.” She wedged the ladder under a branch. “We’ll have climbing lessons another day.”

  Being up in that tree was worth all the scrapes and humiliation. The leaves made a canopy over our heads, chlorophyll green and breezy, with a perfect view of the paddock, the barn, and the road. No one could see us unless they were standing right underneath. I silently swore I would master the art of tree climbing if it took me all summer.

  California settled on a branch. “You like?”

  “I love.”

  “I thought you would,” she said, obviously pleased with herself. “And no worries, we’ve got the whole summer to work on your climbing skills.”

  We sat without talking for a few minutes, which was nice. Like we were already good enough friends that we didn’t have to talk—we could simply be. From my perch I could look up and pretend I was spinning inside a green-and-blue kaleidoscope, occasionally catching glimpses of red when a robin flew by. I never wanted to put my feet on solid ground again.

  California jabbed my leg with her toe. “Hey, have you always been so skinny?”

  So much for dreaming.

  “Don’t act like it’s some big secret. No one has ankles that sharp unless they have some kind of weird metabolism, or if they’re not eating right. See mine?”

  She stuck out a thick, tan calf as big around as one of the fence posts. I curled mine under the limb.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll plump you up like a Thanksgiving turkey before the end of summer, just you wait and see. Hey, do you know what kind of apples these are?”

  I peered at the tiny green nubs, grateful she hadn’t made me talk about eating. “No, but there are hundreds of different kinds of apples.”

  “Egg-zactly! Neither of us will ever see all the different varieties, unless we become appleologists.”