Copyright © 1974 by M. E. Kerr.
All rights reserved.
Reissue Edition
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Lizzie Skurnick Books
an imprint of Ig Publishing
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ISBN: 978-1-939601-30-8 (ebook)
For Barbara Dicks
Contents
This story begins the winter I thought I was turning into a boy. It isn’t a story about that, though; I’m still a girl. It’s the story of the son of someone famous. You’d know the name instantly. You may even guess it before I’m finished. But I’m not going to tell you outright. If I did, I’d have to leave out a lot so that I wouldn’t be sued. I don’t intend to leave out anything. Therefore I’m going to call the boy Adam Blessing, which was what he called himself when he came to live with Charlie Blessing, his grandfather.
Adam came to Storm, Vermont, during one of those freezing weeks before Christmas, when I was trying to figure out some way to vanish from the face of the earth forever. That winter, the two things I thought about most were a) ending it all, and b) running away to New York City, where no one knew me, or cared that my name was Brenda Belle Blossom and that I was growing a small fringe of hair above my upper lip. My voice was deepening, too. I am almost sure that was the winter certain telephone operators first began answering me, “Yes, sir,” and “Just one moment, sir, while I look up the number.”
Adam Blessing looked like any other average sixteen-year-old boy: red hair, freckles, green eyes—neither handsome nor homely. If I had known then who he really was, I probably would have seen his famous father in his face. I know that now every time I see a photograph of his father, or see his father on television, I see Adam, even though Adam never spoke with that much confidence or looked that sure of himself.
All anyone really knew about Adam was that he was one of Charlie’s grandsons, and that he had come to live with Charlie. As my Aunt Faith said when she heard the news, “Heaven help that poor kid.”
I was just fifteen that winter. I was the town tomboy, fatherless, flat-chested, and an only child. The only thing I did well was grow things. I had, and maybe still have, the greenest thumb in Burlington County. I can grow anything, even orchids if I put my mind to it, but what I love to grow most is garbage: avocado pits, pineapple tops, grapefruit seeds, sweet potatoes that have gone soft—things that are usually thrown out.
My mother and my Aunt Faith and I live in the white house at the very top of Maple Hill. From my bedroom window I can look down on Charlie Blessing’s bungalow at the bottom of the hill, on Ski Tow Avenue.
Sometimes in the middle of the night I’d have a dream that my father wasn’t dead. He’d appear in my room looking as handsome as he does in his photographs, and he’d hold out his hand and tell me he was taking me back to Omaha with him. (He was born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska.) I’d be all smiles, all set to go with him, and then he’d keep repeating Oma-ha-ha, Oma-ha-ha-ha, Oma-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, until all that was left was the sound of laughter. I’d wake up angry and hurt, because the joke was on me. He wasn’t alive and I wasn’t going anyplace.
Sometimes after that dream I’d get up and go to the bathroom. I always felt very lonely after that dream. I’d stare out the window, and at those times I’d always be grateful for Charlie Blessing’s lights. They were on, no matter the time of night. My Aunt Faith said it was because Charlie drank. She never said Charlie drank quite a bit, or Charlie sometimes got drunk; she said flatly: “Charlie drinks.” She said, “Charlie drinks by himself, which is the worst kind of drinking. It means he’s brooding. It means he’s bitter.”
The fact that you almost never saw Charlie drinking in public did not mean that you never saw Charlie drunk in public. My aunt said Charlie couldn’t afford to drink in public. But we’ve all seen him under the influence more times than we can count on our fingers. I think that’s the reason I call him “Charlie’’ instead of Dr. Blessing, and it’s probably the reason my mother and my aunt let me get away with it. He’s the only adult in Storm I call by his first name.
Charlie wasn’t an M.D.; he was a veterinarian. He was supposed to have been the best vet in the state of Vermont at one time. Christine Cutler’s father was his assistant in those days. Then Charlie’s only daughter, Annabell, was killed in an automobile accident, and Dr. Cutler began to run the Storm Animal Shelter single-handed. People began to prefer Dr. Cutler, and by the time Charlie was over his grief, no one wanted to bring sick pets to him. Eventually Dr. Cutler bought Charlie out. That was all years ago, before Charlie became a drinker, but there are still bad feelings between Dr. Cutler and Charlie.
The first day that I ever met Adam Blessing was a Wednesday in the late afternoon. In Storm, the afterschool hangout is Corps Drugs on Central Avenue. From 3:30 until 5:00 p.m., it’s packed. Around 5:30, it’s dead.
That afternoon I was waiting for it to be dead. I was about to buy something called Hairgo from Mr. Corps. It was for my upper lip. I didn’t want the kids around when I asked for it. I particularly didn’t want Christine Cutler anywhere within earshot, since I had an idea she already thought of me as a freak of some kind. I had a small reputation as something of a comedian, but not around Christine Cutler ever. I had this crush on her, which would be enough to make anyone want to puke, but the winter I thought I was turning into a boy, my crush on C.C. made me really begin to detest myself. I had decided there was probably something grossly wrong with me, and as a result I had developed a little hunched-over walk, as though I’d be less conspicuous instead of really kinky going around that way. I also used to never take off my coat. I also used to stand behind people a lot.
There I was, for a good part of that Wednesday afternoon, standing in Corps Drugs with my coat on, hidden by Marlon Fredenberg, the football captain, holding my right hand over my upper lip, pretending to be having another really swell afternoon with the gang at the old afterschool hangout. I don’t have to describe Christine Cutler to you; there is a Christine Cutler in every town. It wouldn’t be enough to say she was blonde and blue-eyed. The Christine Cutlers of the world can have any color hair or eyes—they are still all alike. If you had to choose only one word to describe them, it would be Special. They are The Most Beautiful, The Most Popular, The Most Likely To Succeed; they are It.
That afternoon, Christine Cutler was holding court, as usual, in the front booth. Everyone was flocked around her, hanging on her every word, practically drooling. I was drooping around over by the jukebox, clock-watching. 3:30, 4:15, 4:31. . . . Finally at 5:25, Ty Hardin, Christine Cutler’s steady, stood up, took Her Majesty’s coat from the hook and helped her into it. (Ty Hardin is the male It in Storm.) As soon as they left, the place cleared out so that you could have rolled a cannon through it.
“What is it you want?” Mr. Corps said. “Say that again.”
“Hairgo,” I said.
“Hairdo?” he said.
“Go,” I said.