Summer of the Gypsy Moths Read online

  Summer of the Gypsy Moths

  Sara Pennypacker

  Dedication

  To the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts,

  where this book was born

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  The earth spins at a thousand miles an hour. Sometimes…

  Chapter 2

  “Hey, those were mine!”

  Chapter 3

  “Oh, crap!”

  Chapter 4

  It’s hard to sleep with a dead person sprawled out…

  Chapter 5

  There sure was a lot to do. We laid out…

  Chapter 6

  “For real?”

  Chapter 7

  “Jesus querido!” Angel dropped the shovel.

  Chapter 8

  George dropped us off and went to start the lawn.

  Chapter 9

  George had dug three big holes in a row for…

  Chapter 10

  When Angel came downstairs Monday morning, ten minutes before the…

  Chapter 11

  Friday morning, no more school. As soon as I got…

  Chapter 12

  Saturday morning, the phone rang and I jumped up.

  Chapter 13

  By noon on Sunday, all three families had packed up…

  Chapter 14

  We ran out of food that week. On Tuesday, I…

  Chapter 15

  Saturday morning I actually woke up to the sound of…

  Chapter 16

  Cleaning those cottages took all the tricks I knew, and…

  Chapter 17

  “I caught Treb digging like crazy earlier. Right where those…

  Chapter 18

  I went outside to put my letter in the mailbox,…

  Chapter 19

  Monday evening, I took the first babysitting job. It was…

  Chapter 20

  When I got home from the beach Thursday afternoon, I…

  Chapter 21

  There were only two cottages to clean that second changeover,…

  Chapter 22

  “Well?” Angel asked, for the third or fourth or tenth…

  Chapter 23

  “We eat relish,” Angel said from her perch on the…

  Chapter 24

  Thursday morning, I woke up stuck to the sheets in…

  Chapter 25

  That afternoon, Mrs. Sandpiper called me to babysit.

  Chapter 26

  Friday was hot again, although clear, not sticky. The renters…

  Chapter 27

  Saturday morning, as if she’d been doing it all along,…

  Chapter 28

  Angel lay sprawled across the bed in a jumble of…

  Chapter 29

  We were separated in the police station.

  Chapter 30

  I almost didn’t recognize George. He wore a suit and…

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  The earth spins at a thousand miles an hour. Sometimes when I remember this, it’s all I can do to stay upright—the urge to flatten myself to the ground and clutch hold is that strong. Because, gravity? Oh, gravity is no match for a force that equals ten simultaneous hurricanes. No, if we aren’t all flung off the earth like so many water droplets off a cartoon dog’s back, it must be because people are connected somehow. I like to imagine the ties between us as strands of spider silk: practically invisible, maybe, but strong as steel. I figure the trick is to spin out enough of them to weave ourselves into a net.

  Discovering one of these ties feels so good—as if I’m settling more safely into the earth, as if my bones are made of iron and my blood is melted lead. Because I never know when I’m going to find one, I’m always on the lookout. The whole time I lived with Louise, I was watching.

  Finally, on the last day of her life—in the last hour before she died, most likely—I found one. Actually, Louise found it. She threw it out like a lifeline. I grabbed.

  “Fix yourself some breakfast, then help me unload the car, Stella. I went down to the Agway yesterday, got some fertilizer and mulch for my blueberries.”

  “I love blueberries,” I said. “So does my mom.” I pulled a box of pancakes out of the freezer and braced for the sarcastic remark about my mother I figured was coming.

  Louise grabbed the box and clattered the last two pancakes onto a plate. “Puh,” she muttered. Puh, I’d noticed, was the start of a lot of her conversations. As though she’d taken in a mouthful of road dust and had to spit it out before she could form any words.

  “Puh,” she started again. “You’re telling me. That girl was crazy for blueberries.” She winced when she realized what she’d said, and frowned over at me to see if she had to apologize. But I didn’t react. My mother wasn’t crazy. That wasn’t it.

  “What I mean is, she was always hounding me to buy ’em. Course, they cost an arm and a leg out of season; I didn’t have enough money to go buying ’em whenever she got a whim.” She shoved the plate into the microwave and stabbed the Start button extra hard, to show me how she felt about things. Then she stopped. She pushed aside the curtains over the sink to gaze out the window, and when she turned back, her face had softened to almost pretty. For the first time, I could see how she and my grandmother could have been sisters.

  “Out there,” she said. “Past the garden. You see those bushes?”

  I stepped beside her and nodded. I saw bushes—twenty or thirty at least. They didn’t impress me much, I have to say.

  “Your mother helped me plant ’em. Because she loved ’em so much. Couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, but she worked like a little trouper. Never quit. Three different highbush varieties. I got Pipkins for muffins….”

  I stopped listening for a minute as it hit me again: My mother had lived here. Right. Exactly. Here. Louise had taken in my grandmother and my mom—her sister and her niece—when my grandmother’s husband left. “Supposed to be just until they got on their feet. Turned into two years,” Louise had said. “Your mother was a handful even then. It was a long two years.”

  I looked around, wondering if she had eaten from these dishes, sat in these chairs. I’d been poking around whenever I could but hadn’t found any trace of her yet. It was as if Louise had scrubbed her away, the way she scrubbed her kitchen every morning.

  The microwave dinged, but Louise was on a roll. “…Northern Beauties for pies,” she was saying. “I’m known for my pies—you ask anyone.” She tapped a cluster of photos taped to the refrigerator—pies with blue ribbons hanging next to them. “First prize, four years running. Woulda taken it last year, too, if Ellen Rogers hadn’t married herself a judge. No matter—I bring my pies down to the diner, word gets out, the line stretches past the drugstore. George Nickerson would walk a mile on his knees for a slice. Folks think the secret to a great pie is the crust, but no, it’s the berries. Store-bought taste like paste. I grow ’em myself, leave ’em set till they’re ripe, blue all the way round.”

  “That’s how I like them, too. No green,” I said. “They look like blue pearls to me, like something a princess in a fairy tale would make a magic necklace out of.”

  I didn’t tell her the rest: that when I was seven, I had taken a needle and thread and strung my mother a blueberry necklace for her birthday. She’d worn it all day, and even though it stained her blouse, she’d said it made her feel enchanted. And of course I didn’t tell her what had happened that night.

  “Puh! I don’t know about any magic necklaces,” Louise said. Then she turned and loo
ked at me as if she was seeing me for the first time, even though I’d been living there for almost two months. “But I’ll tell you what. If the gypsy moths don’t get those bushes, there’ll be berries come August. You help me do the work this summer—and it’s a lot of work, tending those bushes, I won’t kid you—you help me, and then you get yourself up early enough to beat the birds to pick ’em, and I’ll teach you how to make a pie. How’s that?” She raised her arms and lurched toward me, then wrapped herself around my shoulders. She pulled away and looked down at her arms as if the hug had been as big a surprise to her as it was to me. She cinched her faded green robe tighter. “I mean, if you want to,” she said. “Puh.”

  She turned away to look out at the garden again. “Which reminds me.” She glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Plenty of time before the bus comes. You want berries in August, you come out and help me for five minutes now.”

  The microwave dinged again then, but Louise had already scuffed out, the screen door banging her on the butt. She wasn’t exactly a fast mover. I followed and paused on the step. My mother had stood right here twenty summers ago, looking over this same backyard, the same blue water in the distance. The June sunshine prickled my shoulders through my T-shirt, and it occurred to me: My great-aunt had just hugged me. First time.

  She popped the trunk on her rusty white Escort. “You gonna just stand there all day, grinning like an idiot? These sacks aren’t gonna grow legs.”

  Together we hoisted the forty-pound bags of pine bark and fertilizer from the trunk and dragged them one by one to the back of the garden. Seeing her huffing and groaning from the effort, I had an inspiration. As we dropped the last bag, I said, “My mother’s still a great worker—really strong. Once she built this altar thing out of rocks, dragged them all home by herself. She never quit!” Well, until the police came and made her return the rocks, claiming some rule about town property. I kept that part to myself, of course. I nodded over to the cottage colony next door. “It’s probably a lot of hard work, being the manager,” I said, all casual. “If my mom lived here, she and I could do all the heavy work for you like nothing. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  Louise gave another road-dust “Puh!” and rasped in a few breaths with her hand to her chest. “Well,” she admitted, wiping away some hair that had gotten plastered to her sweaty forehead, “having a little help around this place would certainly be a welcome change.” As if I weren’t right there, heaving those bags around with her!

  I jumped on the opening. “She’d settle down here, I know it. She was good when we lived with Gram. Just until she gets on her feet—”

  Louise put up a hand. “Don’t start, Stella. Too much water under that bridge.”

  That was how she ended every conversation about my mother. The funny thing was, my mother had always used the same phrase when I’d asked about Louise. “Why don’t we see her? Why don’t I know her?” Too much water under that bridge.

  “Anyway,” Louise was saying, “last I checked, we’ve got a full house as it is.”

  Angel. I followed Louise back inside, feeling the day cloud over.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Hey, those were mine!”

  Angel hung over the sink, pouring syrup over a folded pancake. She eyed me through her hair and took a bite, then tossed the rest of it into the trash and stalked out.

  I stayed cool, remembering the Museum of Science film about icebergs I’d seen. Those icebergs, floating silent and steady, ignoring the fierce storms raging around them. Since Angel had moved in, I’d had to remind myself about the icebergs a lot.

  I washed my hands, then dug a granola bar out of the cupboard and ate it. Beside me, Louise shook out two lunch bags and slid a banana into each. When she began slapping together some tuna sandwiches, I got two bottles of water from the freezer. “Because of the mayonnaise and salmonella,” I reminded her helpfully. “I learned about it in one of Heloise’s hints. Also—”

  From the living room, I heard Angel snort. She snorted every time I mentioned Heloise, which just went to show what kind of a person she was, since Heloise does nothing but good for people with her household hints column, helping them get their lives in order.

  I ignored it, still in iceberg mode. “Also, frozen juice boxes are good.” I zipped one of the lunch bags into my backpack and gathered my stuff. “Well, I guess I’ll go.”

  I paused, wondering if the hug had been some kind of signal that things had changed, and we were now the kind of relatives who went around hugging each other. I wasn’t sure I wanted that. But I wasn’t sure that I didn’t, either. I took a step back toward Louise and raised my arms, smiling.

  She looked up from pouring her coffee. “Off with you, then,” she said.

  “Right,” I said. “See you.”

  I went out and settled myself on the split-rail fence in front of the house. It wasn’t time for the bus, but the strategy I had developed with Angel was this: Wherever she was, I wasn’t. Most days, “Pass the ketchup” was about the limit of our conversation.

  “Oil and water” was how Louise saw it. “Puh. I take in a foster kid to keep you company, and don’t you two turn out to be oil and water.”

  Which wasn’t fair. First of all, I’d reminded Louise I was almost twelve, not some kindergartener who needed a playmate. She wouldn’t give in, though. “You’re going to get lonely, especially once summer starts and I get busy with the cottages,” she insisted. When Angel had first gotten here, a couple of weeks ago, I had tried, I really had. It’s just hard to be friendly to a cactus. Angel was all spines.

  “Your heart’s like any other muscle, Stella,” my grandmother would have said if she’d been here. “You have to stretch it out when it cramps up.”

  I bent down to brush aside some pebbles in front of an ant that was struggling under a huge load. All right, then, Angel’s had it tough, I reminded myself. Maybe if I were an orphan, I’d act like some Dark Queen of All Tragedy, too, the way she did—as if she were the only person in the world who’d ever had anything rotten happen to her, and everyone else had better stay out of her way.

  I tried again to find a single real connection between Angel and me. We were both in sixth grade, living under the same roof and all, but those were just coincidences of geography and timing. There were no real ties between us.

  But Louise! I hooked my feet under the bottom rail and smiled at the morning’s surprise discovery, remembering how she had turned almost pretty when she was telling me about her blueberry bushes—the ones she wanted me to help her with, the ones my mom had helped to plant. A triple tie, it was, linking all three of us together.

  I’d tell my mom about it next time she called. Mrs. Marino had warned me not to press her. “She’s got a ways to go, Stella,” she’d said. “She’s got to come back and take the parenting classes. Then she’ll have to show improved reliability—a job, a home.”

  “But it will be by Labor Day. I’m just here for the summer, right?” I’d asked.

  “Well, that’s the goal, yes,” she’d said. “Just don’t expect too much, too fast.”

  I’d agreed, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t remind my mom of the time she’d lived here where I was now. Of the blueberry bushes she’d planted with Louise. It might be just what she needed—to be reminded of the strands holding her in place. My mom’s personal gravity was a little weak.

  Just then, Bus Two came rumbling down Pine Lane, kicking up its cloud of sandy dust. At the last second, as usual, Angel came tearing out of the house and raced past me. I followed her to her throne at the very back and sat down. Angel yanked up her backpack, all set to huff away. I stuck my arm out to block her. “I want to talk to you about something. Just for a minute.”

  Angel tried to shove past me, but I held firm until she scowled and made a big dramatic show of slamming her backpack down. I pictured the banana in her lunch. Angel never ate anything as healthy as a banana, but still, it would be a slimy brown mess by lunchtime. Good, I couldn�
�t help thinking. Serves you right. Another heart cramp.

  Angel turned to the window, her hair swinging down like a black curtain between us, and pulled her earphones from her backpack.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I started. “It’s almost summer, and…Angel, will you listen?”

  Angel started untangling the wires. “Save it. I heard.”

  “You heard?”

  “Windows are open. You want Louise to let your mother live here, and you figure you have a better chance of convincing her if you get me on your side.”

  “Well,” I said, surprised that she’d guessed it so right and feeling a little guilty—as if Angel had caught me at something. Which she hadn’t. “Well, so…?”

  Angel snapped the earphones over her ears, but then she pushed them back. “What’s the matter with her, anyway? Is she…?” Angel circled a forefinger at her temple.

  “No. No! She’s just…” You’d think after living with my mother my whole life, I’d have figured out a way to explain her. But I hadn’t. I usually ended up using one of my grandmother’s words for her. Flighty. High-strung. “Restless.”

  Angel rolled her eyes. “They took you away from her because she’s restless?”

  I sighed. “She’s had some setbacks lately,” I said. Which was true. Gram getting sick and dying. Then having to sell her house to pay the hospital bills. “We’re not homeless,” my mother would say. “We’re house free!” Then she’d chased a string of jobs that didn’t work out—people got jealous of my mom’s creative talents—and we’d had to move so much. Each place was smaller and crummier than the last, and with each move, my mother had acted a little more…“She’s just gotten a little off track, that’s all. But she’d be fine here. You’d like her. She’d share my room, and we could—”