My Mixed-Up Berry Blue Summer Read Online Free PDF Page B

an unmistakable smell filled my nostrils.
    â€œThe pies are burning!” Mom shouted.
“June!”
    I rushed in the kitchen, but it was too late.
    â€œHow could you forget them?” Mom pulled the four scorched pies from the oven. The fire alarm screamed, and Eva reached up to take the battery out.
    â€œYou even forgot to cover the edges. These are useless.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I whispered. I couldn’t remember the last time I had made a mistake.
    â€œJune, I don’t want you to enter the fair,” Mom said decisively.
    I stared at her. “I won’t burn them again, I promise.”
    â€œIt’s just not a good time, June, for you to be—”
    â€œYou said I was ready.” I looked at Mom in disbelief.
    â€œLet’s talk about it another day,” Eva said, resting her hands on Mom’s shoulders. “Let’s go to bed.”
    Mom shrugged Eva’s hands away. “Not me—I’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re going to have any sweets to sell in the shop tomorrow.”
    â€œCan I help?” I asked.
    â€œNot tonight, honey.”
    Up in my loft, I pulled the covers over my head. And even though the kitchen was not far, it felt like the space between us had expanded. Mom wanted to be alone, and that scared me.

Chapter Six
    THE SMELL OF burned pie seemed to linger for days. No breeze kicked off from the lake to blow things over, and the water lay as flat as I felt. I mean, who cared if I wasn’t registered for the fair; maybe I wasn’t the best pie maker. I was absolutely becalmed, and no one seemed to notice.
    Everything was fine before Eva. I pulled my blanket tight around me and stared out at the water. How could she accuse Mom of being ashamed? No one would take me away from here, away from Mom. We were Vermonters, not Eva. She was barging into our lives, pushing her politics. If only she hadn’t said anything at that softball game, then Lauren’s mom wouldn’t have yelled, “
Don’t talk to my kid—stay out of our lives, stay out of our bedroom!
” I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the angry words out of my mind. I didn’t like hearing the argument last night, either. A tiny hope flourished that maybe Eva would leave, but I immediately felt guilty for wishing it.
    When I opened my eyes again, it had started to rain. I watched the widening circles each raindrop made on the lake, overlapping and dimpling the surface. Everything was gray but also refreshed. Maybe the rain would wash away the smell of burned pies.
    But it wouldn’t change one thing. I stood on my chair and pulled down a cardboard box from the top of my closet. Its edges were worn and the flaps were permanently creased. It was easy to open. I did it gently, as I had many many times. I picked up the card first, with pink and purple balloons and the words
Happy Birthday
in block, little-kid letters.
    Dear June, welcome, my daughter. I am writing this on your Birth Day to tell you that I wanted you—I chose to have you on my own because I have so much love to give you. I love you, your mother.
    I fingered the hospital bracelet, the tiny footprint on the paper with the pink bow. She told me that she wrote the card right after I had my first feeding. When I was little, I asked Mom to go over everything in the box, every night.
    I pulled out
It’s so Amazing!
and flipped through the pages of cartoons describing eggs and sperms. I used to look at it alone, reviewing the ways families are made. It was the only book that talked about the way I was born. The other book in the box was
Heather Has Two Mommies.
I used to ask Mom to read it over and over. She had been trying to explain that she wanted one of the “special friends” she went out with to have a more permanent part in her life. Now it meant only one thing: I would never have a father.
    I opened the brown envelope.
Margaret Jane Farrell
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