like his favorite sports, TV shows, toys, ice cream, etc.”
I sigh. “What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”
He scrapes in long strokes, without looking at me. “I’m not hungry.”
“That’s okay. I don’t actually have any ice cream.” I feel completely stupid now, but having started this … “I’m just asking what you like.”
“Oh.” He pauses, and then starts scraping again, a little slower than before. “Cookie dough.”
“My favorite is chocolate chip. Cookie dough would be somewhere in my top ten, though.” I start scraping again.
“Come in now, Aaron,” I hear Mom call. “Natalie is ready to see you.” I look over to see Mom and Natalie on the porch. Why do they have to interrupt us now ? I was finally getting somewhere with Aaron.
“Aaron!” Natalie calls. “How are you doing? Are you working on a boat? Wow! That’s awesome.”
He puts down the paint scraper and walks away from me. Almost to the house, he glances back over his shoulder. “Chocolate chip would be around number five for me.”
As the kitchen door closes, I take my lucky things from my usual right-side pocket and put them into my left one. That little wrongness will nag at me, so I won’t forget to write “cookie dough ice cream” on Mom’s shopping list when I go inside.
I scrape extra hard on the spot where he got the splinter so it won’t ever happen again. As I work, I can’t help wondering what he’s telling Natalie. Is he complaining about Eben being mean to him or getting seasick or Libby knocking on his door every night tosee if he wants to play Monopoly? Is he telling Natalie how he still isn’t comfortable opening the refrigerator or cupboards when he’s hungry — how he pretends he doesn’t want anything to eat until it’s practically forced on him and then eats it all? Or how embarrassed he’ll be going to school with kindergartners this fall? Or how much he hates the seagulls swooping around him on the boat?
Natalie’s been here a long time — long enough to hear a whole long list of bad things from him.
I feel kind of cheated that Anne of Green Gables liked her island home right from the get-go and Aaron needs to be won over to his. I thought he’d feel more like Anne did, like it was a fun adventure to move here — not a punishment, a too-far-away-from-everything place where he has to give up what he loves best.
After Natalie leaves, I hear trumpet music coming from our house. It’s a slow, sad song, the notes held long as sighs. He makes that trumpet sound both beautiful and hurt.
I put the scrapers back in the shed. I wish Aaron could find his place here, so he’d feel like a real islander and he’d start liking it more.
As I’m closing the shed door, I see Doris Varney bring her knitting basket out to the porch rocker. Inotice she does that whenever Aaron starts practicing. “It’s so nice to have a musician in the neighborhood!” she calls to me. “I wish everyone could be enjoying this fine music with us. Don’t you? It’d be the talk of the island!”
And I have an idea.
“Hi, Mrs. Varney.” I brush the paint dust off my clothes as I’m walking. “Isn’t it great how Aaron plays the trumpet?”
“Oh, yes! I feel very lucky to hear such fine music from my front porch,” Mrs. Varney replies, pulling out her knitting needles. “It’s like having my own personal concert.”
I let Mrs. Varney knit several rows on the blue mitten in her lap while Aaron finishes the song.
“It’s a shame the whole island hasn’t had a chance to hear Aaron,” I say. “I bet everyone would really enjoy it. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Varney?”
“Oh, yes. The boy plays like an angel!”
“And the trumpet is especially good for patriotic songs,” I say. “Exciting, marching music, like we might hear at Memorial Day or the Fourth of July picnic .”
I feel a little guilty doing this. I know Aaron said he didn’t like to play for people, but he did once play in
I sigh. “What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”
He scrapes in long strokes, without looking at me. “I’m not hungry.”
“That’s okay. I don’t actually have any ice cream.” I feel completely stupid now, but having started this … “I’m just asking what you like.”
“Oh.” He pauses, and then starts scraping again, a little slower than before. “Cookie dough.”
“My favorite is chocolate chip. Cookie dough would be somewhere in my top ten, though.” I start scraping again.
“Come in now, Aaron,” I hear Mom call. “Natalie is ready to see you.” I look over to see Mom and Natalie on the porch. Why do they have to interrupt us now ? I was finally getting somewhere with Aaron.
“Aaron!” Natalie calls. “How are you doing? Are you working on a boat? Wow! That’s awesome.”
He puts down the paint scraper and walks away from me. Almost to the house, he glances back over his shoulder. “Chocolate chip would be around number five for me.”
As the kitchen door closes, I take my lucky things from my usual right-side pocket and put them into my left one. That little wrongness will nag at me, so I won’t forget to write “cookie dough ice cream” on Mom’s shopping list when I go inside.
I scrape extra hard on the spot where he got the splinter so it won’t ever happen again. As I work, I can’t help wondering what he’s telling Natalie. Is he complaining about Eben being mean to him or getting seasick or Libby knocking on his door every night tosee if he wants to play Monopoly? Is he telling Natalie how he still isn’t comfortable opening the refrigerator or cupboards when he’s hungry — how he pretends he doesn’t want anything to eat until it’s practically forced on him and then eats it all? Or how embarrassed he’ll be going to school with kindergartners this fall? Or how much he hates the seagulls swooping around him on the boat?
Natalie’s been here a long time — long enough to hear a whole long list of bad things from him.
I feel kind of cheated that Anne of Green Gables liked her island home right from the get-go and Aaron needs to be won over to his. I thought he’d feel more like Anne did, like it was a fun adventure to move here — not a punishment, a too-far-away-from-everything place where he has to give up what he loves best.
After Natalie leaves, I hear trumpet music coming from our house. It’s a slow, sad song, the notes held long as sighs. He makes that trumpet sound both beautiful and hurt.
I put the scrapers back in the shed. I wish Aaron could find his place here, so he’d feel like a real islander and he’d start liking it more.
As I’m closing the shed door, I see Doris Varney bring her knitting basket out to the porch rocker. Inotice she does that whenever Aaron starts practicing. “It’s so nice to have a musician in the neighborhood!” she calls to me. “I wish everyone could be enjoying this fine music with us. Don’t you? It’d be the talk of the island!”
And I have an idea.
“Hi, Mrs. Varney.” I brush the paint dust off my clothes as I’m walking. “Isn’t it great how Aaron plays the trumpet?”
“Oh, yes! I feel very lucky to hear such fine music from my front porch,” Mrs. Varney replies, pulling out her knitting needles. “It’s like having my own personal concert.”
I let Mrs. Varney knit several rows on the blue mitten in her lap while Aaron finishes the song.
“It’s a shame the whole island hasn’t had a chance to hear Aaron,” I say. “I bet everyone would really enjoy it. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Varney?”
“Oh, yes. The boy plays like an angel!”
“And the trumpet is especially good for patriotic songs,” I say. “Exciting, marching music, like we might hear at Memorial Day or the Fourth of July picnic .”
I feel a little guilty doing this. I know Aaron said he didn’t like to play for people, but he did once play in
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