June First

Part 1 – The First Tragedy

Brant, age 6

“You’re such a fartknocker, Brant!”

Wendy and Wyatt speed away on their bicycles, the tires spitting up mud and grass blades as they cut through the neighbor’s lawn.

A fartknocker.

What does that mean?

I watch them go from the edge of my driveway, while Theo kicks up one of the loose stones that rims our mailbox. Dad is going to blow a gasket if he sees a rock out of place. He loves weird stuff like mailbox rocks, perfectly edged sidewalks, and grass that looks greener than my babysitter’s new hairdo.

I don’t really get it.

I don’t get “fartknocker” either.

“Wendy is a dweeb,” Theo mutters under his breath.

“Sounds better than a fartknocker.”

“It is.”

The sun sets behind an extra fluffy cloud, making it look like a giant piece of cotton candy floating in the midwestern sky. My stomach grumbles. “Want to stay for dinner?”

Theo tries to fix the stone with the toe of his sneaker, but it doesn’t look the same. Dad will notice. He sighs, popping his chin up and gazing down at the end of the cul-de-sac to where the dreadful Nippersink twins disappeared. “Is your mom making that chili?”

“No, it’s fish.” My mom loves to cook. Aside from giving me cheek kisses and tummy tickles, I think it’s her favorite thing to do. I love the food she makes, even Brussels sprouts.

Even fish.

“Yuck,” Theo says. He glances at his property, the ranch-style house made of bricks, two down from mine, and shrugs his shoulders. “Besides, I think my mom might have a baby tonight.”

“Really?”

“Maybe. She said her belly felt like a hyena was chomping through her loo-der-us.”

“That means the baby is coming?” I shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts, frowning at the image that pops into my head. That sounds really bad. It sounds worse than when I got bit by Aunt Kelly’s cat because it looked sad, and I wanted to feed it one of my apple slices—I caught a fever the next day. “I thought babies were a happy thing. What’s a loo-der-us, anyway?”

“I dunno. I think it’s the thing in my mom’s belly that the baby lives in. Sounds gross to me.”

A shudder ripples through me. That does sound pretty gross. I always wanted a brother or a sister to grow up with, but Dad works too much at the office or in the yard, and Mom says it’s hard to take care of little babies that poop and cry all the time, so I guess it’s just me.

At least I have Theo.

He’s my neighbor and best friend, and maybe his new baby brother or sister will feel like mine, too. Maybe we can share.

“What do you think you’ll name the baby, Theo?”

My eyes follow Theo as he hops onto the ring of stones around the mailbox, trying to balance himself. He slips and lands on his butt, right in the wet grass, and when he stands up, blotches of brown mud stain the back of his jeans. He rubs at his bottom, making a groaning sound. “How about Mudpie?”

We both laugh, picturing a cute little baby named Mudpie. I skate my gaze around the cul-de-sac, a new name flashing to mind when I fixate on a fluttering insect with sunshine wings. “I like Butterfly.”

“Yeah, okay. Mudpie if it’s a boy, and Butterfly if it’s a girl.” Theo nods, still massaging his sore butt. He sweeps sandy blonde bangs away from his forehead, revealing eyes glinting with the same dark blue color of his shirt. “Hey, Brant, maybe you can come over and meet her after she’s out of Mom’s belly?”

I’d love that!

I’m about to reply when I register what he just said. “Her?”

Theo shrugs again, scrunching up his nose. “I think it’s a girl. I can just picture her wearing little pink dresses and giant bows. She’ll be real pretty, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I bet she will be.”

“I’m going to take good care of her. I’ll be the best big brother ever,” he says, bobbing his head with a prideful smile. It’s the same smile Dad has when he stares at the lawn after a fresh mow. “I’ll be like Mario, and you can be Luigi if you want. She’ll be Princess Peach, and we’ll protect her from all the bad guys in the world.”

I picture it. I envision grand adventures and battles, sword fights and bravery. The images shoot a tickle straight to my heart.

I always wanted something worth defending, and Mom won’t let me have a puppy.

Theo’s new baby will have to do.

“I like that idea, Theo. We’ll make a great team.”

Our daydreams are interrupted when Theo’s mother pokes her head out of their house, her belly so round and large, it holds the screen door open all by itself. There must be something as big as a watermelon inside—there must.

Maybe we should name her Watermelon.

“Theodore! We’re heading to the hospital!”

Theo’s dad rushes out, carrying at least seven bags, two dangling from around his neck. His face is beet red, the same color as the van he tosses the belongings into, and he looks like he might faint. He might even have a heart attack. He’s sweating a whole lot.

“Now, son! We’re having a baby!” his father shouts, tripping on a divot in the driveway as he races back to the front of the house.

My friend’s eyes pop. “She’s coming, Brant! Did you hear that?”

“I heard it,” I say eagerly, a little bit jealous of my friend. I want a baby sister. In fact, I’d trade anything in the world for a baby sister.

You hear that, sky? I’ll trade anything for a baby sister!

I’m not sure why I tell my secret to the sky, but Mom always looks up at the ceiling when she says her prayers at night. Maybe she’s talking to the sky.

Maybe it listens.

The cotton candy cloud doesn’t answer back, and neither does the setting sun. The birds don’t sing. The treetops sway and shimmy, but they are also silent.

My wish is stolen by the early summer breeze, never to be heard.

Theo mounts his bicycle, waving goodbye at me as he scoots along with his feet. He nearly topples over on the sidewalk, shouting with excitement, “See you later, Luigi!”

I grin at the name. Luigi. It means I’m a fighter. A protector.

A hero.

And it’s a lot better than “fartknocker.”

“Bye, Mario,” I yell back.

Theo almost tips over again when he tries to send me another wave, the bike swerving madly, but he catches his balance and darts home just as his father races his mother to the van. She’s holding her plump belly, making awful, painful sounds. She sure doesn’t look happy.

I don’t get it.

“Brant, honey… it’s almost dinner time.”

I startle in place, glancing over my shoulder. Mom is waving me inside from the doorway, her dark honeyed hair whipping her in the face when a gust of wind rolls through. “Coming,” I call to her, stealing a final peek at my friend hopping into the vehicle with his parents. One more excited wave from Theo sends me off as they pull out of the driveway with squeaky tires.

“Come inside, Brant. You can help me butter the garlic bread.”

Pivoting, I let out a sigh and jog through the grass to my front stoop. Mom wraps a tender arm around my shoulders, then kisses the top of my head. I look up at her, twisting the hem of my shirt between my fingers. “Theo’s mom is having a baby tonight.”

She smiles, resting a palm atop her own belly. It’s flat and slender—the opposite of Theo’s mom’s. There are certainly no watermelons hiding inside. “Oh my goodness. I knew it would be any day, now.” Mom glances up, watching the van disappear around the corner. “I’ll have to make them some casseroles when they return. Is Theo excited?”

“He’s really excited,” I bob my head. “He said I can visit when they come home. Can I, Mom?”

Two brown eyes gaze down at me like warm melted chocolate, and she gives my shoulder a light squeeze. “Of course. The Baileys are like family,” she murmurs. “And maybe I’ll reconsider that puppy you keep asking me about.”

“Really?” My own eyes ping open, wide as saucers; I’m sure of it. “Can we name it Yoshi?”

“I don’t see why not.”

I hop up and down, anticipation coursing through me. “Thanks, Mom.”

Another breeze sweeps by, causing Mom’s long hair to take flight like a sparrow. She closes her eyes for a moment, tugging me close to her hip. “You’re a good boy, Brant. Your heart is kind and brave. Maybe…” Her words vanish within the breeze, and I’m confused at first… a little worried that something is wrong. Then she finishes with, “Maybe we can start over somewhere. Just you and me.”

“What about Dad?”

I wait for her answer. My body sags against my mother, her scent a familiar comfort as her fingers trail through my mess of hair. She smells like something sweet. A dessert of some kind—honey and caramel. Maybe even taffy apples.

“Tomorrow, it will be June.” Her voice is just a hush, and I hardly even hear her. My mother sweeps her palm down the nape of my neck, then my back, giving me a light pat before she pulls away. “June always feels like a new beginning.”

I think about her words well into the evening. I think about them while sitting around the dinner table as Dad talks about how Collins at the office sabotaged his spreadsheets, then yells at Mom for overcooking the salmon fillets. He even throws a fit over the stones around the mailbox, blaming the neighbor dog for getting off its leash and ruining all of his hard work. I keep my mouth shut as I smash my glazed carrots into tiny spheres of mush, not wanting Theo to get into trouble. I knew Dad would notice.

He loves those rocks.

As bedtime rolls around, I still can’t stop thinking about Mom’s words. I don’t know why.

June always feels like a new beginning.

What did it mean? And why did Mom want to go somewhere without Dad?

Mom tucks me into bed that night, singing me a lullaby. She hasn’t sung me a lullaby in a while—not since I was in preschool. Her voice is soft and glowing, almost like how I picture the moon. If the moon had a voice, it would sound like her. She sing-songs the words, telling me that over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. I think about bluebirds, and I think about rainbows. The words make me feel happy, but she sings it so sad.

She reads me my favorite book about Dumbo the elephant, while my own stuffed toy, a floppy gray elephant named Bubbles, is tucked inside my arms. Mom cries as she reads it, just like she always does.

Then she places a gentle kiss to my hairline, whispering by the light of the stars from my window, “I’ll always protect you.”

I snuggle into my striped bedcover, a smile hinting on my lips, listening as her footfalls fade from the room.

Dreams try to find me, but my mind is restless.

I’m thinking about Wendy and what a dweeb she is. Wyatt, too.

I think about the puppy we’re going to get… Yoshi. I wonder if he’ll make friends with the neighbor dog.

I wonder if Dad will like him more than the neighbor dog.

I think about my mother’s voice made of moonglow, and I wonder why she said those things to me on our front stoop.

And finally, I think about Theo’s baby.

Mudpie or Butterfly?

Is Theo’s mom’s belly still big and full? Did the baby come out of her loo-der-us yet?

Maybe it’ll be two babies, just like Wendy and Wyatt. One for Theo, and one for me.

We can both be Mario.

As the minutes tick by, my thoughts begin to quiet, and I’m whisked away by a magical dream. I’m in the sky, sitting atop the crest of the banana moon.

It’s loud up here.

I’m drowning in the chatter of a thousand wishes.

And somehow, somewhere, I think I hear my own…

I’ll trade anything for a baby sister.

“Brant.”

I’m shaken awake by a familiar presence. At first I’m confused, wondering if I missed the school bus, but then I remember that it’s summer break.

My eyelids flutter open as a hand grips my shoulder. It’s still so dark in my bedroom. It’s still nighttime. I blink, trying to make sense of the shadows. “Dad?”

“Wake up, Brant. Wake up.”

His voice doesn’t sound right; it sounds frightful, like he’s somebody else. A different person. I sit up straight, rubbing at my sleepy eyes and clutching Bubbles the Elephant to my chest. “Am I in trouble?”

Dad’s face is glistening in the glow of my nightlight. He’s sweaty and breathing funny. “I love you, Brant. Forgive me.”

I can only stare at him. I don’t understand. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the Findɴovel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Hide under your bed,” he orders, tugging at my arm. “Come on.”

My tummy starts to swirl with dread. Tears rush to my eyes. “I’m scared.”

“Be a good boy. Please.”

I want to be a good boy, so I obey. Squeezing Bubbles in a tight grip, I scoot my butt off the mattress until my feet touch the ground. Dad reaches for me then, taking me by both shoulders and giving me a firm shake. My eyes can see him better in the dark, and I notice a few scratches etched into his cheeks, mean and red. “Where’s Mom?”

A weird look washes over his face, pinching his eyebrows together and causing him to tremble as he holds me. He lowers himself to both knees, until we’re face-to-face, and the lump in his throat bobs up and down. Fingernails are digging into my skin, and it kind of hurts, but the fear hurts me more. “Listen carefully, son,” he says in a stranger’s voice, low and gruff. Sad. “I want you to crawl under your bed and stay there until the sun lights up your room, do you understand?” Dad places his navy blue phone with number buttons into my hand, forcing my fingers around it. “When the sun comes up, dial 9-1-1. But this part is important… you have to promise me you’ll do it, okay?”

Wetness trickles down my cheeks. I nod my head. I don’t know what else to do.

“Don’t go downstairs.”

Don’t go downstairs. Don’t go downstairs. Don’t go downstairs.

The words echo inside me, over and over. I have to obey. I have to promise.

“Okay, Dad.”

He relaxes just a little. “I love you. We both love you. You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know,” I tell him through my tears. I’m not even sure why I’m crying, but it feels like I should.

With a short nod, he begins guiding me beneath the bed, so I get down on my hands and knees and crawl, flattening myself to my belly and slithering the rest of the way under. It’s extra dark, littered with stray toys and playing cards. The dust tickles my nose. Curling my body into a ball, I pull Bubbles to my cheek and let him collect my falling tears as my other hand fists the phone. Dad crouches lower, mouth parted like he’s about to speak, but his lips only tremble with words unsaid. He swipes a meaty paw down the center of his face, then ruffles his hair.

I think he’s about to leave me here, so I blurt out, “Mom said she’ll always protect me.”

Danger prickles my skin. I don’t feel safe.

And Mom isn’t here.

More sadness creeps into my father’s face, but he still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t comfort me like Mom would.

Right before he stands, he reaches for me, stealing away the hand that clasps my toy elephant. “One more thing, Brant,” Dad says, peering at me sprawled underneath the bed with his wild, tear-filled eyes. He chokes a little, making a sound I might never forget. It sounds like every nightmare I’ve ever had. Giving my fingers a final squeeze, my father makes that choking noise again, something like a cough, or a cry, or an awful goodbye. He pulls back and whispers through the wall of darkness, “Cover your ears.”

He jumps up, turns, and walks out of my bedroom.

I watch as his sock-covered feet move farther and farther away, and then my door closes shut.

Click.

Silence enters the room.

My heart thunders loud, my breaths coming so quick, they match the beats. Bubbles comforts me the only way he can, pillowing my cheek as I lie there with my knees to my chest.

I try to remember everything my father told me. There was so much.

“When the sun comes up, dial 9-1-1.”

My fingers curl around the phone.

“Don’t go downstairs.”

Why can’t I go downstairs? I want my Mom. I need her to protect me from these things I don’t understand.

I think there was one more thing… one last thing I’m supposed to do, but I can’t remember.

What was it? What was it?

Tears pour out of me, and my throat stings, my mind racing.

“One more thing, Brant…”

I can’t remember. Oh no, I can’t remember!

My bedroom floor is cold and dark; so lonely. I’m scared.

I’ve never been more scared.

As I call out for my mom, crying and shouting, my father’s final plea flashes to mind.

Oh, yeah!

Cover my—

Boom.

A loud crack causes me to jump, my whole body shivering as my eyes flare wide open. I think maybe it’s just fireworks. I still hear them sometimes, right outside my window, leftover celebrations from Memorial Day. They paint the sky in pretty lights and colors, and they make me feel happy inside. They make me smile.

But I don’t feel happy right now. I’m not smiling.

I don’t think it was fireworks.

I cover my ears anyway, even though it might be too late. The heels of my hands dig into either side of my head, closing in sound, while I bury my face into the gray softness of my stuffy.

That’s where I stay for a long time.

Hours, maybe. I’m not very good at telling time, but it could be hours.

And I know I’m supposed to wait until the sun peeks over the clouds and brightens my bedroom, but my muscles are hurting. My body is stiff and achy, my neck sore. It’s getting hard to breathe under here.

Making a decision, I press the numbers on the phone that Dad told me to dial. Nine-one-one. A lady answers, but I don’t say anything. Dad didn’t tell me to say anything. He just told me to press the numbers.

I slide my way out on my tummy, my palms pulling me forward. I snatch up Bubbles before I stand, then I pace out of the room on my tiptoes, trying to be as quiet as possible. I promised Dad I wouldn’t go downstairs, so I don’t want him to hear me.

He can’t know I broke my promise.

My insides feel fuzzy and sort of itchy as I make my way through the darkened hallway, the only sounds being the creaky wood floor and the whoosh of a ceiling fan. I take careful steps down the staircase. It almost feels like I’m sneaking a peek of the tree on Christmas morning, checking to see if Santa came and brought me presents wrapped in colorful paper and glittering bows.

It’s not Christmas morning, though.

And what I find when I reach the bottom of the stairs is not an abundance of gifts with my name on them. There is no joy. There is no wonder.

There is only a terrible nightmare.

Blood.

Fear.

A scream.

My scream.

I squeeze my eyes shut, blotting it all out. Then I reopen them.

It’s real, it’s real… oh no, it’s real!

Bubbles slips from my hand, landing in a pool of red that seeps from a hole in my father’s head. There’s a gun resting beside him—the same kind I’ve seen in movies and T.V. shows.

My mother is lying beside him, too. She has something wrapped around her neck, causing her mouth to hang open and her eyes to bug out. I think it’s my father’s work tie.

It’s purple.

I hate purple. It’s the worst color I’ve ever seen.

Mom doesn’t look at me, even though her eyes are open. She’s quiet and still, just like Dad. “Mommy?” My voice hardly sounds real. It’s so high and squeaky, stuck in my throat like Laffy Taffy. I step around my father and his river of blood, then throw myself at my mother. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t hold me.

She doesn’t protect me like she promised.

I sob against her chest, begging for her to wake up, crying for her to read me stories and sing me lullabies. Needing her to tell me this is all a bad dream.

That’s where strange men find me a short while later, dressed in uniforms, their faces filled with horror, just like how my dad’s face looked when he left me in my bedroom all alone. They rip me away from my mom, and I kick and scream and cry harder, my arms extended, reaching, pleading, as they pull me out the front door.

Away from her.

Away from Dad.

Away from Bubbles.

Someone wraps me up in a blanket even though I’m not cold. They tell me nice words in a nice voice, but I can’t make sense of anything they’re saying. Ambulances pull up with red and blue lights, sirens blaring, joining the police cars lining our cul-de-sac. Neighbors step out of their houses, cupping their mouths, shaking their heads, and staring at me with curious eyes.

Not Theo, though.

He’s not home. He’s at the hospital with his mom and dad and new baby.

Voices whisper around me, and I try to make out some of the words:

Dee-oh-ay.

Murder.

Suicide.

He killed her.

Poor kid.

Tragedy.

I bend over from my perch in the driveway, reaching for one of the ruddy stones that has fallen astray near the mailbox. Holding it in my hand, I stare at it, grazing my thumb over its smooth edges.

I think Dad loved this rock more than Mom.

I think he loved it more than me.

I clutch it in a tight fist, looking up at the midnight sky that twinkles with stars and unclaimed wishes. I realize then that maybe this was my fault. Maybe I killed my parents. Maybe I traded them in for a silly wish.

Only… I don’t have a baby sister.

I don’t have anybody.

My bottom lip quivers, and the tears fall hard.

I squeeze the rock.

Then I set it back into place.