The Light in the Lake Page 6

  I hear the barn door creak open and Uncle Mark appears. “Thought I’d check how everyone was doing,” he says. “Looks like she’s getting used to you, huh?”

  “She’s kind of shy,” I say. But as though Rascal can understand and wants to prove me wrong, she walks over and sniffs my hands with quick breaths.

  Uncle Mark laughs. “That’s pretty normal for a little calf. Have you tried putting the halter on yet?”

  Then he shows us—well, me, really, though he says it’s a good reminder for Liza too—how to slip the halter over Rascal’s nose and head.

  “Just leave it like this awhile,” he says. “She’ll get used to it by and by.”

  Uncle Mark moves his hands gently across Rascal’s coat. She shakes her head and rubs her nose against his jacket, but she seems to sense he knows what he’s doing. Dad always says you can see how much Uncle Mark loves animals because he treats his cows almost like people. They all have names, and he even stores pictures of them on his phone.

  “It’d be a good idea to brush her a bit today too,” Uncle Mark tells us. He grabs a soft bristle brush from a ledge on the barn wall and lets Rascal smell it, then touches it lightly to her side.

  “So, Addie,” he says. “Your dad told me you’ll be working with the scientists out at Maple Lake.”

  “I haven’t started yet,” I say. “But soon.”

  “I gotta tell you, it’s hard to believe that lake’s polluted.” Uncle Mark runs the brush along Rascal’s side and back. “You want to try brushing?” he asks.

  Uncle Mark’s a patient teacher. He taught me how to use a bow drill to send smoke curling up without a match, how to build a campfire from tinder and coal. We’d sit around those fires and he’d tell stories about all the constellations in the sky, pointing to them one by one: Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Orion.

  I take the brush and follow Uncle Mark’s lead. But I can feel Rascal’s skin kind of shiver under my touch, and she scoots to the side, away from my hand.

  “A little more pressure,” Uncle Mark says, “and breathe slow. If you’re calm, it’ll help her be calm.”

  I take a deep breath. “I don’t think the scientists would just say Maple Lake was polluted for no reason. And if it is—I kind of want to know about it. So we can fix it.”

  “I just hope they know what they’re doing,” Uncle Mark says. “That lake’s spring-fed and deep and, since before my great-grandparents were kids, clean as can be.”

  I want to ask Uncle Mark if he’s tested the water, if he really knows for sure. But it doesn’t feel right. Instead, I just say, “I hope I can learn more about it.”

  Uncle Mark puts his big hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. “You’re a good kid, Favorite Niece,” he says. “If anyone can help those scientists figure out what’s going on, it’s you.”

  Then he gives Liza and me a kiss on the tops of our heads and waves, walking out the door. Now it’s just Liza and me and Rascal, who already seems to be getting used to her halter, at least a little. She’s not tossing her head so much. And she’s actually standing still. I pass the brush to Liza so she can have a turn.

  “So, you start that Young Scientist thing next week, right?” Liza asks, putting her hand up by Rascal’s tail and walking slowly around her back end.

  I know right away this is why she didn’t say much on the bus. School ending means summer starting. The first summer Liza and I won’t spend mostly together.

  Rascal’s halter has slipped to the side from her rubbing her head against the stall, so I work on adjusting it while Liza takes the empty grain bucket off its hook. “Honestly, Ad, I’m just kind of nervous for you,” she says.

  I feel my hands shake a little. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  Liza looks up at the barn ceiling, at the cobwebs strung in the rafters. “I just… still don’t see why you would do it,” she says. She opens her mouth again, then closes it. But I can tell what she wants to say next. Instead of hanging out here. With me.

  It’s strange how someone who knows me better than almost anyone can’t understand something I want so much. If Liza can’t see why I need Maple Lake, how can I ever explain?

  I shake my head. “I just feel like I have to do this.”

  “Because of Amos?” she asks. She kind of chokes on his name and I’m worried she’ll start crying. But she doesn’t. She walks over to the grain bin and I follow her to hold the cover open while she measures out scoops for Rascal.

  “Not just because of him,” I say. Which is true. But she’s not wrong either; it’s partly for him. Of course I want to learn everything I can from the scientists there, and if the lake’s polluted, I want to figure out how to help it. I also have Amos’s notebook in my pocket. Keeping it nearby makes me feel like a piece of him is nearby too.

  Liza turns to me. “Well, I’ll be here, Ad,” she says. “Rascal and I will be here.”

  I reach out to squeeze her hand, and she lets me. But her eyes look like clouds hanging over the mountains. She blinks twice, like I’ve seen her do before when she’s trying to keep tears from falling. And then she looks away.

  Chapter 8

  The morning the Young Scientist position begins, I wake up after Mama’s already come home from work and gone to bed. The smell of coffee wafts in from the kitchen; Dad’s probably already filling his travel mug, packing it into the truck with a turkey sandwich and a bag of chips. When I come out to pour some cereal, I see my backpack, laid out on the table with a water bottle and a brown paper sack next to it.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, pointing to the bag.

  “Don’t thank me,” he says. “That was your mama.”

  “Really?” I ask. “When did she pack it?”

  “After work, I guess,” he says. “Left it out there for you.”

  I picture Mama’s hands, her fingers knobby and strong, shaking open the paper bag. I peek inside.

  “No way!” I say. “A Fluffernutter!” I hardly ever get these. Mama always freaks out about all the sugar in Marshmallow Fluff. Filling cavities costs a lot, she used to tell us, and ruining baby teeth doesn’t help the adult ones. “I think the last time she made them for us, we were, like, five.” Then I cover my mouth with my hand, realizing I’ve done it again—said us.

  Dad wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, but so quickly, he might just have been blocking the sun.

  And then I think about Amos. For just this one perfect second, his skinny tanned legs swim into focus, and they’re running away from me. I see him, I really see him, holding his Fluffernutter, racing along the beach. “Can’t catch me!” he’s screaming. I’m laughing, stumbling after him, my Fluffernutter squished in my palm. “Can too! Can too!”

  Then I’m tripping, falling, knees hitting sand. The Fluffernutter flies out of my hands. Tears come as I scramble to the sandwich and find it covered in grit. Ahead of me Amos stops, turns. Sunlight catches his hair and turns it golden. His eyes darken and he begins to run back toward me. I’m wiping at my sandwich, crying. “Addie,” he’s saying. “Addie.”

  Then he kneels beside me while I cough and sob. He holds his Fluffernutter out.

  “It’s okay,” he’s saying. “You can have mine.”

  I can still smell it, half sweet, half salty. I still remember how it felt to take it, soft and warm, from his hands. I remember how I tore the sandwich in half, sniffling, and handed one half back. How we ate it in five bites each, listening to the waves.

  I close the bag and put it in my backpack.

  “Ready to go?” Dad asks.

  As we drive up the road to the biological station, Dad’s fingers softly tap the steering wheel.

  “So I’ll pick you up after,” he says. “And take you over to the farm so you can keep getting acquainted with that calf. Rascal, right?” It feels like he’s talking more to himself than to me.

  “Okay,” I say. I haven’t talked to Liza since we brushed Rascal. I know she’s been helping Uncle Mark feed her and the other ca
lves, probably staying at Rascal’s pen for an extra minute to rub her ears.

  But Liza feels far away now, here, where thick trees near the shore mostly hide the lake. If I watch carefully, I can see flashes of blue between the shivering green leaves.

  “You’ll be careful,” Dad says.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “You can change your mind, you know,” he says. “Just call me. Or your mother. Don’t worry about waking her. Use the iPhone.”

  “I’m not going to change my mind, Dad.” But I can feel my heart pounding.

  “Okay, okay,” he says. “I know.”

  He pulls up to the biological station. It looks the same from the outside as I remember it, kind of like a big log cabin, set so far back in the trees it almost looks like it grew right out of them. Inside I know there’s at least one lab, because Mr. Dale told me about it, and different rooms where the researchers can have meetings or give presentations. There’s even a mini-museum open to the public with pictures and dioramas and explanations about Maple Lake’s history from the time of the glaciers till now. Amos and I used to sometimes go look at the displays after we were done hiking the trails.

  As we walk up the path leading to the biological station, my phone buzzes. It’s Liza.

  You still coming over later?

  My chest tightens, just for a second.

  4-ish, I text back.

  Mr. Dale opens the door before we get a chance to knock. “Addie!” he says. “Welcome.” He sticks his hand out to Dad, who waits for just a second before shaking it.

  “Hello, Mr. Lago.”

  Dad nods. “Hello,” he says.

  “Did you want to come in?” Mr. Dale asks. He steps aside just a little, and sunlight from overhead cuts through the dark doorway behind.

  I look up at Dad, who swallows hard and puts his hand on my shoulder. I know, and he probably does too, that if we go inside, we’ll see the windows that open out onto Maple Lake. I don’t know if Dad wants that.

  But he nods. “Sure. Wouldn’t mind taking a look around.”

  Mr. Dale motions us both inside. Dad hesitates, like he might take back what he just said, but he stays right behind me as I walk in.

  “Here’s the main lobby,” Mr. Dale says. “It’s a great spot for visitors who want to learn a bit about the lake. We’ve got some informational pamphlets over here, a topographical survey of the geographic region, hiking trail maps, camping tips, a diorama of the lake and surrounding mountains—” He points to each item.

  I follow Dad’s eyes as they travel up the walls to the wooden ceiling, skipping over the windows that look out on the lake. I don’t know if Dad’s ever been in here. Usually when he’s anywhere near Maple Lake, he’s on it, fishing.

  “The lab’s just down this hallway,” Mr. Dale explains. “But maybe you want to see the beach first? It’s not too far from the public one, but we have our own boat launch. It’s helpful for collecting water samples and traveling to farther points on the lake.”

  From Dad’s favorite perch spot, we can see the biological station, but I’ve never been on this beach, just the public one where Amos and I would wade in the shallows after we hiked.

  “I know you’re quite an expert on Maple Lake,” Mr. Dale says as he opens the door. “I should probably be asking you for fishing tips.” Mr. Dale fishes too; our boats have even crossed paths, and when they do, we always wave. Of course, it’s been a while.

  Dad stuffs his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. “Don’t know about that.”

  “It’s true,” I say. “Dad doesn’t even need one of those fish-finders people rig onto their boats. He knows right where to find them, any month of the year.” I’m talking fast, trying not to look out the window at all that blue.

  Dad shakes his head, embarrassed, but Mr. Dale’s already leading us out. As I step through, I’m hit with the smell of water, clear and cold, and gritty sun-warmed sand. My hands start to shake, so I ball them up into fists.

  Maple Lake is five miles long and a mile wide. Two big mountains—Mount Mann to the west and Bevel Mountain to the east—run almost the whole length of the lake. Between Mount Mann and the shore, there’s a narrow road that twists and turns, but on the other side, Bevel Mountain plunges straight into the water; there’s no room for a road. Because of those mountains, boating out into the middle of Maple Lake makes me feel closed in, like I’m in a big, open-topped tunnel filled with blue. I’ve hiked the trails up above, on skinny paths that twist into narrow outcroppings flanked with cedar and pine. The lake folds out below, flat and smooth as a blue bedsheet from all the way up there, where birds swoop and dive.

  Mr. Dale keeps looking at Dad and me like he’s worried. I bet he can guess that for us, seeing Maple Lake rolling in, wave after wave, might feel like too much. I remember Barbara Ann saying it was good to walk right through fear. But at this very moment, I don’t like how tight my chest feels. I see Dad’s jaw clench as he looks toward Mount Mann, jutting up from the lake in hard slabs of granite and trees tipped sideways, their roots hanging on rock.

  Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. Mr. Dale’s talking again, but I can’t hear. I reach back with one hand and tap the pocket that holds Amos’s notebook. As soon as I touch it, I do breathe, shakily at first, then steady. It’s okay, I say. It’s Maple Lake.

  Dad shifts back and forth on his feet, checks his watch. “Time for me to go,” he says, right in the middle of Mr. Dale saying something about the prevalence of cedar trees along the shore.

  Mr. Dale looks surprised but recovers quickly. “Of course,” he says. “We’ll see you later, then, Mr. Lago,” and he reaches out his hand again. Dad takes it but looks sideways at me, his eyes asking, Are you sure?

  I nod. You don’t have to be sure to say you’re sure. And sometimes saying it helps it come true. I reach up and hug Dad, my forehead pressing into his neck. “See you later, Dad,” I say. And then I watch him go right through the door without looking back even once. The lake murmurs behind me. The waves tickling the sand sound like little whispers, telling me to stay.

  “Ready to see the lab?” Mr. Dale asks.

  “Sure,” I say, then: “I mean, yes. Yes.”

  We walk back into the main building and down the narrow hallway ending in a door that Mr. Dale pushes open.

  “I’d like you to meet Dr. Li,” he says, gesturing to a slim woman with long, straight black hair pulled into a ponytail at her neck. She rises from a table with papers spread out on it and smiles gently.

  “You must be Addie.” She speaks with an accent, her voice clear and bright as music. “I’ve heard so much about you. I understand you want to be a scientist too someday?”

  I nod. Suddenly I’m feeling shy.

  “Well, I’m so glad your teacher was able to bring you to the station this summer,” she says. “We have a lot to work on, and from what Mr. Dale has told me, I know you’ll be a big help.”

  I feel my chest swell just a little, imagining myself peering over Dr. Li’s deskful of papers, studying them closely. Somehow I can already tell that working with her is going to help me a lot.

  “You know your teacher, of course, but these are a couple of my other graduate students, Jake and Tasha.” Jake, red hair cut close to a pale, freckled head, waves from his desk next to the wall. “Hey there, Addie,” he says. Tasha, standing next to Dr. Li, sticks out a brown hand ringed with silver bracelets and smiles. “Welcome to the club,” she says as we shake.

  Then Dr. Li looks around. “Hmmm,” she says. “I seem to have lost that boy. Again.”

  Just then, past the window, I see the boy she must be talking about, black hair flapping as he leaps over dead logs and stones on the shore, clutching a soccer ball under one arm. Then he stands still, holds one arm up high, and spins the ball on a fingertip. Dr. Li narrows her eyes. “It will be a miracle if we ever get him back into this lab,” she says.

  “That’s Tai,” Mr. Dale tells me. “Dr. Li’s son. He’s your age, ac
tually. Right, Dr. Li? Twelve?”

  “Twelve indeed,” she says, frowning.

  Even from inside, we can hear as Tai whoops and laughs, now juggling the soccer ball with his knees as his feet make deep prints in the sand. Then he sets the ball down, runs right into the lake, and starts to shriek. I cover my own giggle with one palm. Well, yeah, I think. Of course it’s cold.

  Dr. Li shakes her head and looks up at the ceiling. “I’m sure there aren’t too many local residents who would run into Maple Lake in mid-June,” she says. “Right, Addie?”

  “Pretty much right,” I say. “Then again, my family’s a little crazy. We go ice fishing when it’s fifteen below. We swim even when it’s raining. And my brother—” I gulp, letting the word sit in my mouth. I gesture out at Tai, now hopping away from the lake, hugging his shoulders. He picks his soccer ball back up and runs past the window. “My brother’s kind of like him.” Mr. Dale doesn’t flinch at the present tense, and neither do I. If Dr. Li knows about Amos, she doesn’t show it.

  I hear a door slam, then a ball bouncing on hard tile, and footsteps running fast. “Towel!” Dr. Li yells.

  “Oops, forgot!” says the voice on the other side of the wall. It’s a quick voice, bright like sunshine. More footsteps, a loud clang, then: “Coming!”

  Tai bursts into the lab wearing swim shorts, not-quite-dripping wet. He rubs the towel hard over his face and hair, then lets it drop from his shoulders onto the soccer ball while he fumbles around in a bag on the floor and grabs a T-shirt featuring what Liza would probably call abstract art on the front. I’m staring at the mass of lines crisscrossing all over it when Dr. Li’s voice cuts in: her tone has shifted, sharpened.

  “Tai, this is Addie, the Young Scientist from the local middle school,” she says.

  Tai grabs the soccer ball with one hand and my palm with the other. “Hey, Addie,” he says. “I’m Tai Jiang. The… Young Stowaway from Brooklyn? That has a nice ring to it.” Then he lightly sidesteps around the center table and gives Jake and Tasha high fives; I see Dr. Li cringe as a few papers flutter to the ground. But I can’t stop smiling.