The Messy Life of Blue Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An imprint of Little Bee Books

  251 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10010

  Text copyright © 2020 by Shawna Railey

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Yellow Jacket and associated colophon are trademarks of Little Bee Books.

  Manufactured in China RRD 0620

  First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-4998-1025-7 (hc) / 978-1-4998-1040-0 (ebook)

  yellowjacketreads.com

  For more information about special discounts on bulk purchases, please contact Little Bee Books at [email protected].

  For Samantha Noel

  When it rains, look for the rainbow.

  And when it’s dark, look for the stars.

  For Kota Bear

  Always in my heart, if no longer by my side.

  And for all the girls and boys out there who know

  what it feels like to lose someone you love . . .

  this book is for you, too.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Acknowledgments

  1

  I gripped his foot tightly as I wrapped the cord around his ankle. I knew it might hurt, but that couldn’t be helped. The rope needed to hold. He looked up at me, and the fear in his eyes made my hands tremble. It wasn’t just the sun beating down that made sweat trickle down my back. Lifting him over the edge, I tried not to think about what I was going to do. What I had to do.

  “Noooo!”

  Startled, I lost my grip and he went tumbling over the balcony headfirst. I winced when his body hit the concrete below.

  Thump.

  “Mr. Bunny Boo! Noooo!” Arnie ran back into the house, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Daaaad!”

  I sighed. That didn’t quite go as planned, but when it came to sibling rivalry, things often didn’t. Mr. Bunny Boo was just another casualty of war. He was also my brother’s favorite stuffed animal, so I wasn’t surprised when our dad called me downstairs a moment later.

  “It was an accident,” I said before my father had a chance to speak. “I was only going to dangle him. I wasn’t really going to let go. It’s just . . . Arnie snuck up from behind and scared me.”

  Arnie sniffed dramatically, clutching my dad’s leg and wiping away his giant tears. Even his little chin trembled just so. I groaned. Did the kid always have to be so darn cute? That wasn’t going to get me any sympathy.

  “March right outside and find your brother’s bunny. What were you thinking, Beulah?”

  Uh-oh. I always knew I was in serious trouble when my dad used my real name. But with a name like Beulah, shouldn’t that be punishment enough? I should get a free pass on all minor offenses.

  I hung my head as I made my way around the side of the house. There was no sign of the stuffed animal anywhere below the balcony. I searched frantically through the lilac bushes and then spun in circles, panic setting in. Where could it have gone?

  “Looking for this?”

  I whirled around to find Crybaby-Jared, my nemesis in life, leaning against a tree with a giant smirk on his face. Mr. Bunny Boo dangled over his shoulder, the cord still tied around one furry ankle.

  “Give me that bunny! This is private property, and I can have you arrested.”

  “Seriously? We’re eleven years old. Do you know of any other fifth graders still carrying around stuffed animals?”

  “I know of lots besides me. Now drop the bunny and save yourself, Crybaby-Jared!”

  “Finders keepers, Beulah Warren!”

  “You know darn well that my name is BLUE!”

  I pushed off the side of the house and ran at him as fast as I could. Crybaby-Jared raced down the street toward the park. I screamed all sorts of things I shouldn’t say, but he didn’t stop. I hopped over a flower bed in perfect form only to trip over a garden hose. I jumped back up, now even farther behind than I was before.

  “I curse the day you were born, Crybaby-Jared!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  He looked over his shoulder and laughed.

  Then he ran smack into a tree.

  Squealing in delight, I closed the gap and caught up to him. He flopped on the ground as tears filled his eyes. There was already a red welt where his forehead had struck the tree.

  “No fair! You made me hit that tree!” he whined with a trembling chin and tears now streaming down his cheeks.

  “I didn’t make you do anything,” I said, yanking the bunny out of his scrawny little arms. “By the way,” I called over my shoulder as I strolled back toward my house, “my name is Blue. Not Beulah. And don’t you ever forget it.”

  As soon as I arrived home, I crept through the front door. I tried to be as silent as a mouse, but the creaky hinges gave me away.

  “Blue? Is that you?”

  I dropped the bunny on the couch and followed the sound of my dad’s voice into the kitchen. There, sitting menacingly on our table, were two glasses of milk. I dropped my head against my chest. I had earned myself a ticket to one of my dad’s “milk talks.” That’s what my brothers and I called them. Whenever my dad had something serious to discuss, he brought out the milk.

  “Yes, Dad?” I asked sweetly.

  “Have a seat, Blue. Let’s talk.”

  “Would you like me to add some chocolate to your milk?” I asked. He gave me a look that said, Sit your butt down and don’t push it. I sat my butt down.

  Twenty-two minutes later, I learned three things:

  1. It is not a good idea to dangle my youngest brother’s most favorite stuffed animal over our balcony, even if he did drop my toothbrush into the toilet earlier. It tends to put everyone a little on edge.

  2. The creative punishment for said crime is to spend quality time with my brother—a demanding and temperamental four-year-old.

  3. My dad’s “creative punishments” totally suck.

  I wiped off my milk mustache with the back of my hand and put my glass into the dishwasher just as my oldest brother, Seth, flew through the front door. My middle brother, Jackson, was right on his heels.

  “But, Seth,” Jackson was saying, “you promised you would take me. Ever since you started high school, you never want to do anything with me.”

  Seth shook his head. “That’s not true. I never wanted to do anything with you before I was in high school, either.” Seth saw me out of the corner of his eye and added, “Ask Blue, maybe she’ll go.”

  “Go where?” I asked.

  Jackson looked sideways at me, his eyes all squinty and suspicious. “But . . . but . . . but she’s a girl!”

  I get this a lot. For I am, in fact, a girl—who also happens to live in a house full of boys.

  “Go where?” I asked again.

  Seth answered first. “Since school’s starting next week, Kanoga Reservoir is having one last fishing tournament, and I sort of told Jackson that I’d take him. I don’t suppose you’d be the best sister ever and—”

  “Arnie wants to g
o fishing!” Arnie demanded, coming up from behind me. My dad followed with a grin.

  “I think that’s a great idea, Blue. You can spend quality time with two of your brothers today.”

  “Aw, Dad,” Jackson pouted. “I don’t want to go with Blue. Her face will scare all the fish away.”

  “Not if they smell you first!”

  “Why can’t I just go by myself?” Jackson asked my dad, but I thought it would be very helpful of me to answer for him.

  “Because you’re only nine years old, that’s why. You’re not as smart or as sophisticated as me.”

  “Enough, you two,” my dad said. “If you want to go, then you will go with your sister.”

  “Go fishing! Go fishing!” Arnie chanted, and I sighed. My entire Saturday was now ruined, all because of Mr. Bunny Boo. From this day forward, his name would forever be Mr. Bunny Poo.

  After I helped my dad find all the fishing gear in the garage, I pulled a shirt over Arnie’s head and laced up his shoes. When I stood up, Arnie reached for my hand.

  “Arnie’s gonna catch a fishie for you,” he said.

  “I don’t want a fishie.”

  “Arnie’s gonna catch you a fishie.”

  “I don’t want a fish!” I said as I tugged him out of the house and down the sidewalk. His chubby fingers wrapped around my left hand as I carried his fishing pole in my right. Jackson followed behind, still moping because Seth ditched him and he was stuck with me.

  “I could’ve just gone alone,” Jackson mumbled. “Now I’m stuck with a baby and a girl.”

  “Arnie’s not a baby,” Arnie said.

  “You can’t walk to the reservoir by yourself.” I shook my head. “You can’t even reach the top shelf of the fridge. And stop calling me a girl.”

  “What should I call you then? A maggot? A flea?”

  I spent the rest of the walk ignoring Jackson’s insults, which I could tell drove him crazy. The trail to the reservoir was only a few minutes away. We didn’t even have to cross a busy street to get there. The sun reflected off the water, a bright glassy light that danced off the shiny waves. I let go of Arnie and shielded my eyes as I trotted toward a group of kids lined up. Arnie had decided about a month ago that he wanted to half waddle/half hop everywhere he went, and it made me giggle like crazy, at least when no one was looking. As he kept in step next to me, I tried to ignore all the stares and hold my head high. It wasn’t my fault Arnie looked like a turkey playing hopscotch.

  We’d been coming to this lake our whole lives and knew every inch of the land. Jackson quickly found his friends and stayed a good distance away from us at all times, which was perfectly fine with me.

  “Arnie’s gonna catch you a fishie,” Arnie told me for what seemed like the millionth time, though technically it was only the third.

  “Okay, Arnie. Sounds good. You catch me a fishie.”

  I really hoped he didn’t catch me a fishie. For one, I don’t like fish. They smell bad and they look funny, all bug-eyed and open-mouthed. Also, I don’t like killing animals. It just so happens that I am 70 percent vegetarian, thank-you-very-much.

  I found a tree close enough to keep an eye on Arnie and made myself comfortable beneath its shade. The grown-ups in charge of the tournament helped Arnie with his worms and casting while I enjoyed the lazy breeze.

  I lifted my head and sniffed the air, my nose twitching like a baby bunny. I smelled everything around me: the fishy stench of bait, the pine trees that flanked me on both sides . . . and something sweet and familiar that made me smile. The scent of honeysuckle floated on the breeze, and I breathed in deep. Honeysuckle reminded me of my mother because it smelled like the lotion she’d always worn.

  My mom died right after Arnie was born. My dad brought Arnie home from the hospital, but my mom stayed there for additional testing. On her way home the next day she got in a really bad car accident, and that’s how she passed away. I feel bad that Arnie never even knew her. I don’t know how much Jackson remembers, because he was only five years old when she died. I used to remember lots and lots, but lately it gets all jumbled up in my head. Sometimes I talk to my oldest brother, Seth, about her. He remembers things I don’t—like that she hated cauliflower or how she whistled whenever she tied our shoes. I do have some memories still. I remember her smell—the honeysuckle—and her long, wavy hair and dark red fingernails.

  But sometimes, secretly, I think I only remember those things because I’ve memorized all our photographs. Maybe I don’t actually remember the real her at all.

  Jackson galloped over to me with a giant grin. “Hey, Blue. Check this out.” He held out a writhing snake, no longer than the ruler I used at school.

  “Ew, Jackson! Get that thing away from me!” I jumped up from my comfy spot and hid behind the tree. Jackson laughed and glanced back at his friends.

  “It’s just a baby garter snake. See?” He thrust it toward me again and I jumped farther back.

  “You are evil, Jackson David Warren! Stay away from me! I mean it!”

  Jackson shrugged and made his way back toward his friends, but not before adding, “Geez, Blue. You’re such a girl.”

  “And proud of it!” I called out to his back, but he just ignored me.

  He was such a Jackson.

  For the rest of the afternoon I stayed under the tree, which just happened to be as far away from Jackson as I could get. I was relieved when a whistle blew and kids started to pack up and leave. I made my way over to Arnie and helped him with his fishing pole. He had a brown paper bag clutched against his chest.

  “What is that?” I asked him.

  “Nothing,” he giggled, his chubby cheeks glowing red. “Just some snacks.”

  I knew he was up to something, but then Jackson appeared. I was still on guard. “Jackson, you better not have that snake, or else.” I narrowed my eyes at him as we began the walk home.

  “Relax. I let him go over an hour ago. Quit being such a baby.”

  “Yeah,” Arnie chimed in. “Quit being a baby.”

  “I’m not a baby! I just don’t like snakes.”

  “Baby,” Jackson said one last time before leaving to walk ahead of us.

  “Baby,” Arnie repeated.

  “You shut it,” I told Arnie, yanking him forward to keep up. He yelped as I pulled him faster down the trail.

  That night, I climbed the stairs and walked toward my bedroom at the end of the hall. I’d had enough of my brothers for the day. I tiptoed past their rooms until I reached the door with the rainbow-sparkle unicorn sticker and pushed it open.

  Once inside, I was safe from anymore brotherly interactions. I sat down at my desk and brushed my hair one hundred times, so it was soft and shiny. I did this every night, just like my mom used to do. My dad said she had the softest hair in the world, softer than the softest feathers. I wanted my hair to be just like hers.

  There was a light knock on my door and then it opened. My dad tripped over a pile of clothes as he came over to give me a kiss on the forehead. Our dog, Kota, trailed behind.

  “Lights out, kiddo. Time to go to sleep.”

  “Okay. Good night, Dad.”

  I put the brush down on my desk and gave Kota a pat on the head before climbing into my favorite part of my room: my bed. It wasn’t just because I had a thick butterfly comforter with piles of pillows thrown everywhere; it was also because the mattress was made of memory foam and was squishy and fluffy and everything wonderful in this world. I pushed my head into the pillowy goodness and stretched my legs as far as they—

  “Ahhhhh!” I screamed at the top of my lungs and flew out of bed. I was shaking by the time my dad ran into the room and clicked on the light.

  “Blue? What is it? Are you okay?”

  “There’s something in my bed! I felt it! I think it’s alive!” I’m fairly sure I looked like a lunatic.

  “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry,” he said as the noise of doors banging open erupted all down the hallway. A moment la
ter, all three of my brothers had filled my room.

  “What’s going on?” Seth asked, standing in his usual teenage attire: no shirt, boxer shorts, and gym socks. Totally gross.

  My dad pulled back the top half of my covers, but there was nothing there. Then he checked the bottom part. “What in the world . . . ?”

  “It’s a fishie!” Arnie claimed proudly. “Arnie told you Arnie was gonna catch you a fishie.”

  “Dad!” I screamed, but my other brothers burst into laughter, drowning me out.

  “I’m sorry, Blue,” my dad said, trying not to smile. “That was very naughty, Arnie. Tell your sister you’re sorry.”

  “But she said get a fishie,” Arnie argued. “Remember, Blue? You said get you a fishie.”

  “Get out!” I screamed. “All of you, get out!” My dad carried the dead fish across the room as I ripped the disgusting blankets off of my bed.

  “I’ll get you some fresh sheets,” he said, pausing at the door. I turned away. “Arnie wasn’t trying to be mean, you know.”

  I didn’t answer. I could never make him understand what it’s like to be the only girl in a house full of boys and boxer shorts and snakes and fishies.

  In my bed.

  That night I woke up in a cold sweat, damp hair sticking to my forehead in ringlets. I kicked the covers off as I tried to catch my breath. I focused on a black dot on my ceiling, afraid to close my eyes again in case the nightmare came back.

  In the dream I was little, no more than five or six years old. I’d fallen and scraped my knee in the exact same place where the moon-shaped scar I have in real life is. Was it really a dream, or could it have been a memory?

  I was crying on the sidewalk, blood dripping down my leg. I heard the front door open and then someone was kneeling by my side. The scent of honeysuckle filled the air, and I knew it was my mom. I suddenly felt safe. I tried to look up at her, but the sun was shining in my eyes. I lifted my hand to shield the glare, and that’s when I saw it. Her face was nothing but a blur of shadows and shapes.

  I couldn’t remember what my mother looked like.

  2

  When I woke up the next morning, my haunting dream washed back over me in one giant wave. I shot out of bed and went to my desk, quickly grabbing a sheet of paper. I printed Linda Warren at the top in fancy cursive. Then I wrote down everything I knew about my mom. I scribbled frantically, as bits and pieces of what I remembered trickled back to me.