I, Emma Freke (13 page)

I didn't understand what had just happened. Could it be a different family reunion waiting for a different Emma? Or perhaps they weren't laughing at my name at all—what if they were laughing at me?

Out of nowhere, a kid dropped out of a tree a few feet in front of me. He was an older boy, darker than all the other children, but not much taller than them. His black hair was wavy, and he had these big ears, shaped like teacups. He hopped forward and stood directly in front of my face looking up. He was several inches shorter than me, but I could tell from the brown fuzz on his chin that he was probably older. My cheeks were burning with embarrassment.

“Where are you from exactly?” he wanted to know. His expressions were stretchy when he spoke, bigger than normal. And those ears, probably the largest I had ever seen, moved when he spoke.

“About an hour north of Boston,” I replied.

I refused to look straight at him. He was definitely standing way too close.

“So is that how they talk there?”

Now his face was screwed up like I was speaking a strange language. Were they laughing at the way I talked?

“I don't know what you mean.”

The boy crossed his arms and studied me for a few seconds. Then he began circling as if interrogating me on a witness stand.

“Are you here for the family reunion?”

I glanced around and accidentally met his eyes, which were a very deep green.

“Well I thought so, but now I'm not so sure.”

“Why else would you be here?” he shot back.

“I don't know—”

“You don't know?” he repeated and threw his head back like he was onstage or in a movie or something.

I wanted to turn around and tear after Wanda, even if I never caught up to her. But I knew that was crazy, so instead I focused on my sneakers.

“I got an invitation in the mail.”

“Ah! A descendant of Boris Horace, our founding family father?”

“Uh-huh!”

All at once, his shoulders dropped.

“Sign-in table is through that door,” he sighed as if he had never been so bored in his life. Then he spun and ran off into the woods leaping over bushes and dodging trees.

What a peculiar kid
, I thought to myself.

I turned around and squinted up at the sign on the porch door of the cabin:

 

The 59th Annual
Freke Family Reunion
HEADQUARTERS

It appeared to be the right place?

I climbed the stairs very carefully, as if one of the steps might break without warning and I would fall into a pit of unwanted cousins. I had felt this was my last chance to feel like I belonged, but I was off to a pretty terrible start. I dug into my pocket and found the gold bead.

Just a few days, just a few days . . .

Inside, a tall, hefty woman with a square, wrinkly face and thick glasses was moving importantly around the room unpacking boxes and making neat piles. She wore those old-fashioned plaid Bermuda shorts, the waist squeezing just below her bulging rib cage, accented by a giant fanny pack. Her short hair was dyed a funny pinkish red color and had a white stripe down the middle part. A large wooden whistle hung around her neck. She wore a name tag that read, Hello! My name is PAT.

I liked the efficient, orderly way Pat worked, which reminded me of sorting beads at the store.

She turned and smiled extra wide.

“May I help you, young gal?”

“Um. I'm Emma Freke? And I'm here for the Freke Family Reunion?”

The same wave of shock washed over her expression. Did I really sound that strange? Maybe Nonno's Italian accent had affected the way I spoke.

She leaned forward and beckoned me with her finger to come closer. I leaned against the sign-in table as she whispered into my ear.

“
Frecky. Rhymes with Becky
.”

I pulled back and glanced around the room. Was this some secret family code? Did Donatella forget to give me the password?

“
Frecky
?” I repeated.

She grinned hard and said out loud, “Now you're talking!” Then she smoothed the front of her sleeveless yellow blouse and whispered again, “We don't say the other.”

“The other what?” I asked.

She put a finger to her lips, telling me to shush.

I peered behind me. No one was around. I scrunched up my eyebrows in total confusion, but Pat turned back and continued to unpack boxes. I wasn't sure what to do next. I skimmed all the various sign-up sheets from a badminton round-robin to storytelling by the bonfire. It all seemed so . . .
sociable
.

Then Pat twisted forward again and cried out, “Well, hello there! Are you here for the Annual
Frecky
Family Reunion?”

So that was it! They didn't pronounce our weird last name,
Freak
. Instead, they said
Frecky
. That's why all the kids had laughed. Did that mean my whole name was actually Am a
Frecky
? I was shocked. Could it be true that Donatella had us saying it wrong all along?
On purpose?

“Here is your itinerary for the weekend and your name tag,” she continued. “My name is Pat
Frecky
,” pointing to her name on her blouse, “and I'm happy to answer any questions you might have, Emma
Frecky
.”

I couldn't speak. I peeled off the label and proudly stuck my new name on my shirt.

Pat tilted her head in a friendly way.

“So you must be our little Emma from back east. Imagine that! We've all been looking forward to meeting you, Emma. Are you tired from your long trip?”

Little
Emma? No one had referred to me as “little.” Ever.

I nodded my head yes. I was very tired.

“Well then, let's say we get your tent set up so you can rest and then start in on some of our famous
Frecky
fun!”

That's when I found my voice again.

“Oh, um. I forgot my tent. In the car. At the airport. Sorry about that.”

“Hmm,” said Pat as she drummed her fingers on the tabletop, “now that's a problem. You're going to need a tent. But don't you fret!”

Next thing I knew, she marched outside onto the porch and blew the large whistle hanging from her neck. But it wasn't an ordinary whistle, more like the sound of a screeching bird. Maybe a crow? It seemed like another secret code.

I was beginning to wonder if I could have given a worse first impression. Not only did I leave behind my tent to go camping for a weekend, a pretty essential necessity, but I mispronounced my own last name.

At the same time, I was allowing myself to feel a little excited about this weekend. I sort of liked Pat and had a hunch I might even fit in here. And best of all, I was no longer a
Freak
. . . . I was a
Frecky
!

The door flew open, and the same odd boy with the ears reappeared

“You cawed, Aunt Pat?”

“Well, that's a shocker!” she replied, clearly disappointed to see him. “Never seen
you
help out before, Fred.”

“I guess there's always a first for everything!” he chirped.

Fred
Frecky
? I thought to myself. That was almost as bad as
Am a Freak
.

“Well, better than no one I guess. This is your cousin, Emma. She's from back east, and she's tuckered out!”

“Greetings, Emma from the East!” he exclaimed, as if we hadn't met minutes earlier.

“Now listen, Fred,” she began, “the first thing is, find Emma an extra tent. And then, secondly, help her set it up at campsite D11. Got it?”

For no reason at all, I felt myself blushing again. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It sounded like I would be spending hours with this boy, Fred. I couldn't even make myself look at him let alone set up a tent together.

“I'll be fine on my own, Miss—” I didn't know what to call her.

“Good gracious—just call me Aunt Pat like the name tag says. We're all family here!”

Fred asked, “May I take those for you, cousin Emma?” as he lifted my backpack and sleeping bag from the floor.

He was much more polite and calm than he had been just moments ago outside. Even so I grabbed my things right out of his hands. For some reason, I felt like they were all I had in the world, as if they were treasured stuffed animals. I wanted to carry everything myself.

“Fred,” said Pat, “why don't you take Emma's itinerary and review the weekend's events as you accompany her down to the lake.”

“Be happy to, Captain!” said Fred.

Aunt Pat frowned and waved a finger at him.

“No shenanigans, pal, got it?”

He clicked his heels together and said, “Aye-Aye,” as he saluted and marched through the door. Aunt Pat frowned even harder. I quickly covered my mouth so I wouldn't giggle.

“Thank you,” I said as I made my way toward the exit.

“Well,” she mumbled, “we're just glad you finally decided to come and join the family, Emma. This is where you belong.”

Wow. I couldn't believe how great it felt to hear those words.

“Above all, have some good old
Frecky
fun!” she said again as I rushed down the porch stairs to follow Fred. He was still within sight down a dirt path through the woods, whistling a cheerful tune. I hurried to catch up with him.

“How old are you, Emma from the East?” he asked.

“Twelve.”

“I, as well!”

I was surprised. He looked more mature (and definitely more confident) than the boys back in middle school.

He twisted around and walked backward for a few seconds.

“Do you and your folks camp much back east?”

I smiled to myself imagining what it would be like to camp outdoors with Donatella.

“Actually, this is my first time.”

“Ah-hah!” Fred yelled out as he twisted forward and jumped over a large fern.

We continued in silence. A couple of times, he picked up a rock and threw it hard at nothing. I wondered why he wasn't reviewing the weekend schedule with me as Aunt Pat had suggested. Instead, he had folded up the papers and stuffed them in his pocket.

Finally, I got up the nerve to ask a question of my own.

“Do you come to the reunion every year?”

Again, he didn't answer, so I assumed he couldn't hear me. I knew I had a soft voice.

“Um. So do you come to the—”

Suddenly, Fred whipped around and halted in the middle of the trail.

“Rule number one! If you can't say something nice, then say nothing at all.”

I stared past him startled by his response. What had I said that didn't sound nice? Was he joking again?

He turned back, and we hiked another awkward few minutes without saying a word. My sleeping bag kept catching in low berry bushes so I had a hard time keeping up with him. I probably should have let him carry something. I guess I was just used to doing everything myself.

Finally, we stopped at the top of a hill. Down below in a small valley was a cove at the end of a lake. The shoreline was surrounded by a halo of soft grass. Near the far edges of the cove, dozens of tents were set up evenly spaced. Pockets of adults were talking as kids of all ages ran around. At the center of all the activity, a campfire pit was simmering where a few older grandparents were gathered.

Voices rose from all the different corners, and I felt a coolness in the air flavored by campfire smoke and pine needles. The entire scene had such a dreamy unreal quality.

“Rule number two!” said Fred as he dropped to the crunchy ground and motioned me to join him. “If you want to get along with everybody, always say yes, and always agree, even if you don't.”

I wasn't sure if he was teasing some more, so I just nodded my head.

“Good! Rule number three: If you aren't sure of the way things are done, inquire first.”

“Like what?”

“Like where to sit or how to roast a marshmallow.”

“But why would I ask that?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you!” said Fred, who was growing impatient or pretending to. “Don't you know there's a right way to do
everything
?”

“There is?”

From his tone of voice, I wasn't convinced Fred actually meant what he was saying. He was still speaking loudly as if performing in front of an audience. But it didn't matter, because something much more amazing was happening as we sat up on that hill. I was hanging out with another kid my age, and we were talking.

“Rule number four: Respond to adults in polite full sentences.”

I was pretty much used to speaking to customers that way, so that one wouldn't be too hard for me to remember.

“And rule number five: Never question their authority.”

“Who made up these rules?”

“No one literally made them up and wrote them down,” he replied as he plucked a stalk of grass and chewed on it. “It's just the way things are.”

I was guessing this probably had more to do with Fred and his parents than the whole
Frecky
family. It was hard to imagine that the sweet scene taking place below could be so strict. They all seemed to be having a wonderful time together. In fact, I was feeling strangely drawn toward it when a woman appeared at the bottom of the hill and peered up at us. She waved her arms in a large, smooth arc.

“That's Aunt Molly,” said Fred as he stood and brushed off his pants. “She may appear all warm and fuzzy, like old Aunt Pat back there, but never let her or Aunt Pat or any of them think that
you
may think otherwise.”

“Huh?”

“Oh and by the way, one last rule.”

“Another rule? I hope I can keep them all straight.”

“This one is easy,” he said. “Rule number six: Don't
ever
tell anyone I told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That the rules exist.”

“You mean they don't?”