Half a Chance

  Beside each contest word was a space for a short comment. I wrote my descriptions as if Nate were writing them.

  I looked at my two best “Lost” photos. The one of Grandma Lilah was honest. And the photo of Nate pretending to be lost in the woods — it just looked fake. I picked up my cell phone. Please be there, Dad.

  “Hello?”

  Relief washed through me. “Dad, I have a photography question.”

  “I’m in the middle of a shoot, but I’m glad you called. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings about the loon chick this morning.”

  “Thank you.” It felt so nice to hear the concern in his voice. “I need help deciding something.”

  “What is it?” Dad asked.

  “Let’s say you took a great photo, but it was of a person, and someone in her family didn’t like the way she looked in the photo.”

  “Well, people almost never like the way they look in photos. What the camera shows isn’t always how they see themselves. They look heavier than they want or —”

  “But what if it’s for an article you’re doing? And something good might come out of it? Would you use it?”

  I heard him exhale, considering. “Did the person in the photo tell you it was okay to take their photo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’d have to weigh the effect the photo could have on that one person against the bigger story. Maybe the photo is art? Or news? Or it’s a photo that will change people’s minds about something important. Important things are always complicated, and that’s what makes them hard. But it’s also what makes them matter.”

  “What if there’s more than one thing that’s important?”

  “I don’t know, Lucy. At some point, you just have to choose. And then be brave enough to stand up to the people who think you made the wrong choice.”

  I swallowed to keep my voice from breaking. “I miss you.”

  “Me, too. Only a little while longer, okay? We’ll talk about everything you want to then.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She doesn’t remember, I wrote in the contest entry box.

  A walk to the post office was a set number of steps — past the church, past the grocery store, past the gift shop, up the stairs, and into the building. I knew I could change my mind anytime until those last few seconds when I handed my envelope to the postmaster and paid the postage.

  As I got to town, I felt my feet slowing down. Am I holding back because this is a bad idea or just because I’m scared?

  I had always planned that Nate and I would mail our entry together, but he was off with Megan and I didn’t want to talk about the pictures with him. If he asked which photo I had used for “Lost,” I’d have to admit I’d used the one he didn’t want me to.

  Looking around Main Street, I realized this town already felt a tiny bit mine. Passing the grocery store, I wondered if I’d ever go in Barton’s and not look for the EXIT sign and remember how Grandma Lilah couldn’t find it. At the gift shop, I could see Emily’s loon poster in the window: TAKE CARE OF THE LOONS BEFORE THEY’RE GONE FOREVER!

  It’s hard to think of anything being gone forever. Most things that go come back again, even if they’re a little different when they return. But not always, and when something has gone forever, it can hurt so much you start wondering if it would’ve been easier if you’d never had it all.

  Did I really wish that second chick had never hatched? Just because we didn’t have him very long? Looking at the poster, I thought, Maybe we can’t solve every big problem, but we can try to solve the ones we can.

  Good things matter, even when they don’t last forever. I couldn’t bring back the loon chick or that day Nate and Grandma Lilah had climbed Cherry Mountain or any of the big things Grandma Lilah had lost, but maybe I could bring back a little thing.

  Even if it wasn’t exactly the way it used to be.

  Even if it was just for an afternoon.

  I might not win the contest money and take Grandma Lilah on Loon Patrol, but I walked faster — past the gift shop, up the post office steps, and through the door.

  Even half a chance beats none.

  For two weeks, I checked the mail every day, expecting a huge package of portfolios to arrive from the magazine sponsoring the contest. But not a single package came for Dad.

  It felt like a big, heavy lump inside me not to tell Nate that I’d used the photo of Grandma Lilah for “Lost.” On my walk home from the post office after mailing our entry, I had texted him, Our contest entry is in the mail. I hope we win.

  My phone had chimed before I got home. I’m sorry I didn’t help. I just had 2 get away from home 4 a while. It’s hard 2 keep pretending nothing happened.

  Okay, I thought. I can see that. I had thought his deciding to go with Megan was about me, but he just needed a break. Have fun, I typed, and meant it.

  As August moved on, the summer was slipping through my fingers. The sun set a little earlier each day, marking one day closer to Dad coming home but also one day less that Nate would be here. One day closer to everything changing.

  Mom kept suggesting we go school shopping, but I didn’t know what kind of clothes the kids wore here. She said the best things might be gone if we waited until school started, so finally I gave in and went to a mall with her. It was fun to have lunch and ice cream with Mom, and while I was there, I bought a scrapbook for photos. If we didn’t win the contest, at least I could give Grandma Lilah copies of the loon photos that I had taken.

  But it was hard to be with all those excited kids at the mall, heading back to friends and sports and clubs. I picked out a few new things to make Mom happy, but when I couldn’t find any shoes I liked, I asked her if we could order them online instead.

  “We have to register you for school,” Mom said over breakfast one morning after I came back from checking the mail. Where were those portfolios? They should be here by now.

  “I was thinking after breakfast I could call and see if the school office is open. Maybe the secretary can tell us where your classrooms will be and who your teachers are. She might even be able to show us your homeroom. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  The idea of walking down empty hallways with some stranger telling Mom how great it all was and how much I’d like it there made me sick inside.

  “I wanted to go on Loon Patrol,” I said softly. “I don’t have many chances left to go this year.”

  She looked a little disappointed, but she went without me and let me stay home.

  At ten o’clock when I was leaving for Loon Patrol, Ansel looked so sad to be left behind that I gave in to those heartbreaking eyes. “I don’t think you’ll like it,” I said, clipping on his leash. “It involves water. But if you hate it, I’ll take you back to shore and stay with you.”

  On the dock, Nate and Emily were both surprised to see Ansel with me. “Do you know if he can swim?” Nate asked.

  “Mrs. Rigby’s dog has her own life vest,” Emily said. “It has a handle on the back, so if her dog falls overboard, she can hoist her back in. Ansel looks about the same size as Zoe. I’ll go see if I can borrow it.”

  “Zoe’s vest is pink,” Nate said, wrinkling his nose.

  “Ansel’s a dog!” Emily said. “He doesn’t care if it’s pink!”

  But he cared about water. As she left, Ansel and I both looked doubtfully at the kayak. “Just remember, you were the one begging to come,” I told him.

  The pink doggy life preserver was a little too big, but it fit well enough to try it. “Would you hold Ansel while I get in the kayak, and then pass him to me?” I asked Emily as I adjusted the straps.

  Emily picked up Ansel and held him on her hip, like he was a toddler. “You’ll like it, Ansel. You’ll see.”

  But when she waded into the water, Ansel waved his legs frantically. I got into the kayak as fast as I could and laid the paddle across the front.

  “It’ll be fun, Ansel!” Emily said, putting him in my arms.

  I held on tight as A
nsel’s claws dug into my arm and his head rammed backward into my neck. Emily gave my kayak a big push and my paddle fell off the front of the kayak into the water. “Don’t be scared,” I whispered into Ansel’s neck. “It was scary for me at first, too. But I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I promise.”

  Nate moved his kayak up beside me and held out my paddle. “Can I help?”

  Ansel was still shaking, but he wasn’t trying to get down — probably because the only place to get down was into the lake. I kept one arm around him and reached for my paddle with my other. “You guys go on ahead. This might take awhile.”

  Ansel leaned back as tight against me as he could. But as we floated, I found I could let go of him enough to allow me to take a few strokes. I moved the kayak slowly through the water. “See? This isn’t so bad.”

  By the time we passed Mrs. Rigby’s house and Ansel saw her dog outside, he was comfortable enough to give some excited woofs — though he was still quivering. On the lake, his barks echoed. “They’ll hear you all the way in Massachusetts!” I teased him.

  “That would make a fun photo of the two of you,” Nate said. “Do you have your camera?”

  “No, I left it home. I figured I’d have my hands full with Ansel.”

  Nate nodded. “The contest was fun, but it’s nice having it done. We get to do things and see things without thinking about whether it’s a good picture.”

  I smiled, but I couldn’t help framing with my eyes all the shots I was missing. As we paddled around, Ansel fell asleep in my lap. I moved slowly and rhythmically, dip and pull.

  “We’ve worn him out,” Emily said.

  “He’s too tired to be scared now,” I said. “I didn’t think about it, but I’m not sure how I’ll get out of the kayak with him.”

  “I’ll go in first,” Nate said. “Then I’ll hop out and take him from you.”

  Going through the lily pads, I disturbed some insects hanging out there, and one shimmery-winged bug jumped onto the nose of my kayak. The need to save each moment was so strong in me that if I had my camera, I know I would’ve shot the scene. But instead, I let him walk onto my finger and deposited him on another lily pad.

  Looking ahead to the dock, I saw Grandma Lilah standing there with her clipboard, waiting for us. My gaze wandered past her. Mom’s car was back in our driveway. She was home from registering me at school. But when I glanced at our house, I startled so sharply that I woke Ansel.

  Dad was on the porch.

  “Hey!” Dad held out his arms to me as I raced up our front-porch steps. “Where were you? I missed you being here to greet me.”

  I hugged him as hard as I could. “I wouldn’t have gone on Loon Patrol if I’d known you were coming home today. You weren’t supposed to come home until Wednesday!”

  “I thought I’d surprise you. I met some nice people on the plane and they gave me a ride from the airport to their house in Conway. Then when I called Mom to come get me, she was at your new school.”

  I couldn’t believe he was here!

  Ansel was jumping against Dad’s leg, trying to lick his hand. “I saw you in the kayak, Ansel!” Dad reached down to stroke his ears. “Lucy has turned you into a real New Hampshire dog while I was away.”

  “He didn’t like it at first, but then he went to sleep,” I said. “So either he got comfortable with it, or he just got tired of worrying about it!”

  “You looked great, Lucy. I loved seeing you both out there on the lake.”

  I grinned. “Do you want to see the loons? They were down by the point a few minutes ago. They might still be there. The baby is getting so big! He was black when he was tiny, but now he’s more brown.”

  “Let’s do it later,” Dad said. “I haven’t even unpacked yet. I have a million details to sew up from this trip — including that I lost a piece of luggage. Well, I didn’t lose it, the airline did! And I have to call my editor. Somehow I have to tell Marjorie that my photos aren’t exactly what we talked about.”

  “Okay.” I tried not to let my disappointment show. The loons would be there later. “So, um, remember how you asked me to keep an eye out for a big package of kids’ portfolios? They haven’t come yet.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you that you didn’t have to watch for them anymore.”

  “What?” I stopped breathing. “Why?”

  “When I told Marjorie I didn’t think I’d have time, she picked ten finalists and made me an online gallery of their portfolios so I wouldn’t have to weed through hundreds — only ten. She sent me the link a few days ago.”

  I let my breath go in a rush. “Marjorie picked the finalists? But that wasn’t part of the rules. You were supposed to see all the entries and choose.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure Marjorie knows what’s okay. Thanks for reminding me, though. I have to pick the winner before I talk to her, because it’s the first thing she’ll ask me.”

  “Maybe you should choose the winner now?” I said. “Just think of those poor kids waiting and worrying and wondering and waiting.”

  “He’s only just got home,” Mom said through the screen door. “Give the poor man a minute.”

  Dad sighed. “You know, it would be nice to have that contest behind me. And maybe telling her I’ve picked the winner will soften the blow that I didn’t exactly stick to my assignment. Okay. Do you want to help me choose, Lucy?”

  “You choose first,” I said. “Because you’re the real judge.” For once, I was glad he was so into his work. I wouldn’t have to wait to find out.

  Usually it seems so quick to walk into a house and boot up a laptop, but today it felt like forever.

  When I imagined this moment, I thought I’d feel happy and excited, ready to say, “Look! I told you I was good at this.”

  I hadn’t imagined that I’d feel so scared. I sucked in my bottom lip, to keep from saying anything and giving away how important this was to me.

  “Okay, here’s the list.” Dad turned his laptop around, and I looked at the ten names. I didn’t have to look far, because “Bailey” was right at the top.

  I couldn’t bear to sit next to Dad. It was too hard pretending I was only curious, not dying to know. He started scrolling through images, making “hmm” sounds.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I need some paper and a pen so I can take notes when it’s my turn.” But really, I hurried upstairs to get my camera so I could prove to him the photos from the contest were mine.

  As soon as I won.

  As Dad looked through the portfolio entries on his computer, I sat on our living room couch across from him and pretended to read a brochure on rare Arizona plants that he’d brought back from his trip. But my mind was too full of my own words.

  Skip.

  Journey.

  Lost.

  “Hmm,” Dad murmured.

  He couldn’t be looking at my portfolio. When he saw the photo of Grandma Lilah, he wouldn’t just say “hmm.” He’d start talking and talking, like he does when he sees a photo that’s so good he wishes he’d taken it.

  With every moment that didn’t happen, I felt like I was being put in my place. And it wasn’t first. “Bailey” was at the top of the list of names; surely he’d seen my photos by now.

  It hurt inside my chest. Maybe I should’ve tried harder. But even as I thought that, I knew I had done my best.

  Maybe the answer was no.

  Not good enough.

  Not you.

  “Okay,” Dad said. “I’ve chosen. One portfolio stood out. It was an easy choice.”

  My throat was so tight that I could barely ask, “Who won?”

  “Um, let’s see. I picked Lucas from Oklahoma,” Dad said. “He has a good eye. Okay, Lucy. Now you look at the portfolios and tell me which one you would’ve picked.”

  Dad brought me his laptop. On the screen was a photo of a barbed-wire fence against a storm-threatening sky. On the other side of the fence stretched a blurred flat prairie. But
in the foreground, in sharp focus, were a few bursts of barbed-wire prickles and holding the wire was an older man’s dirty, weathered hand, every wrinkle of his knuckles showing.

  The top third of the photo was empty, just gray-green sky with one lonely, miserable line of barbed wire cutting across it. It felt like there was nowhere to go — even if you looked up, there was that line of prickled wire. It made me feel even more trapped.

  “Is this one of the winner’s photos?” I asked quietly.

  Dad nodded. “This is ‘beyond reach.’ That was a hard one, because how do you show ‘reach’ in a photo? A photo is just a second of time, and Lucas shows it with this one lonely hand. It would’ve been easy for him to just shoot the fence, but the hand brings the story. It’s great that he thought of that. All of the other kids just did things that were far away.”

  I put my camera back in my pocket, thinking of my photo of the mountains. “But aren’t faraway things beyond reach?”

  “Yeah, but ‘beyond reach’ means you want to reach something. It’s more than far away; there’s an absence. Missing something you can’t have. There’s nothing missing in the other photos. They’re beautiful but they don’t make me think about wanting what I can’t have. Lucas shot ‘beyond reach,’ and all the other pictures are scenic views, and that’s all.”

  That’s all. Two little words as full of prickles as the barbed wire in the photo on Dad’s laptop screen.

  And the worst part was I knew he was right. I wanted so badly to win, but even I would choose this photo over mine.

  I didn’t want to see any more of that boy’s photos, but Dad moved to the next one. “This is ‘at the crossroads.’”

  It was a black-and-white photo of a railway station, but Lucas must’ve sat or lay on the train tracks to take the photo, because the perspective was low and the tracks loomed huge in the foreground with the industrial-looking buildings and electrical wires and telephone poles softly blurred in the background.