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    Everywhere Blue
    Everywhere Blue
    Everywhere Blue
    Ebook246 pages1 hour

    Everywhere Blue

    By Joanne Rossmassler Fritz

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    A brother's disappearance turns one family upside down, revealing painful secrets that threaten the life they've always known.

    When twelve-year-old Maddie's older brother vanishes from his college campus, her carefully ordered world falls apart. Nothing will fill the void of her beloved oldest sibling. Meanwhile Maddie's older sister reacts by staying out late, and her parents are always distracted by the search for Strum. Drowning in grief and confusion, the family's musical household falls silent.

    Though Maddie is the youngest, she knows Strum better than anyone. He used to confide in her, sharing his fears about the climate crisis and their planet's future. So, Maddie starts looking for clues: Was Strum unhappy? Were the arguments with their dad getting worse? Or could his disappearance have something to do with those endangered butterflies he loved . . .

    Scared and on her own, Maddie picks up the pieces of her family's fractured lives. Maybe her parents aren't who she thought they were. Maybe her nervous thoughts and compulsive counting mean she needs help. And maybe finding Strum won't solve everything--but she knows he's out there, and she has to try.

    This powerful debut novel in verse addresses the climate crisis, intergenerational discourse, and mental illness in an accessible, hopeful way. With a gorgeous narrative voice, Everywhere Blue is perfect for fans of Eventown and OCDaniel.
     
    An NCTE Notable Verse Novel
    A Mighty Girl Best Book of the Year
    A Bank Street Best Children's Book of the Year
    Cybils Award Poetry Winner!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHoliday House
    Release dateJun 1, 2021
    ISBN9780823450602

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      Book preview

      Everywhere Blue - Joanne Rossmassler Fritz

      Book Title Page

      DIMINUENDO

      November

      November pulls me down.

      Like a diminuendo in music,

      gradually dying away.

      Darkness falls too early

      and the chill creeps in.

      Before dusk,

      before we learn the truth

      about my brother,

      this day plays out

      like any ordinary day,

      a symphony of sameness.

      Just the way I like it.

      At 2:46 in the afternoon

      I duck out the main doors

      of Margaret Murie Middle School,

      frowning as I avoid

      the straggly line of kids

      waiting for buses.

      Glad I’m not in that line today.

      Emma waves. Bye, Maddie!

      I wave back with a grin.

      Fridays mean oboe lessons.

      Gripping my instrument case

      and hunching my shoulders

      against the cold,

      I walk four blocks west

      to my music teacher’s house.

      I love walking.

      If I lived in the city,

      instead of boring old Bennett Corners,

      I’d walk everywhere. Especially

      the Kimmel Center, for concerts.

      But I’m only twelve.

      It’ll be years before I can move

      to Philadelphia.

      As I walk up Mr. Rimondi’s driveway,

      I count my steps.

      Eleven. An odd number

      is not a good number.

      Something will go wrong.

      I could add an extra step,

      a tiny one,

      but that would be cheating.

      Dread fills my chest like cold sludge.

      This will not be a good lesson.

      Crushed leaves

      rotting against the stoop

      smell like the turkey feather

      I use to clean the saliva

      from my oboe,

      especially when too much spit

      clots the feathery tips together

      into a sodden lump.

      The leaves smell of mold and sadness

      and leftover rain.

      They smell of

      November.

      My Real Name

      You’re late, Mr. Rimondi says.

      But he smiles his crooked smile

      so I know he’s only kidding.

      I glance at the big clock on the wall

      above the music stand,

      with the red second hand

      sweeping past the two,

      and smile back.

      If I can make him laugh,

      maybe

      it will still be a good lesson.

      "Twelve seconds. Not that late."

      He throws his head back and laughs,

      a bright, brassy sound like trumpets.

      "Madrigal, you could be a metronome.

      You’re so precise." He wipes his eyes

      with a handkerchief, chuckles some more.

      Mr. Rimondi is the only one who uses

      my real name.

      Everyone else calls me Maddie,

      except Aria calls me Mad

      and Strum calls me M.

      They both hate the musical names

      our parents gave us.

      But I like them.

      They define us as a family,

      even if sometimes

      there is dissonance.

      My Oboe

      While my reed soaks

      in a small cup of warm water,

      I assemble my oboe,

      gently screwing in each piece

      in the right order.

      Order is good.

      Order is calming.

      Just like even numbers.

      Order helps me to

      stop thinking bad thoughts.

      About me throwing up.

      People bleeding.

      Or someone dying.

      The last thing to be inserted is my reed.

      It tastes earthy,

      the way fallen leaves smell

      before they get wet.

      Oboe reeds are fragile.

      Twin pieces of cane carved out

      and pressed together.

      My best friend, Emma, plays the clarinet,

      which uses a wider single reed,

      sturdier and less breakable.

      Clarinets also sound different—

      deeper and mellower.

      Oboes sound a lot like ducks.

      That was why Prokofiev

      chose the oboe to represent a duck

      in Peter and the Wolf.

      Peter and the Wolf

      There is an oboe solo

      in Peter and the Wolf

      that’s so beautiful

      it makes my throat burn.

      That solo reminds me of the time

      Daddy took us

      to see Peter and the Wolf,

      performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra,

      when I was seven.

      We sat in the second tier,

      the three of us bookended

      by Maman and Daddy.

      We were all riveted.

      Well, Strum and I, anyway.

      Aria was eleven.

      She yawned a big fake yawn,

      pretending to be bored.

      Probably hoping Strum would

      agree with her.

      When the oboist played the duck’s theme,

      I tugged Strum’s arm. Listen, I whispered.

      Isn’t it beautiful?

      Strum was fourteen then.

      He didn’t talk to me much.

      But that evening,

      Strum leaned over,

      blue eyes wide open.

      "You’re right.

      It makes my body

      hum. And it feels like…

      like coming home."

      I’m only the second oboe

      but I want to play that solo

      in the school orchestra’s

      winter concert,

      which is three months away.

      I’ll need to work hard

      to prove I’m good enough.

      Perfect

      Today’s lesson is Morning Mood

      from Peer Gynt Suites

      by Edvard Grieg.

      I love this song. It’s bright and uplifting.

      I begin to play,

      my chest filling up with the notes,

      swelling from the magic.

      I concentrate on my embouchure,

      the proper shaping of my mouth

      to achieve the perfect vibration.

      The perfect sound.

      Everything must be

      perfect.

      Not Good Enough

      Afternoon sunlight filters

      through the dusty window and

      falls across my sheet music.

      The notes wobble

      as I get distracted.

      Sunlight makes me want

      to be outside.

      Exploring the woods or

      swinging on our old swing set

      in the sunny rectangle

      of our backyard,

      while Gizmo finds interesting things

      to sniff under the shrubbery.

      Gizmo is really Strum’s dog,

      even if he sleeps in my room now.

      By the time my mother arrives

      to pick me up

      it will be dusk. Almost dinnertime.

      Too late.

      I’m allowed to walk from school

      to Mr. Rimondi’s house.

      But I’m not allowed to walk home.

      It’s too far, Maman always says.

      "Et trop sombre." Too dark.

      The squeal when I miss the G-sharp

      makes me wince and hunch my shoulders.

      How could I do that?

      My fingers slow down as I keep playing.

      The tempo lags.

      Again, Mr. Rimondi says.

      "You’re hesitating too much

      in this piece.

      It should be a lilting, pastoral tune.

      You’re making it a dirge."

      I’ll never be good enough.

      My hands start trembling

      so I count the measures.

      Onetwothreefourfivesix.

      Even number. Good.

      It puts me in my safe space.

      Deep breath.

      I’m calm again.

      Mr. Rimondi taps his pencil

      on the sheet music. Taptaptap.

      Focus, Madrigal. Try it again.

      I blow too hard. Kraark!

      No, no, he says, still calm,

      still patient.

      He points to his stomach.

      "Breathe in from here.

      Then breathe out slowly."

      I know this.

      And I know the notes

      but I can’t find the feel

      of the music,

      can’t figure out how to create emotions

      that simmer and fizz and boil inside

      until they need to burst out

      as melodies,

      as beauty,

      as magic.

      When I hear recorded music,

      I recognize the feel,

      especially when my father

      plays a vinyl record.

      But I can’t produce it myself.

      And that’s frustrating.

      Could I really be a metronome?

      Something mechanical

      and not human?

      The Importance of Punctuality

      Finally, it’s four-thirty and I can escape.

      I jam the turkey feather

      into my oboe to clean it.

      Not a good lesson.

      My stomach wobbles.

      I take apart my oboe

      and fit each section into its

      proper place in the crushed velvet

      of my instrument case.

      This should calm me but

      it doesn’t.

      I say goodbye and thank you

      to Mr. Rimondi.

      He smiles. See you next week.

      I walk outside

      and peer through the darkening gloom.

      Stand in the empty driveway,

      dazed, wondering why

      my mother’s car isn’t here.

      Tap my foot over and over.

      It’s unusual for Maman

      to be late.

      She’s a teacher.

      A voice coach.

      She knows

      the importance of punctuality.

      Something Is Wrong

      Something is wrong.

      Seven cars whizz past on Maple Lane

      and I can’t stand still. I’m jumpy

      and tingling.

      Finally, the gray Toyota

      swings into the driveway.

      Headlights sweep

      over me and illuminate

      Mr. Rimondi’s garage door.

      Flaking paint mars the lowest board.

      I glance into the car, shocked

      to see not my mother

      but Aria.

      I yank open the door.

      "Where’s Maman? Why are you here?

      I thought you couldn’t drive

      after dark yet.

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