The Sky’s the Limit: My Journey with Maryellen

The sun is setting when we arrive at Maryellen’s grandparents’ house in the Georgia mountains. We tumble out of the car. Grandpop swings Maryellen into a hug, then Grandmom hugs her, too, everyone delighted to be together.

Maryellen introduces me. Mikey takes my hand to show off his special friend, mispronouncing my name as Soapy, and everyone laughs. Grandmom hugs me, too, small and birdlike, nothing like my own tall, angular Gran.

Mr. Larkin says it’s cold here, and Grandpop agrees it’s been cold for a while. The pond is frozen, and there’s even snow higher up the mountain, which sets the Larkins exclaiming.

I realize they probably never see snow in Florida. I shiver, not from the cold in my borrowed jeans, sweater, and jacket, but from the memory of the last time I saw snow, the day Emma betrayed me.

Grandpop winks at Maryellen and says the pond is probably frozen hard enough to skate on. Her eyes sparkle, and she tugs my arm, insisting she has to show me everything.

Inside the cabin, I feel carried even farther into the past than the Larkins’ house. There’s a rocking chair by a stone fireplace, a couch with a blanket, and a braided rug on the wood-plank floor. Beside the fireplace hangs a frame of pencil sketches.

Grandpop says Maryellen drew them. Her cards and letters are so good he framed them for everyone to admire. Maryellen blushes, pleased, and I wonder if Gran will ever be that proud of me.

A calendar hangs on the wall next to the sketches. I stare at the date. Something about November 1955 rings a bell, but I can’t place it.

We eat dinner by the fireplace, roasting hotdogs on sticks for an indoor weenie roast. Grandmom lets me roast some for Mikey and Tom. We pile them with ketchup and relish, then finish with popcorn.

As a special treat, Maryellen and I sleep in the trailer alone. After washing up, Grandpop tells us to scamper to the camper. It’s chilly and dark until Maryellen flips on the light, revealing a compact house-on-wheels with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom that even has a bathtub. We change into pajamas, snuggle into our sleeping bags, and when the light goes off, I look through the window and gasp.

I’ve never seen so many stars. At home, streetlights hide them, but here I pick out the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and Orion’s Belt. Maryellen calls me an expert on constellations, though I’ve never thought of myself as an expert at anything. Usually I just go along with whatever Emma wants. I wish I had a telescope to study them properly.

Maryellen admits she doesn’t know what she’s good at either. It’s hard to stand out stuck in the middle of a family like hers. Sometimes it feels like they’re all one eight-legged monster. I know exactly what she means, Emma and I often feel glued together, too. Sheepishly, she confesses she sometimes pretends to be famous, like Debbie Reynolds or an Ice Capades skater, but it’s hard to feel glamorous with Beverly, Tom, and Mikey always demanding her attention.

I suggest an adventure: tomorrow morning, before anyone else wakes, we could walk in the woods. Maryellen likes the idea, and we say good night to each other, and to the stars.

Maryellen shakes me awake before I know it, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She won’t say where we’re going, only that I’ll see. We dress quietly and sneak out of the camper into the woods.

Maryellen leads me up a narrow trail winding through the pine trees. The higher we climb, the deeper the snow gets, until we reach a little clearing, her pond.

The small, secret pond looks almost magical, pine trees bowed low under the weight of snow. A tumbledown shed nearby holds ice skates, old wooden skis, boots, poles, and other gear. I shudder at the skis. When Maryellen asks if I ski, I say no quickly. She shrugs. She doesn’t either, but maybe we could try it today, just slip around for fun and imagine we’re Olympic skiers. What do I think?

I hesitate, so Maryellen offers skating instead. Which do I want to do?