The Sky’s the Limit: My Journey with Maryellen

Going to the beach turns out to be more easily said than done. Tom has to be talked out of riding his miniature fire engine, Mikey talked into riding in his stroller, and Beverly insists on adding her ballerina cape. Scooter is asleep and must be woken. I find it all comical, but Maryellen is impatient, muttering as she wheels her bike out of the carport that we’d already be at the beach without the slowpokes.

When we’re finally ready, I’m the one who hesitates: don’t we need a grown-up? Maryellen says no, not unless we’re swimming. It’s strange that a bunch of kids can go to the beach alone here. But it feels great to be independent, especially with neighbors out on their lawns, gardening, and washing cars, all friendly as we pass.

An old woman we pass asks which Larkin Maryellen is, guessing Carolyn. Maryellen corrects her and rolls her eyes at a question she’s clearly answered a million times. I know the feeling. People ask me if I’m Emma nearly every day. I guess kids in big families get mistaken for each other, too, just like twins.

As we approach, the ocean glints ahead, the street running straight to it, lined with matching houses and palm trees. Maryellen asks if her neighborhood looks boring, since every house looks the same. She painted their front door red just to stand out. I tell her I like it, at least there’s no chance of skiing here.

Cedar Top’s roads are steep and twisting, so walking these broad, level streets feels calming. The air smells like oranges, the sky is endless blue, and the cars come in candy colors: aqua, pink, lemon yellow. I tell Maryellen it looks like paradise.

But paradise or not, Tom is done walking. He plops down on the curb and Scooter joins him. When Maryellen can’t budge him, she puts Scooter in her bike basket while I suggest we’re in a parade, lift Tom onto my shoulders, and name Beverly the leader. She corrects me. She’s the ballerina queen drum majorette, and leads us with balletic leaps, cape fluttering. Maryellen follows with her bike, and I bring up the rear with Mikey’s stroller and Tom on my shoulders. Maryellen calls me a genius with little kids.

I grin and blush. No one’s ever called me a genius with kids before. Then again, I’ve barely been around little kids, except for Daria, whose mother helps Gran organize her belongings since moving in. Emma and I usually just avoid Daria, who once wrecked Emma’s laptop. Maybe I’d be a genius with her, too, if I tried.

We reach the beach in no time, and Tom wriggles down from my shoulders, suddenly not too tired to run in the sand. Scooter and Mikey waddle after Beverly and Tom while Maryellen and I walk to the water’s edge, waves lapping our feet. I’ve never seen the ocean before, and its roaring size overwhelms me. I’m glad swimming isn’t allowed. Even standing at the edge, I feel the tug of the water and the sand pulling out from under my feet.

I back up next to Scooter, watching Maryellen, Beverly, Tom, and Mikey race to the water and away again as the waves chase them, laughing. When Maryellen calls me over, I admit I’m scared of the ocean. It’s gigantic. Tom takes my hand and Mikey pats my leg. Maryellen says being scared of something that big isn’t stupid, it’s smart.

I ask Maryellen if she’s scared of anything, and she tells me about having polio as a little girl. It hurt terribly, and even now one leg is weaker and she gets out of breath easily. She admits she fears it coming back, and fears just as much that people will assume she’s weak because of it.

Beverly pipes up, Maryellen’s also afraid of talking in front of people. At her birthday party, she wrote a whole show to raise money to fight polio, complete with songs, dances, and tasks. But when it was her turn to speak, Ellie stood there like a statue.

Maryellen admits it’s true. She still gets shaky thinking about it. She’s always wanted to be on TV, but facing a live audience froze her with stage fright. When I ask what happened, she shakes her head. A terrible boy named Wayne did all the talking. It was mortifying.

Back at the Larkins’ house, Maryellen introduces me to her mother, whose warm welcome makes me feel truly at home. Mrs. Larkin is ironing a dress, wearing capri pants, a checked blouse, and a headscarf tied like Lucy from I Love Lucy. When Maryellen asks if I can stay for dinner, Mrs. Larkin corrects her grammar to “may” before saying yes, and agrees again when Maryellen asks if I may spend the night, since tomorrow is only a half day before Thanksgiving vacation. She tells me to call my family to be sure, nodding toward a wall phone with a long, curling cord.

Everyone leaves to wash up, and I’m alone in the kitchen with Scooter, staring at the phone. Do I tell Maryellen my family wants me home, say goodbye, and disappear forever? I don’t want to. I like it here, and I’m not ready to face the people back home who think I cheated. Maybe I should just tell her I have permission to stay, without mentioning I gave that permission to myself. Either way, I’ll have to fake having made the call.