The Becket List
Also by Adele Griffin
The Oodlethunks:
Oona Finds an Egg
Steg-O-Normous
Welcome to Camp Woggle
Witch Twins:
Witch Twins
Witch Twins at Camp Bliss
Witch Twins and Melody Malady
Witch Twins and the Ghost of Glenn Bly
Vampire Island:
Vampire Island
The Knaveheart’s Curse
V Is For . . . Vampire
A Blackberry Farm Story
Adele Griffin
pictures by LeUyen Pham
Algonquin Young Readers 2019
For Robert, Christine, and Greyson Watson
Contents
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
Acknowledgments
chapter 2
Becky? Reb? Becca?
“Let’s sit in the middle,” suggests Caroline.
“No, let’s sit in the front car near the engine,” I say. But a family with a crying baby got there first.
“Too loud!” I decide. “Let’s sit in the last car and be the caboose.”
There’s nobody in the last car. “This feels too quiet for an adventure.”
“Okay, Rebecca, I’m taking you off seat choosing,” says Mom. “The next three free seats are ours.” We find them smack in the middle of the train.
Caroline smirks. “You should listen to your big sis.”
“The middle of the middle was my next suggestion,” I tell her.
The train moves slowly out of the tunnel, traveling uptown. Soon tall buildings turn into short buildings, and then short buildings turn into fields.
Once we’re settled, I switch places with Mom. I like to stare out the window, watching the world go by.
“My whole life, I’ve been a city kid,” says Caroline. “Starting today, I’m a country bumpkin.”
“I’ll never be a bumpkin. Besides, I like changes,” I say. “In fact, from now on, please call me by my new cool country nickname. It’s on my list.” This is not totally true, since I just thought up my nickname a second ago.
“What is it?” Caroline looks at me like she’s trying to guess it from my face. “Becky? Reb? Becca?”
“Becket!” I shout.
Mom sits back, crosses her arms, and says, “Oh.”
“Becket? That sounds like a boy,” says Caroline.
“Rebecca doesn’t fit me,” I say. I’d started thinking about this last year, when I saw my name on my goody bag after my friend Sophia’s ice-dancing birthday party. The was silver and curly. The last a swirled into a very long ribbon across the bag, like a was a sound that could go on forever. That was when I started wanting to give my name a haircut. I’m not a curls and ribbons kid.
Caroline’s face is making my new, trim name shrivel inside me. Mom has been quiet too long. Nobody likes it? Why not?
Caroline offers me a Frootberry Swizzler. I shake my head no.
She chews on hers for a while. Then she points her Swizzler at me like it’s a magic wand. “You know what? Becket is more you. Sometimes when a person has a new idea, it takes the rest of us a while to catch on.”
“That’s true, Caroline,” says Mom. “Let’s give Becket a try.”
I feel my new name blooming inside me again.
Mom goes back to her book. Caroline plays on her phone. Out the window is a blur of moving trees.
“How about some family talk time,” I say. “Mom, that looks like a good book about . . .” I stretch my neck to read the title, Healthy Lives for Healthy Livestock.
“Not now,” says Caroline, without lifting her eyes.
Mom is too deep in her book to answer. She is always a mom, but now she is thinking like a vet, so I know better than to keep trying for her attention.
“I miss Annabelle Fair already,” I say to Caroline. “Don’t you?” The Fairs were not only our upstairs neighbors, they were also our family’s oldest friends—especially Caroline and Annabelle, who are thirty-nine days apart.
Caroline looks up from her phone. “I asked you not to say her name out loud. It makes me miss her too much.”
“What if I call her Am-hmll-hmll?”
“Stop it.”
After another minute I say, “I can’t help thinking about the good times we’ve had with all the Fairs. Like playing Hot Potato, and how you and Am-hmll-hmll were both Jetpack Pandas in the Halloween play.” I sigh. “It’s not my fault I’m thinking about a girl whose name rhymes with Hannibal Hair.”
Now Caroline looks straight-up mad. “And now I’m thinking about a kid whose name rhymes with Waleb Wingram.”
“Caleb Ingram,” I say quickly, to show her I got it.
Speaking Caleb’s name out loud is painful. Maybe Caroline has a point about keeping names inside. Caleb has been my best friend since preschool. Last week, in our final Doodle Jot Draw class, I laughed so hard at Caleb’s doodle of two hamblings holding umbrella drinks that my chin hit my desk, and even then I couldn’t stop laughing.
I’ll never get to bump my elbow against Caleb’s elbow at Doodle Jot Draw class again. This summer, he went to sleepover camp with no online, just postcards.
Goodbye, Caleb Ingram. Goodbye, Doodle Jot Draw class.
Goodbye, fabulous Fair family. Goodbye, neighborhood gingko trees. Goodbye, everything from my old life. I hope Nicholas isn’t still teary.
As soon as we get to Blackberry Farm, I better start looking for some hellos.
chapter 1
Goodbye, City!
Today we’re moving to Blackberry Farm. My parents are taking over the Old Post Road Animal Clinic, and we’ll all help Gran run Branch’s Farm Store.
Mom and Dad said we couldn’t go until everything clicked into place.
Like my big sister, Caroline, had to finish sixth grade. And my twin brother, Nicholas, and I had to finish third grade.
Plus we had to buy a used car.
Also we needed to pack up all our stuff. It’s harder than you might think, since Nicholas keeps unpacking it. He’s not as ready to move as I am.
Moving to the country always sounded more like a story than a plan. Caroline, Nicholas, and I have only ever known city living. Dad grew up on Blackberry Farm, but he and Mom have been city vets for as long as I can remember. They had side-by-side offices down the street at Urban Hope Animal Shelter, where they took care of mostly cats and dogs.
But now—CLICK—everything is changing. Moving Day is finally here!
“Goodbye, Branch family apartment,” I say as I hop out of my sleeping bag. “Goodbye, roo-koo wak-wak pigeon sounds outside my bedroom window. Goodbye, buildings and water towers.”
Caroline rolls over in her bag. “Rebecca, hush. It’s Sunday. Everyone sleeps in on Sunday.”
“Not on moving day Sunday!”
Caroline flips her pillow over her head. Last week, I heard her say to her best friend, Annabelle Fair, that the only thing she’s looking forward to about the country is not having to share a room with me. So I’m pretending I’m really ex
cited to be getting my own room, too. But secretly it’s the part of the move that I don’t want to think about. Caroline and I grew up sharing a room. I can’t imagine how it’ll feel not to have her with me at night for ghost stories or burping contests or thunderstorms.
I put on my glasses and head to the bathroom.
In the mirror, I brush my teeth (big, square, space in the middle), my hair (brownish-wavish-shortish) and check in with my nose freckle (still here).
“Goodbye, sink. Goodbye, squeaky-flush toilet.”
Even though I’ve lived here my whole life, I never saw our apartment empty. Now I see scratches on the floor where tables and chairs used to be. I see marks on the walls where our pictures used to hang.
In the kitchen, Mom hands me a paper bag. “From Sugarman’s Deli,” she says. “One last egg-and-cheese on a roll.”
“Goodbye, Sugarman’s Deli!”
“Don’t make me go!” Nicholas wails first thing when he stumbles out to the kitchen. It was also the final thing he wailed before bed last night. His face is blotchy. Whatever my twin brother is feeling, he wants to let you in on it. “Please, please don’t force me to live in the country with mice and skunks!”
“Eat,” says Mom. She gives him his egg-and-cheese. “Everything feels worse on an empty stomach.”
But it’s not just Nicholas’s empty stomach talking. All of his parts are upset.
“Guess what? I had a really good idea,” I announce. “I made a list for how to be a country kid.”
“That’s fun, Rebecca.” Mom smiles. “Show it to Nicholas, to get him in the spirit!”
Nicholas sends me a look that says: Don’t mess with my spirit.
There’s only one thing on my Country Kid List so far, but Nicholas doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t want to see the bright side of anything today. Right now he wants to be deep in his gloom.
“The first thing on my list is: Goodbye, City!” I say. “That means saying goodbye to the city. Starting with our apartment. Goodbye, crack in the wall that looks like a starfish! Goodbye, freezer where my tongue got stuck!”
“Speaking of goodbye, I’m packing last odds and ends into this brown box,” says Mom as she sets it down.
“I’m unpacking my pillow,” says Nicholas, reaching in. “I need to hold it.”
“Goodbye, radiator that hisses like a snake! Goodbye, height-measure marks in the doorway!” I rub the mark from when I turned five years old. Wow, I was such a shrimp. But I learned to swim and I aced kindergarten that year, too.
“Goodbye, brave shrimp,” I whisper to that old me.
Mom, Caroline, and I are taking the train to the farm. Dad’s driving Nicholas and our dog, Mr. Fancypants, since there’s not enough room for us all in the car. The back seat is stuffed with everything the moving truck hasn’t loaded. Like sleeping bags and Mr. Fancypants’s special firm-surface arthritis bed and Nicholas’s cello, Clive.
Mr. Fancypants just snuffles around. He’s confused about the empty apartment. It’s the only place he’s ever lived. He is mostly blind and he keeps bumping into the walls. “Take it easy, ole boy,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears. “You’ll be happy to retire to the country. That’s what all oldsters like to do, unless they go to Florida, like Neeny and Gamps.” Neeny and Gamps are our grandparents on Mom’s side. We’ve visited them in Florida many times. Florida is the orange juice and old people state.
When it’s time to leave, I pick up my gold glitter suitcase. Then I kiss the door. “Goodbye, front door. Goodbye, Mrs. Wetters in 8E who doesn’t give out Halloween candy. Goodbye to the fantastic Fairs. Goodbye, lumpy hall carpet. Goodbye, menthol-cough-drops hall smell.”
“Okay, Rebecca,” says Mom. “I think that’s enough goodbyes.”
But I don’t want to forget anything. Goodbye only happens once.
“Goodbye for good, city,” Dad says from the door as we head to the elevator.
Then I stop.
“Wait.” My heart is suddenly pounding. “This is the last time I’ll ever walk out the door of 8D.” I turn around to take a picture for my heart. Dad stands in the doorframe, finishing his egg-and-cheese. Nicholas is holding his pillow in front of him like a shield.
My twin brother’s eyes are big and dark and owlish. He’s worried enough for the both of us. If I look scared, he’ll get worse.
“Goodbye to ever getting stuck in this elevator again!” I say in my braver-twin voice. Nicholas got stuck in our elevator once when he was six years old. Even though he was trapped for only fifteen minutes, he still talks about it.
“See ya later, elevator!” he shouts.
Once we’re out on the street, I breathe better. “Goodbye, R-train subway stop. Goodbye, dry cleaners. Goodbye, smelly garbage truck.”
“Goodbye, gingko trees in June,” says Caroline.
“Caroline, no!” I shake my head. “That’s one thing you don’t have to say goodbye to. We’ll see tons of trees in the country!”
“These are our street trees,” says Caroline. “They’re like our neighbors.”
“GOODBYE, NEIGHBOR TREES!” I yell to them all as we walk to the subway that will take us to the train station.
Outside the subway, I spy a billboard for Country Goods Farm Markets. It’s a photograph of lettuce and tomatoes and ears of corn. In the sunshiny background, a girl and her big, gorgeous, floppy-eared dog are running down a hill.
“Look!” I shout. Mom barely looks. But I know this billboard is a sign of my new life, starring me running around in the sunshine with my very own dog—not fat old Mr. Fancypants who only likes Nicholas. A big, beautiful, floppy-eared country dog has been my wish since I don’t even know how long.
The subway is packed. Across from me sits a guy with hair on his hands. The rest of him looks normal, then—crazy hairy hands!
Like a wolf-man!
“Um, Caroline,” I whisper. Then I whisper louder, “Caroline Caroline Caroline Caroline Caroline Caroline CAROLINE. That man across from us is a WEREWOLF!”
“Rebecca!” Mom frowns and puts a finger to her lips.
The man’s shaggy eyebrows lift. Caroline pinches my arm. But when we get to the train station, Mom buys me a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds anyway (my favorite), along with Caroline’s favorite, Frootberry Swizzlers.
“He might have been part werewolf,” Mom admits. One thing about Mom—she sees all sides.
We buy our tickets and walk out to the platform. I sit down and unzip my suitcase where I keep my best stuff. Besides my notebook and two cheese sticks, I packed my five hammies, three hamblings (hamblings are baby hammies), plus the tiny pirate hat that goes on my favorite hambling, Pirate Punkin.
Hammies and hamblings are the next greatest thing to having a suitcase full of real hamsters. But these cuties run on batteries and can do tricks like roll over. As soon as I take them out, they all start peeping and hopping.
Mom looks down. “Rebecca, switch off your toys! And get up from the floor, it’s so dirty!”
“Hammies and hamblings don’t have an off button, remember? Here, hammy hammies! Hop back in your suitcase, my little furry sweeties!”
“Sometimes I wish you had an off button, my sweetie,” says Mom. “I know . . . maybe it’s here?”
I move to cup my hand over my nose freckle—but I’m not quick enough. Mom leans down and presses it just at the same time the bell starts ringing.
The train is coming in!
“Goodbye, every last thing in the city!” I call out. “Goodbye! All aboard!”
chapter 3
Newish Oldish
“Text Dad to see if our train is going to beat the car!” I say.
“We just checked a few minutes ago,” says Mom.
“But our times are so close, and we’re pulling in now! Check again!”
“Becket, hush! Also,
I don’t have a signal.” Mom pockets her phone.
Even though Mom sounds annoyed with me, she uses my new name so easily. Like it’s never been anything else.
The country station where we get off looks totally different from the city one where we boarded. It’s a small wooden house with a bench and a line of tracks out front. Mom and Caroline and I have just sat down on the bench to wait for Dad when an old man next to us asks Mom for the time.
“Almost three o’ clock,” says Mom, checking her watch.
“Stranger Danger!” I nudge Mom. “Don’t talk to people you don’t know.”
Mom shakes her head. “It’s fine. Also, lower the volume, sweetie.”
Are there different rules in the country about Stranger Danger? That seems pretty risky. My palms go sweaty and my heart pounds.
When the old man’s ride comes to pick him up, he shuffles off. He doesn’t look too dangerous in motion—but it could be part of his act.
“Country life sure is quiet,” I say.
“Not with you in it,” murmurs Caroline.
“Sit tight,” says Mom. “Dad’s only a minute away.”
“Nobody is ever a minute away.”
And just like I predicted, it takes 447 seconds. “We won!” I yell as I run up to the car. “I counted! We got here almost eight minutes before you!”
“Rebecca, you will need to lower the volume,” says Dad.
“Mom already lowered my volume, and my name is Becket.”
“What?” Dad trades a look with Mom.
“It’s Becket’s decision,” says Mom.
“Okay, we can discuss it later.” But Dad is looking at Mom, not me. So I know it’s not all-the-way okay. I was named after Dad’s great aunt Rebecca, who died before I was born. It’s like my name belongs a little bit to her, too.
Or at least, I know that’s how Dad sees it.