Freddie in the Shade

    Freddie walked down Main Street in a town outside Minneapolis. He wore black wraparound sunglasses. Lately, he never took them off, indoors or outdoors. He wanted the dark shades to protect him from anything else that might disrupt his life. 

    Freddie’s mom had died before he could remember. He and his dad had done fine for years—just the two of them against the world. 

    Then Dad met Maggie. She was nice, but things changed when they got married. When Maggie announced she was going to have a baby, Dad started talking about moving away from San Diego. 

    When school ended, Dad took a job in Minneapolis. 

    “It’ll be great,” Dad had said. “It means a house with a yard. Maggie will be close to her family. And you’ll have a brother or sister!” 

    But Freddie had known the truth. It meant that he had to leave the only place he’d ever known—and all his friends. It meant that on the first day of school, he’d be the new kid, the different kid. 

    The sunglasses went on and stayed on. 

    Freddie had been hibernating in his room for weeks, avoiding Dad and Maggie and boring baby preparation. School didn’t start for another six weeks. He nodded to Mr. Fieldstone and left the bakery with a part-time job and a bag of éclairs.

    The next day, Mr. Fieldstone gave Freddie an apron and led him into the kitchen. A girl stood over a large bowl, stirring cookie dough. The flour on her face couldn’t hide her freckles. 

    “Freddie, this is my daughter, Amy,” said Mr. Fieldstone. “You can start by sweeping the kitchen. Amy will tell you the rest of your duties.” 

    As Freddie swept, Amy said, “How about chocolate chips and raisins in the cookie dough?”

    “Uh . . . just chocolate chips. Both makes it too complicated.” 

    “You like to keep things simple, huh?” 

    Freddie smirked. “I guess.” 

    “Where do you live? What grade are you in?” 

    “Maple Street,” said Freddie. “Going into seventh.” 

    “Me too,” said Amy. “I mean about seventh grade. Do you have brothers or sisters—especially sisters?” 

    “Just me and a baby on the way,” Freddie said. 

    “I’ve always wanted a sister,” she said. “All I’ve got are boy cousins. Babies are hard work. I know, because I babysit. But they’re cute. And they love you. I mean, they really love you. You’re lucky.” 

    “Yeah, I’m lucky, all right,” Freddie muttered. 

    “I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not with those glasses on.” 

    “Exactly,” said Freddie. He wiped the counters and thought about what Amy had said. He knew that babies needed a lot of attention.  But it hadn’t occurred to him that he’d be getting any back in return.

    Every afternoon, Amy had more questions. “Why did you come here?” “Why don’t you want a brother or sister?” “Why do you wear sunglasses all the time?” 

    There was something wistful about Amy’s questions. And the smell of bread baking and the steam on the windows made the kitchen feel safe—like anything Freddie said there would be protected. 

    He found himself answering Amy’s questions. He even told her that the sunglasses made him feel as if nothing more could upset his life. 

    “Stuff changes all the time,” she said. “How are sunglasses going to stop it? And like I said, you’re lucky. I mean, your whole family is together . . .” Her voice trailed off. 

    On Friday, as Freddie left Snickerdoodle’s, Amy hurried after him. “I’m going to the movies tonight with my cousins. Want to come?” 

    Freddie knew he could sneak off the sunglasses after the lights dimmed and put them back on before the lights came up. He said yes.

    At the movies, Amy introduced him to her cousins Mark and Kyle. Mark would be in seventh grade too. They asked Freddie if he wanted to play on their basketball team. Freddie wavered. Then he remembered that he had a strap to keep his sunglasses on while he played. He agreed.

    A few days before school started, Freddie found Amy in the kitchen. “These are my going-away cookies,” she said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

    Freddie frowned. “Leaving? For where?” 

    “For my mom’s. I live with my mom during the school year and my dad during the summer and holidays.” 

    Puzzled, Freddie asked, “Why didn’t you mention it before?” 

    “You never asked. Besides, when I’m here, I like to pretend that I never have to leave. It’s hard going back and forth.” 

    Freddie thought back over the past weeks. She was right. He’d never once asked her about her life. It had always been Amy being interested in him. She was right about something else too. The sunglasses hadn’t stopped things from changing. Now she was leaving. 

    He took off the sunglasses and set them on the counter. 

    “So, what’s it like in your town? And what’s your mom like?” 

    Amy studied his eyes and smiled. “More boy cousins. My mom is really nice. You’d like her. I’m lucky because I have lots of people who love me. But it’s like I’m always starting over. When I come here for the summer, everyone has school friends. And when I go back to my mom’s, everyone has summer friends. But I’m sort of used to it.” 

    She shrugged and gave him a half-smile. “Chocolate chips or raisins?” She pointed to the dough in the bowl. 

    “Both,” said Freddie. “It’s more complicated that way.” 

    They both laughed. 

    “So, since you’re the expert on starting over,” said Freddie, “any advice for the first day of school?” 

    Amy nodded. “Don’t wear sunglasses inside, or some ninth-grader might put you in a trash can.” 

    The first day of school wasn’t bad. Freddie and Mark were in the same class. They played basketball every day. Freddie still wore his sunglasses, but only on sunny days. 

    Like the December day when Amy came back for the holidays—and she and Freddie built a snowman for his new baby sister.