Free Touch Blue by Cynthia Lord Page B

joy like a fountain in my soul.
    I’ve got joy like a fountain
    I’ve got joy like a fountain
    I’ve got joy like a fountain in my soul.
    I’ve got love like an ocean
    I’ve got love like an ocean
    I’ve got love like an ocean in my soul.
    I’ve got love like an ocean
    I’ve got love like an ocean
    I’ve got love like an ocean in my soul.
    “You have good pitch,” Aaron says.
    “Yes, indeed. We could use you in the choir, Lola.” Reverend Beal leans against the doorway, arms crossed.
    I grab the purple hat off my head. “We were just —”
    “How about ‘Amazing Grace’ now?” Reverend Beal asks. “We really, really old people like that one.”
    I clamp my fingers over my mouth.
    “I got a call from Mrs. Coombs. She saw you two come in here and was worried you were up to mischief.” He glances at the open boxes.
    “We’ll put these things back neatly,” I say. “I promise.”
    “All in good time.” Reverend Beal sets up a folding chair and sits down to be our audience. “I think Fourth of July will be very special this year,” he says. “Thank you for agreeing to play for us, Aaron.”
    As Aaron plays “Amazing Grace,” Reverend Beal joins in with his booming bass voice. I let myself sing a little louder with each few words, in a way I never would dare at church or school, where I try to keep my voice low and in the middle of the group.
    Aaron plays verse after verse.
    And I sing free.

O n the morning of the Fourth of July picnic, Dad and Libby go to the parish hall to help decorate. Last year, Amy and I were in charge of decorating all the long tables, but when Dad mentioned going this morning, it didn’t sound fun without her.
    I’m washing up breakfast dishes with Mom to the far-off sound of Aaron improvising with his trumpet in the attic.
    You’re a grand old flag, do-doot-de-doo!
    From the open window above our kitchen sink, I watch the spruce treetops swaying in the breeze, like they’re dancing. Thin clouds stretch a line of dashes across the blue sky. And past our yard, Doris Varney sits in her porch rocker, a mug stopped halfway to her lips.
    You’re a high-flying flaaag!!
    “You don’t think Aaron’ll play it that way at the picnic, do you?” Mom pulls a dry dish towel from the rack beside me. “Because Mrs. Coombs will be fit to be tied.”
    I rinse a skillet under the water. “I like the song that way.”
    You’re the emblem of — the land I looooove.
    “It makes it sound new and not as ordinary.” I hand the skillet to Mom and pick up a juice glass from the soapy water. “He also plays the piano really well. Did you know that?”
    “No. Is that why you two were sneaking around the parish hall the other day?”
    “Um.” I scrub the glass so hard it squeaks.
    Mom smiles. “Mrs. Coombs called, but I told her you wouldn’t be up to any trouble. I’m so glad Aaron’s feeling more a part of things here.”
    The home of the free and the brave! BAH-dah-DAH!
    “I can’t wait for everyone to hear Aaron play.” Part of me is itching to tell Mom this was all my idea and how I got Doris Varney to call Mrs. Coombs — without me even asking her. I’m afraid Mom might think that was meddling in other people’s business, though,instead of helping out. But sometimes the right thing needs a little shove to get started.
    Keep your eye on the grand old flaaaaaaag!
     
    The long church supper tables are set up on the grass, covered with pies, cobblers, and slabs of watermelon on paper plates. The Ladies’ Aid Society went red, white, and blue wild this year — from the striped napkins on the table to the little flags stuck upright in the cupcakes to the balloon bouquet attached to the fire hydrant. There are buntings under every window and twisted streamers looped over the parish hall doorway.
    Dad’s over with the men tending the clambake, and Reverend Beal, wearing a chef’s apron, bastes and turns chicken legs on the big grills. All around, women hurry with platters