Free My Mixed-Up Berry Blue Summer by Jennifer Gennari

to deal with people making fun of my family all the time. I wondered what happened if someone didn’t turn in a pie. I guessed the judges just assumed it was a no-show and threw the entry form away. That would be Number forty-seven.
    I spotted the rowboat cutting across the cove, but it was Joe not Luke. Then I remembered Joe was going to handle the shop today—Mom and I were going to Burlington to buy a flower girl dress. I flopped back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. No one was a flower girl at my age.
    Mom knocked and poked her head in. “Let’s go!”
    I groaned.
    â€œC’mon—I’m buying you clothes!”
    â€œOK, but no pink.”
    Mom and Eva had soft smiles now whenever they talked about the wedding plans. Mom said she knew the people who mattered—Joe, Ms. Flynn the librarian, even Ruth—supported their right to get married if they wanted. I made an effort, but Eva and I were still not on the best of terms. I didn’t know how to break the stand-off with her.
    Once in the car, I glanced at the windshield. We hadn’t had any notes or signs after that one time. It didn’t surprise me. Whoever was behind it, maybe Lauren’s mother or even Mr. Costa, had gotten organized and made all those flyers boycotting gay businesses. I began counting how many “Take Back Vermont” signs I saw compared to “Keep it Civil.”
    â€œWe sent out the invitations,” Mom said once we got on the highway for Burlington.
    â€œWho’s coming?” I had counted ten “Take Back Vermont” signs; six “Keep It Civil” signs.
    â€œWell, so far, Joe and Luke have RSVP’d, and so has Anne Flynn.”
    Great. Three people.
I spotted another “Take Back” sign, making the score eleven to six.
    â€œNo worries, right, June?” Mom said.
    â€œNo worries,” I said. It was the old game, but I wasn’t playing truthfully. I was worried about everything: Tina, the wedding, my no-show pie. On top of everything, I didn’t know what to do about Eva. The silence was making me miserable.
    At the department store, I trailed behind Mom, fingering various dresses. Nothing seemed right.
    â€œI’m wearing my lilac dress,” she said. “And Eva is wearing a red dress—well maybe more of a burgundy wine color. We thought you’d look great in something, hmm, green.”
    I looked around. I hoped no one had heard. “Blue,” I said defiantly.
    A saleswoman approached. “May I help you?”
    â€œYes,” Mom said. “We’re looking for an elegant dress for a special occasion for my daughter.”
    â€œHow nice,” she said. “Should we head to the teen section?”
    I felt like the woman was looking right at my chest. “I’m twelve,” I said.
    â€œGrowing up so fast,” Mom murmured, mussing my hair. I was about to scream.
    â€œWhat’s the special occasion?”
    I gave Mom a look, but she went ahead and said, “A wedding.”
    â€œOh, how lovely! Who is getting married?”
    â€œI am,” Mom said, then gave me a reassuring squeeze.
    I was glad she didn’t say any more. Not every conversation had to be a political act, did it?
    The saleswoman pulled a couple of dresses off the rack in pinks, lavenders, and purples.
    I folded my arms. “I like blue,” I said.
    â€œWell, here’s a nice one.” She pulled down a lake blue dress, with navy trim. It was short-sleeved, with a wide skirt. “It has little flowers around the neckline.”
    â€œJune, they look like blueberry flowers,” Mom exclaimed.
    Even I had to admit it was perfect. I tried on several others, including a green one, but the blueberry dress was the one.
    Mom put her hands on my shoulders. We both straightened as we gazed in the mirror. My head had reached Mom’s shoulder—and my hair was not in a ponytail for once. I wasn’t flower girl