Chapter 1 in the first installment in a series of chapter books for 3rd- and 4th-graders. The concept is my collaborator’s, but the characters, plot arcs, and writing are all my creations.
Chapter 1
As the sun began to set, Brooklyn watched the lush West Virginia countryside through the window of the Owens family car. Her throat ached, and the colors flashing by became an especially bright blur as tears pooled at the brims of her lower eyelids. She tried not to blink, which would send a telltale salty stream down her cheeks. “Don’t be such a baby,” she told herself, silently dabbing at those pesky tears with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Dr. Bethany Owens peered into the back seat at her daughter, her forehead wrinkled with concern. She offered Brooklyn a tissue, which Brooklyn accepted, trying to offer a cooperative smile.
To Brooklyn, the drive from Greensboro, North Carolina, to Chicago, Illinois, felt very long. Brooklyn’s father, Dr. Michael Owens, had marked off their stops on a map, which sat in Brooklyn’s lap. She kept track of how many state lines they crossed, how many new state license plates she could spot, and which animals she could glimpse in the fields and forests.
But none of this fully distracted Brooklyn from the painful goodbyes she’d said only a few hours earlier. She’d bid goodbye to her lilac purple bedroom, to her beloved house, yard, and neighborhood, and to the towering willow tree across the street that the Boughmans had always allowed her to climb. She’d said goodbye to her school as they drove by it. Worst of all, early this morning, she’d parted with JoAnn “JoJo” Jackson, the best friend a girl could ask for. In her head, Brooklyn could still hear JoJo’s voice shaking as the girls promised each other they’d exchange letters every week.
Staring out the window, Brooklyn bit her lip and sniffled as one tear escaped and splashed onto the map she was now clutching tightly. She was not only sad, but also embarrassed: she regretted being bratty earlier in the day, because she knew her parents had gone out of their way to make the trip fun. But her heartbreak was making fun seem impossible.
So far, the Owens had driven out of North Carolina (a moment that drew audible whimpers from Brooklyn, who was trying to be brave, but whose eyes kept defying her strict orders not to shed tears) and across a narrow strip of Virginia, then had begun a seemingly endless trek across West Virginia. Brooklyn’s father had planned several stops, including a lunch stop in Wytheville, Virginia, then an afternoon stop in Charleston, West Virginia. Michael needed to visit the university library in Charleston, and he imagined that while he worked, his family would enjoy another break from the road. They could take in the sights and sounds of the Kanawha River and the state capital, or even visit a museum. However, things wouldn’t go exactly as any of them imagined.
The week before their move, Brooklyn’s parents had flipped open Bethany’s laptop on the kitchen table, and the three of them ate pizza while Michael explained their route to Chicago. Brooklyn had sat on the bench next to her mother, whose long, elegant fingers rapidly clicked on the keyboard, while Michael stood behind them, enthusiastically pointing out all the highlights of their journey.
“Our first stop will be for an early lunch. You’re in for a real treat afterwards, Brook. Just you wait!” Michael flashed his trademark electric grin at his daughter, who couldn’t help but return a trace of his excitement.
“What is it?” Brooklyn asked, genuinely curious.
“Oh, just something sweet for someone sweet,” he answered.
As it turned out, after their lunch of sandwiches at a shaded sidewalk café, Michael and Bethany were taking Brooklyn for a rare indulgence: to a place called Wiffle Pops that made fancy ice cream and desserts. Brooklyn was naturally excited—dessert wasn’t common in their household, and dessert after lunch was almost unheard of. Brooklyn very thoughtfully ordered what she imagined would be the best treat: a chocolate ice cream pop with a vanilla and caramel shell.
The Owens perched on stools in window seats to enjoy their desserts. But Brooklyn discovered, much to her dismay, that she couldn’t quite get the wonderfully cold, sweet ice cream to go down. She felt like her throat was closing shut. She had only eaten about a third of her sandwich, so she knew she had room for dessert—she just had no appetite. Try as she might, she could only take half-hearted licks at the outer coating of her treat. It seemed that not even ice cream could make her stop missing her home, stop dreading a new house and a new school. Brooklyn sighed, and her mother put a hand on her back and rubbed gently, as she used to when Brooklyn was little. Brooklyn squirmed and wriggled. “Mom, don’t,” she whispered, realizing with horror that her tears were about to spill over in public where everyone could see.
Brooklyn’s dad looked down at his daughter’s drooping face, leaned toward her, and playfully grumbled, “Need an ice cream monster to help you get started?” Brooklyn shrugged and held her ice cream pop toward her father. He pretended he was about to take a humongous bite, but instead zestfully bit off just the top corner. “Mmmm! Monsters like ice cream!” he rumbled. “But—cold! So COLD!” Michael covered his mouth in mock surprise, then howled like a wolf. “Cooold! Coooooooooold!”
“Daddy!” Brooklyn giggled, covering her own mouth and looking around the ice cream shop to see who else had noticed his antics. The whole family erupted into laughter. Brooklyn finally managed to enjoy half of her treat. She regretfully watched the rest melt onto her plate, but she was just too full to finish.
The Owens’ next stop, in Charleston, West Virginia, was a different story—not even an ice cream monster could redeem it.
Back at their kitchen table in Greensboro, as Bethany had opened up a webpage about Charleston, Michael had pointed out the capitol and several museums. “What do you think, Brook? Do you want to go see the West Virginia state capitol building? You’ve only seen two state capitols before.” Brooklyn scanned the words and pictures on the screen. Bland stone buildings and a river surrounded by even less interesting bridges and statues failed to excite her. But then her eyes caught on two words halfway down the page: Magic Island. Her eyes widened.
“There, there, there!” Brooklyn squawked, pointing with glee at the blue-highlighted phrase. “Magic Island! You guys, a magic island!” Bethany clicked on the link, and she and Michael glanced over the description.
Brooklyn’s mother sucked air through her teeth. “Well. Hmm. Honey—” she began.
“Mom, daddy asked me!” Brooklyn blurted.
Bethany looked at Brooklyn in surprise. Her daughter rarely complained and certainly knew not to interrupt either of her parents. Standing behind them, Michael put one arm around each of them. “Brook, your mom only wants you to understand that this island is really just a normal park on the river. You might be able to go swimming, but it’s not… not really… it’s not magic in the way you might be—”
“Daddy, I know it’s not really magic. But look!” Brooklyn pointed to a sunny picture of kids in bathing suits running under tree-shaped fountains. “See?” She smiled broadly at the image on the screen. Swimming and waterparks—anything to do with water, really—were among Brooklyn’s very favorite things. She knew her parents loved the water, too, so it seemed natural that they would visit an island with a waterpark!
Brooklyn’s parents eventually realized that the seed of excitement had been irreversibly planted, and Brooklyn wouldn’t be able to get Magic Island out of her head. They decided Bethany and Brooklyn would spend the afternoon exploring the park on the island, and Michael would meet them for an “island picnic” after his library visit. Then they’d drive late into the night and stay at a hotel just outside Dayton, Ohio.
So, after a morning of painful farewells, half a day of driving, and a halfway-successful dessert adventure, the Owens rolled into Charleston, West Virginia in the middle of the afternoon. The day was at its hottest. With her ice-cream-filled tummy fluttering slightly, Brooklyn had napped fitfully in the car after lunch, waking continuously to the glare of the sun scorching her face through the car window. Multiple times she requested that her father turn up the air conditioning, but she still felt hot and uncomfortable.
Once in Charleston, they dropped Michael off at the university library. Bethany moved into the driver’s seat, and Brooklyn was allowed to hop into the passenger’s seat next to her mother. She immediately began to feel better. The cool air blowing from the front seat vents was a welcome sensation on Brooklyn’s skin, and Magic Island was their very next stop. Brooklyn checked her backpack to make sure her swimsuit, sandals, and towel were still there. Boy, was she looking forward to the cool water of the splashpark!
But Brooklyn’s first impression of this so-called “Magic” Island caused her heart to sink. As Bethany drove across the bridge that connected the island to the city, Brooklyn realized that it looked nothing like any island she had ever imagined. The shore of the river was lined with white tents, and herds of people seemed to cover every inch of the park. There were hardly any trees, and dull city buildings loomed along the horizon. She couldn’t even pick out the splashpark.
When she got out of the car, Brooklyn’s disappointment deepened. The air was damp and heavy, and the pavement of the parking lot was scorching hot, even through her sandals. Rock music blared from a stage on the other side of the park. She had to change into her swimsuit in a dark, muddy, stale-smelling bathhouse that echoed with the intimidating laughter of teenage girls. After they had changed, Bethany led Brooklyn by the hand toward the rowdy-seeming festival.
“Brooklyn, do you want to see if there’s a beach for swimming, or do you just want to go straight to the splashpark?”
Brooklyn was staring at the crowds of people, who seemed to randomly zigzag around each other, all holding cups in their hands and chattering loudly. She barely heard her mother’s question. “Uh—sssplash—n-no, b-beach,” she stammered.
Bethany led their way uncertainly across the muddy park toward the water, not sure where the swimming beach would be. They eventually walked along the slightly-less-muddy strip in front of the row of tents, where sweating salespeople offered souvenirs, food, and drinks. They finally came upon what appeared to be a beach. It was crowded with groups of teenagers and young couples who laughed loudly on blankets, throwing each other dripping cans they’d dug out of icy coolers. Red plastic cups littered the sand; other trash floated in dirty pools of water between the grass and the shore.
“Maybe the splashpark instead?” Bethany asked Brooklyn. Brooklyn tightened her grip on her mother’s hand and nodded. They made their way away from the beach, toward a clearing in the crowd. The muddy grass gave way to deep, soft sand, and for a second, Brooklyn was delighted by the feeling under her feet.
But then a startling, rough voice cut through the noise of the festival: “Hey, come on, MOVE IT! There’s a game here!” A group of young men were staring at Brooklyn and her mother. One of them was holding a volleyball on his hip impatiently, while another made an exaggerated gesture for them to move out of the way. Bethany and Brooklyn had unwittingly walked across the park’s sand volleyball court. Feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment, Brooklyn dropped her mother’s hand, running out of the sandy court to the muddy grass on the other side. She nearly tripped over a scattered collection of wagons and bicycles, but she managed to cut through the crowd and found herself at the edge of the splashpark.
What she saw in front of her was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
E. Sterzinger -- Writer, Editor, Educator 