As Simple as It Seems by Sarah Weeks Page A

FIFTEEN
The Girl Next Door
    â€œWhy did you come looking for me anyway?” I asked Pooch later that afternoon down by the lake. “Aren’t you afraid of ghosts?”
    â€œI’m only afraid of bees,” said Pooch. “And walnuts.”
    â€œDon’t forget about Dixie,” I added, baring my teeth and pretending to snap at him.
    Pooch laughed. He had stopped sanding again and was leaning against the boat.
    â€œWho told you to take a coffee break?” I said.
    â€œNobody, but don’t you think maybe it’s smooth enough? We’ve been working on it forever and there’s no more sandpaper left. I took the last piece a while ago, and now it’s all used up too.”
    My arms ached and my fingers were scraped and sore. I was just as tired of sanding as Pooch was.
    â€œI wish we could put it in the water now,” said Pooch. “Maybe the patch dried faster than we thought it would. Let’s check it.”
    But a quick examination of the patch revealed that the boat was not ready to be launched yet.
    â€œWe’re not finished anyway,” I said. “We still haven’t come up with a name. If we work hard on our lists tonight, maybe we’ll have something by tomorrow.”
    â€œYeah,” said Pooch, “tomorrow.”
    As we began to gather up the tools and the crumpled pieces of used-up sandpaper, Jack, who’d been napping on a patch of moss under a tree the whole time, struggled to his feet, yawned, and stretched and looked at me expectantly.
    â€œHe sure does act like he’s your dog,” said Pooch.
    â€œThat doesn’t mean he is,” I said.
    â€œListen,” Pooch said, “I know you’re probably going to say no, but since it’s still early and we can’t do anything more on the boat today, do you want to maybe come over?”
    I had the same problem with this idea as I’d had the day before. As curious as I was about what the inside of the Allen house might be like, I didn’t want to meet Pooch’s mother in my nightgown. After I’d spent two days in it working on the boat, it was not only tatterednow, but also covered with dirt and pine sap. Suddenly my mother’s words came floating into my head, offering me a solution.
    You be me.
    â€œTell you what,” I told Pooch. “I’ll meet you at your house in half an hour.”
    â€œHonest?” said Pooch.
    â€œHonest,” I told him. “But don’t be surprised if I look a little different when I show up, okay? Now turn around and cover your eyes.”
    It was the last time I would leave Pooch counting by the lake.
    When I got home, there was a pot of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove and my mother was in the den working on a scrapbook. She glanced at my filthy nightgown but, to my surprise, said nothing about it. I wondered if she was still mad at me for the mean thing I’d said earlier.
    â€œIt smells good in here,” I told her.
    â€œI made meatballs,” she said. “You still like meatballs?”
    â€œOf course I still like meatballs,” I said.
    She smiled and I smiled back at her, grateful that she didn’t seem to be holding a grudge.
    There was a pan of brownies cooling on the counterout in the kitchen. Perfect! I thought when I saw them.
    â€œCan I have some brownies?” I called to my mother.
    â€œHow about a sandwich first?” she called back.
    I went and stood in the doorway of the den.
    â€œThey’re not for me,” I explained. “I was thinking about taking some brownies over to those new neighbors you were telling me about. You know, to welcome them to the neighborhood.”
    My mother put aside her scrapbook and stood up. She was wearing a pair of black slacks and a white blouse I didn’t recognize. I wondered if her new outfit had anything to do with the comment I’d made the other day about her dress looking like a tent.
    â€œWhat a nice