it was all the way up the hill, deep inside Ivy Cottage. But I felt the syrup of happiness being with this dog. He was feeling it too.
Then I remembered. Aunt Cora had sat next to me at breakfast this morning. In her slow, deliberate way, she’d begun: “You’ll be in a new class this year, a regular fifth grader, with thirteen boys and girls.”
No more special class? No more Mrs. Leahy and four other kids?
“Why shouldn’t you be in a regular class?” Aunt Cora said. “Because you don’t speak? You do other things.” She counted on her fingers. “You’re a great reader. You do math problems faster than I can. Your cartoons are spectacular.” She gave me a quick hug. “And most of all, you’ll be with more kids. You’ll make friends, Jubilee.”
That’s what she called me: Jubilee. “You’re a celebration!” she always said.
Some celebration!
Mrs. Leahy, my old teacher, called me Judy. Gideon, the ferry captain, called me Red because of my Pippi Longstocking hair. And Sophie’s five-year-old brother, Travis, called me No-Talk Girl.
Sophie.
Before first grade, Sophie and I were best friends. We dug tiny gardens together. We gathered stones and built houses that toppled into each other and made us laugh.
But one day, I’d heard Jenna ask, “How can you be friends with a weirdo like Judith, who doesn’t talk?”
So no more building, no more friend.
I stood now and squeezed water out of my shorts. Dog stood next to me, shaking himself, drops of water flying.
It was time to look at that fifth-grade classroom. I pulled my pad from under the rock, then started toward Shore Road.
Dog didn’t follow. His tail wagged uncertainly.
I went back and ran my hands over his head, down his back. We belonged together. I wanted him to know that.
I walked a few feet, and still he watched. Then, at last, he took a step toward me. A moment later, we loped along the road together.
In back of the school, I raised myself on tiptoe to see inside my new room. Desks were scattered every which way, and the chalkboard was dusty.
A new teacher danced across the front, her sandy hair in ringlets. She glanced toward the window, then went to the chalkboard and wrote her name:
Ms. Quirk.
Underneath she wrote
WELCOME.
Had she seen me? I raised my hand to wave, but a ball smashed into the windowsill, just missing me. It bounced back against the cement and rolled away across the yard.
I turned. Mason! Why would he try to hit me? No wonder his brother was after him.
I gave Dog a pat, and then we ran past the school and tore up the dirt road toward Windy Hill and Ivy Cottage.
It really wasn’t a cottage anymore. The roof had caved in and vines covered the whole thing, so no one else knew it was there. It was almost mine.
Halfway there, Dog paused, nose twitching, tail high. What had he heard?
Was Mason following us? Then I saw what Dog had spotted on the ground: old branches were piled together with a row of stones in front.
Someone’s hiding spot.
A very messy one.
A face peered out at me: a mop of pale hair, blue eyes, and more freckles than I could count. It was Sophie’s little brother, Travis. He grinned, showing a missing front tooth. With a rustle of leaves, he disappeared again.
Dog sat in front of the hiding spot, whining in a
let’s play
voice, until Travis poked his head out again. His finger went to his lips. “Shhh.”
I nodded. He’d escaped from Sophie. He did that all the time. I’d hear her calling, her voice loud, then whistling shrilly. Sometimes I’d hear him laughing.
“You can come in, No-Talk Girl,” he said. “It’s my best place. But it’s a secret. Sophie will make me go home and wash my face and say my numbers. She’s a bossy girl, and I’m not a baby, you know.”
Dog and I crawled inside. Next to Travis was a book with a torn cover, a bag of half-chewed orange slices, and a pencil and paper. “You can draw me while I read,” he said.
I smoothed out the paper and
Then I remembered. Aunt Cora had sat next to me at breakfast this morning. In her slow, deliberate way, she’d begun: “You’ll be in a new class this year, a regular fifth grader, with thirteen boys and girls.”
No more special class? No more Mrs. Leahy and four other kids?
“Why shouldn’t you be in a regular class?” Aunt Cora said. “Because you don’t speak? You do other things.” She counted on her fingers. “You’re a great reader. You do math problems faster than I can. Your cartoons are spectacular.” She gave me a quick hug. “And most of all, you’ll be with more kids. You’ll make friends, Jubilee.”
That’s what she called me: Jubilee. “You’re a celebration!” she always said.
Some celebration!
Mrs. Leahy, my old teacher, called me Judy. Gideon, the ferry captain, called me Red because of my Pippi Longstocking hair. And Sophie’s five-year-old brother, Travis, called me No-Talk Girl.
Sophie.
Before first grade, Sophie and I were best friends. We dug tiny gardens together. We gathered stones and built houses that toppled into each other and made us laugh.
But one day, I’d heard Jenna ask, “How can you be friends with a weirdo like Judith, who doesn’t talk?”
So no more building, no more friend.
I stood now and squeezed water out of my shorts. Dog stood next to me, shaking himself, drops of water flying.
It was time to look at that fifth-grade classroom. I pulled my pad from under the rock, then started toward Shore Road.
Dog didn’t follow. His tail wagged uncertainly.
I went back and ran my hands over his head, down his back. We belonged together. I wanted him to know that.
I walked a few feet, and still he watched. Then, at last, he took a step toward me. A moment later, we loped along the road together.
In back of the school, I raised myself on tiptoe to see inside my new room. Desks were scattered every which way, and the chalkboard was dusty.
A new teacher danced across the front, her sandy hair in ringlets. She glanced toward the window, then went to the chalkboard and wrote her name:
Ms. Quirk.
Underneath she wrote
WELCOME.
Had she seen me? I raised my hand to wave, but a ball smashed into the windowsill, just missing me. It bounced back against the cement and rolled away across the yard.
I turned. Mason! Why would he try to hit me? No wonder his brother was after him.
I gave Dog a pat, and then we ran past the school and tore up the dirt road toward Windy Hill and Ivy Cottage.
It really wasn’t a cottage anymore. The roof had caved in and vines covered the whole thing, so no one else knew it was there. It was almost mine.
Halfway there, Dog paused, nose twitching, tail high. What had he heard?
Was Mason following us? Then I saw what Dog had spotted on the ground: old branches were piled together with a row of stones in front.
Someone’s hiding spot.
A very messy one.
A face peered out at me: a mop of pale hair, blue eyes, and more freckles than I could count. It was Sophie’s little brother, Travis. He grinned, showing a missing front tooth. With a rustle of leaves, he disappeared again.
Dog sat in front of the hiding spot, whining in a
let’s play
voice, until Travis poked his head out again. His finger went to his lips. “Shhh.”
I nodded. He’d escaped from Sophie. He did that all the time. I’d hear her calling, her voice loud, then whistling shrilly. Sometimes I’d hear him laughing.
“You can come in, No-Talk Girl,” he said. “It’s my best place. But it’s a secret. Sophie will make me go home and wash my face and say my numbers. She’s a bossy girl, and I’m not a baby, you know.”
Dog and I crawled inside. Next to Travis was a book with a torn cover, a bag of half-chewed orange slices, and a pencil and paper. “You can draw me while I read,” he said.
I smoothed out the paper and
Similar Books
