Love, Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli Page B

to compose myself. I’ve never felt so brittle, so defenseless. It was all I could do not to burst out bawling. Until then I hadn’t realized what a fragile state I was in.
    When I thought I was under control, I did the hardest thing of all: I took a step forward. Then another. The closer I came to him, the clearer it became that the angles were all wrong. I was looming over him. So I sat down, cross-legged, on the warm, papery surface of the roof, about five feet from him. We stared at each other for a long time. In spite of what he had just said, we both seemed to understand that this was not the time to talk. Still staring at him, I reached down and pulled off my sandals and tossed them aside. I think I was making a statement, but I have no idea what it was. Eventually I took a deep breath…“I dreamed about you one night.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Well, sort of you. You were swimming in the canal. Dootsie said you do that—”
    “Once I did.”
    “—and I was watching you under the water. You were a dark, shadowy figure, but I knew it was you—and then it wasn’t you, it was Ondine, and then you again, and Ondine, back and forth….”
    “Ondine,” he said.
    “The book you were reading in the library that day.”
    He didn’t respond, just stared at me.
    “I got my own copy and read it in one sitting. I loved it.” He kept staring. “Don’t you love it?”
    “No.”
    “Really? Why not?”
    “She’s stupid.”
    “How so?”
    “She thinks everything is wonderful. Everybody’s beautiful.”
    “Don’t you?”
    His answer was a snort. “She’s always singing. She’s too happy.”
    “Too happy?” I said. “Is that possible? Happy is happy, isn’t it? How can you be
too
happy?”
    “When you’re living in a fairy tale. When the world you’re living in is bogus.”
    “But it’s not all peaches and cream for Ondine,” I pointed out. “She gets sad.”
    “Not sad enough. She’s stupid. She’s not real.”
    Something suddenly occurred to me. “Perry,” I said, edging myself a little closer, “you never finished reading it, did you?”
    “It sucked.”
    “
Did
you?”
    “No.”
    “Well, I have news for you,” I said. “In the end Ondine’s beloved knight—Hans, remember?—he dies.”
    “Good.”
    “And Ondine forgets everything about her time on earth with people and returns to the water.”
    “Good.”
    “Forever.”
    “Good.”
    The word hung in the night—
good—
like a second, bitter moon.
    “So why did you read any of it, then?” I said.
    He shrugged. “It was in front of my nose.”
    He lay back down, his crossed hands a pillow under his head. I was feeling a little more confident now, less uncomfortable, but still he wasn’t exactly a bonfire of warmth.
    “You know,” I said, “this is the second time this week that I’ve been up all night talking to somebody.”
    “That so?”
    “That’s so. And you’re dying for me to tell you about the other time, aren’t you?”
    “Can’t wait.”
    I told him all about the cereus and the night in Betty Lou’s backyard. “Betty Lou is the person whose donuts you stole from her porch that day. When Alvina came running after you.”
    “Who?”
    “Alvina Klecko. The girl who chased you. Who dumped the bucket of water on you at the pool.”
    “The girl with the fingernail.”
    “That’s the one. She says you come into Margie’s.”
    “Once in a while.”
    “To steal donuts?” My boldness surprised me.
    “She gives them to me.”
    “I think she has a crush on you.”
    “Sure.”
    “Really.”
    “She’s a little kid.”
    “She’s a growing kid.”
    “She’s a tomboy.”
    “She’s a tomboy becoming a girl. Look”—I counted off on my fingers—“she gives you donuts. She chased you halfway across town. She threw a bucketful of water on you. That, my dear Perry”—I unfolded one leg and poked him in the knee with my toe—“is love.” I quickly withdrew my foot, happy and relieved that he didn’t