Pickle Pizza by Beverly Lewis Page A

. . . uh, nothing.” Then he remembered what Dunkum said. “I heardyou were making something.”
    Stacy’s face burst into a grin. “I’m working on a gift for my dad—for Father’s Day.”
    â€œOh.” The rest of the words got stuck in Eric’s throat. The words he couldn’t speak.
    â€œMy dad’s coming on Sunday,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since Easter.”
    Eric remembered. The Cul-de-sac Kids had surprised their parents with an Easter pet parade. Stacy’s dad had come to see it, too.
    â€œI’m glad about your dad,” Eric said.
    She nodded. “I can’t wait. I really miss him.”
    Eric understood. He missed his dad, too.
    â€œWhat are you making?” Eric asked.
    Stacy opened the door. “Come in. I’ll show you.”
    Eric followed Stacy downstairs. Theywent through the family room and into a smaller room.
    â€œThis is my new art room,” Stacy said. “My mom and I just finished it.”
    Eric looked around.
    An easel stood at one end of the room with paints and brushes. There were drawings hanging on the wall. “Wow,” Eric said. “This is really great.”
    â€œIt used to be a storage room,” Stacy explained. “My mom decided I should have a place to work.”
    Eric spotted a lump of green clay on the worktable. “What’s that?” he asked.
    â€œJust some practice clay. But look what else I’m sculpting.” She opened a cabinet door. Stacy reached in and pulled out an eagle sculpture. She held it high. “What do you think?”
    â€œIt’s terrific!” Eric couldn’t believe his eyes.
    Stacy smiled. “I hope Daddy likes it.”
    â€œI’m sure he will,” Eric said.
    Stacy smiled and set the eagle down.
    Eric crept over to Stacy’s worktable. He studied the eagle. The wings were folded down, close to the bird’s body. The eagle’s head was turned toward one wing. “What’s it made of?” Eric asked.
    â€œSculpey.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Eric asked.
    â€œIt’s like soft clay. You bake it in the oven, and it gets hard. When it cools off, you can paint it.”
    â€œWow,” Eric whispered. He wished he could make something like this. For Grandpa.
    â€œHere, feel it,” Stacy said.
    Eric reached out with his pointer finger. Gently, he touched the eagle’s head. “It feels smooth. No bumps or lumps.”
    Stacy nodded. “Thanks. I worked hard.”
    Eric stood up. He looked at Stacy. Should I ask about going to her art class? he wondered.
    â€œWhat are you staring at?” Stacy asked.
    Eric looked away. “I . . . uh . . . oh, nothing.”
    Father’s Day was coming fast. Would Stacy invite him to art class?
    Eric hoped so. He really hoped so.

THREE
    Eric couldn’t stop thinking about the art class.
    â€œI wonder if—” He stopped.
    Stacy blinked her eyes. “What did you say?”
    Eric tried again. “I . . . er . . . AUURGH!” The words didn’t want to come out. Not the ones he wanted to say.
    Stacy’s eyes grew wide.
    At last, Eric said, “I like your eagle sculpture. Thanks for showing me.”
    Stacy grinned. “Anytime.”
    â€œWell, see ya,” Eric said.
    Stacy walked upstairs with him. “Thanks for coming,” she said.
    â€œGoodbye.” The screen door slapped shut behind him.
    Eric clumped down the sidewalk. He wished he’d asked about the art class. He wished he weren’t so shy sometimes.
    Zippo! A flash of green leaped past him.
    Something green with skinny legs.
    Jason’s frog, Croaker, was loose!
    Eric chased after the bullfrog. “Come back!” he called.
    Croaker
  hopped
    all
      the
        way
          down
            Blossom