Free.
“Hardy-har-har,” said Dyamonde. “Like your poem was so much better.”
“You watch!” said Free. “I’m gonna win that thing.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Dyamonde. Just then, she noticed Damaris sitting two tables away. She wasn’t eating, though. Instead, she was reading a book.
She does that a lot,
thought Dyamonde.
In fact, I hardly ever see her eat. Is she on a special diet or something?
“Hello?” said Free. “Earth to Dy. Is anybody listening?”
“Huh? Sorry,” said Dyamonde. “Do you know anything about her?”
“About who?” asked Free.
“Damaris Dancer,” said Dyamonde.
“Nope,” said Free. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” said Dyamonde. “You know, she signed up for the contest. She might be good at writing poems. Her name kinda sounds like poetry.”
“So what?” said Free. “Nobody’s gonna win that contest except for me. There, you see? I know my poetry.”
“Oh, puleeze!” said Dyamonde. “Stop rhyming or—”
“Or you’ll walk on out thedoor, and you won’t come back no more?”
“Quit it!”
“
Any
more, I should have said. Rhyming’s messing with my head.”
Enough already,
thought Dyamonde. “Reed Freeman, stop rhyming right now, or after school, I’ll go on a treasure hunt with somebody else.”
“Treasure hunt?” That got Free’s attention. “What treasure hunt?”
Treasure Hunt
Free loved digging up secrets. Once, he helped his dad dig up an ancient time capsule with records from the olden days that his dad had planted back when he was in high school. Then there was the scavenger hunt Free went on at summer camp. That was fun. He’dnever heard of a girl digging up treasure, but if any girl could, it would be Dyamonde.
After school that day, they met out front and headed across the avenue, walking toward Broadway. On Broadway, Dyamonde turned right.
“Where’re we going?” asked Free.
“Almost there,” said Dyamonde.
Halfway down the block, Dyamonde stopped in front of an old store with a sign that read:
SECOND TIME AROUND
Free froze. He hated secondhand stores.
“I thought we were going to look for treasure,” said Free.
“We are,” said Dyamonde. “In there. Come on.”
Before Free could argue, Dyamonde grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. He held on to the door like his life depended on it and looked up and down the street. He’d die if anybody he knew saw him entering that stinky old place.
Second Time Around wasn’t actually stinky, but Free had madeup his mind that all secondhand stores were. Not that he was an expert. This was only the third time he’d ever been in one. The other two times, his mom had dragged him into one to shop for clothes. Even the memory made Free say yuck!
Once inside, Dyamonde let Free’s hand go.
“What kind of treasure are we supposed to find in here?” asked Free.
“You’re kidding, right?” said Dyamonde. “Look around.”
“I’m sorry,” said Free. “But I don’t like these places.”
“Why?”
“’Cause they’re full of old clothes and stuff people threw away. Why would I want stuff other people threw away when I could buy something new?”
Dyamonde shook her head impatiently.
“First of all, new is okay, but new is boring. It hasn’t been anywhere. And second, how do you know these things were thrown away? Maybe they wereleft over after a fire, or maybe a family all of a sudden disappeared, and their perfectly good clothes and furniture and stuff were mysteriously left behind.”
“Huh?”
“When I look at the stuff here, I always wonder where it’s been, what adventures it’s been on. Like those boots. Did somebody wear them to climb a mountain? Or that jacket. Maybe the sleeves of it once blew in the breeze along some famous river, like the Nile. You never know, right?”
Free scratched his head. “I guess,” he said.
“It’s not just old stuff, Free,” said Dyamonde. “Everything has a story. That’s kind of what makes it a
“Hardy-har-har,” said Dyamonde. “Like your poem was so much better.”
“You watch!” said Free. “I’m gonna win that thing.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Dyamonde. Just then, she noticed Damaris sitting two tables away. She wasn’t eating, though. Instead, she was reading a book.
She does that a lot,
thought Dyamonde.
In fact, I hardly ever see her eat. Is she on a special diet or something?
“Hello?” said Free. “Earth to Dy. Is anybody listening?”
“Huh? Sorry,” said Dyamonde. “Do you know anything about her?”
“About who?” asked Free.
“Damaris Dancer,” said Dyamonde.
“Nope,” said Free. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” said Dyamonde. “You know, she signed up for the contest. She might be good at writing poems. Her name kinda sounds like poetry.”
“So what?” said Free. “Nobody’s gonna win that contest except for me. There, you see? I know my poetry.”
“Oh, puleeze!” said Dyamonde. “Stop rhyming or—”
“Or you’ll walk on out thedoor, and you won’t come back no more?”
“Quit it!”
“
Any
more, I should have said. Rhyming’s messing with my head.”
Enough already,
thought Dyamonde. “Reed Freeman, stop rhyming right now, or after school, I’ll go on a treasure hunt with somebody else.”
“Treasure hunt?” That got Free’s attention. “What treasure hunt?”
Treasure Hunt
Free loved digging up secrets. Once, he helped his dad dig up an ancient time capsule with records from the olden days that his dad had planted back when he was in high school. Then there was the scavenger hunt Free went on at summer camp. That was fun. He’dnever heard of a girl digging up treasure, but if any girl could, it would be Dyamonde.
After school that day, they met out front and headed across the avenue, walking toward Broadway. On Broadway, Dyamonde turned right.
“Where’re we going?” asked Free.
“Almost there,” said Dyamonde.
Halfway down the block, Dyamonde stopped in front of an old store with a sign that read:
SECOND TIME AROUND
Free froze. He hated secondhand stores.
“I thought we were going to look for treasure,” said Free.
“We are,” said Dyamonde. “In there. Come on.”
Before Free could argue, Dyamonde grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. He held on to the door like his life depended on it and looked up and down the street. He’d die if anybody he knew saw him entering that stinky old place.
Second Time Around wasn’t actually stinky, but Free had madeup his mind that all secondhand stores were. Not that he was an expert. This was only the third time he’d ever been in one. The other two times, his mom had dragged him into one to shop for clothes. Even the memory made Free say yuck!
Once inside, Dyamonde let Free’s hand go.
“What kind of treasure are we supposed to find in here?” asked Free.
“You’re kidding, right?” said Dyamonde. “Look around.”
“I’m sorry,” said Free. “But I don’t like these places.”
“Why?”
“’Cause they’re full of old clothes and stuff people threw away. Why would I want stuff other people threw away when I could buy something new?”
Dyamonde shook her head impatiently.
“First of all, new is okay, but new is boring. It hasn’t been anywhere. And second, how do you know these things were thrown away? Maybe they wereleft over after a fire, or maybe a family all of a sudden disappeared, and their perfectly good clothes and furniture and stuff were mysteriously left behind.”
“Huh?”
“When I look at the stuff here, I always wonder where it’s been, what adventures it’s been on. Like those boots. Did somebody wear them to climb a mountain? Or that jacket. Maybe the sleeves of it once blew in the breeze along some famous river, like the Nile. You never know, right?”
Free scratched his head. “I guess,” he said.
“It’s not just old stuff, Free,” said Dyamonde. “Everything has a story. That’s kind of what makes it a
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