Summer of the Gypsy Moths by Sara Pennypacker

my finger. “Louise broke her ankle. We’re here to let everyone in. That’s all.”
    â€œSure,” Angel agreed. I could tell she didn’t believe it any more than I did.
    Five minutes later, a blue SUV with a New York license plate pulled in. Big as it was, it still looked ready to burst with vacation stuff—bikes and boogie boards and fishing poles on the rack above; suitcases and coolers and beach chairs pressed against the back windows. Two red-haired boys about five or six burst out first, followed by a woman who got out and did some stretches as her sons chased each other around with the badminton racquets.
    â€œHere we go,” the woman sighed as her husband unfolded himself.
    â€œHere we go,” I said to Angel. We got up and headed for the car, and just then a second SUV—this one with Ohio plates—crunched up over the shell driveway. From it spilled two more kids—a boy around seven and a tiny little girl, each of them with a cloud of black curls and overalls on. And a third car, an old white Volvo wagon, pulled in before we’d even said hello to the first family.
    For the next hour and a half, Angel and I didn’t stop. We told everyone that Louise was sorry not to meet them, but she’d just broken her ankle and so we were in charge. Nobody raised an eyebrow. We opened all the cottages except Plover and showed the three families around and answered a million questions and ran back and forth to thesupply shed for charcoal and grill lighters and extra lawn chairs and croquet mallets.
    After the first big rush, Angel and I set ourselves up at the picnic table in our backyard, where everyone could see us in case they needed something. I thumbed through one of Louise’s gardening magazines, and Angel lay back with her earphones on. One by one, the families drove out—to show their kids the ocean, to find the center of town, or to pick up groceries for dinner, I guessed. But by the time evening fell, they were all back. The parents lit grills and cracked open beers and sprayed bug repellent and turned on radios. The kids ran around checking out the cottages and each other. Within half an hour, you’d think they’d grown up together.
    When the first hot dogs and hamburgers began to sizzle on the grills, Angel and I went in. We warmed up some tomato soup and spread peanut butter over the last of the crackers. Afterward, I went upstairs. I lay on my bed with my fists bunched under my chin and looked down over the cottages. There was something magic about them, the way they seemed to make everyone so happy. The kids hollered and chased each other through the yellow parallelograms of spilled window light. The parents laughed together quietly and then, at the same time, called their kids in. Magic.
    A half-moon rose in the sky. The scent of burntmarshmallows sweetened the air. And an emptiness welled up inside me. It felt like hunger, but it wasn’t in my stomach. I wondered if Angel, in the next bedroom, was watching the families, too. I wondered if her heart felt like it was clenching around nothing.

CHAPTER 13
    B y noon on Sunday, all three families had packed up their sunscreened kids, their coolers and rafts and towels, and headed out to begin their vacations.
    Angel and I stood at the window and looked out at the empty, silent yard.
    â€œNow what?” I asked.
    Angel shrugged. “Now nothing. Until they get back. Just normal life.”
    Normal life. My old life, with my mother the past two years, hadn’t even been close to normal. I’d been to four different schools while we bounced around Cape Cod, andthere’d been a couple of months in Oregon when I’d barely even been inside a classroom. The last time I’d had a normal life had been when we’d lived with my grandmother, and now that time seemed so far away, I was already forgetting it. This was my life now. I was a manager of the Linger Longer Cottage