Summer of the Spotted Owl by Melanie Jackson Page A

laughed, a tinkly sound, like music at a carnival. “I’ve brought something.” Getting out of the car, she reached into the backseat and picked up a balloon-patterned gift bag with curly white ribbons tumbling out the top. “For you,” she said.
    I brightened. Who wouldn’t, at the sight of a gift-wrapped package? Plus, Zoë fished another pair of cupcakes from her bag and handed them to me. I unwrapped and stuffed my face at the same time. “This is very nice of you,” I said somewhat indistinctly. I was glad Mother wasn’t there. She would have told me to refuse the gift since I didn’t know Zoë that well.
    Maybe I was still in fairy-tale mode after that chase through the Grimm-like forest, but Zoë reminded me of some magical character. Glinda the Good Witch, maybe. (When I was little, Dad, a mega-fan of Judy Garland, had played lots of her cds and movies for me. Now I was a mega-fan too. I must’ve seen The Wizard of Oz twenty-three times. So far.) Like Glinda, Zoë always arrived just when I needed cheering up.
    Underneath the ribbons was a rectangular, clear plastic packet with green showing through. I tore the packet open. The green unfurled — an inflatable turtle!
    â€œWow,” I said, gulping down the last of the second cupcake. “Thanks!”
    â€œRead the card,” Zoë urged.
    I untangled a small envelope from the ribbons. Inside was a silver card with stilted writing:
    Sorry about the crash into the pool. Sorry for scaring you. Sorry I wrecked your turtle. Hope this replacement turtle makes up for it.
    â€” Rock Cordes, Jr.
    p.s. Sorry.
    Zoë explained, “I told the councillor about the pranks and your turtle. He spoke to Rock Junior. We’re all very — ”
    â€œPlease.” I held up a sticky hand. “I don’t think I can handle another apology. Anyhow, this is really nice of you guys. I can spend the rest of the afternoon floating on my new turtle and reading Deathstalkers Conquer Jupiter .”
    â€œEr— right,” Zoë said uncertainly. Then her doll-like smile twinkled back. “I have a gift for you too, Dinah, because I know how much you like hang gliding.”
    She handed over another envelope. Inside, not, as I’d feared, another apology, but — wow. A pass for two to a High Spirits Hang Gliding show, July 17 on Grouse, where, as the pass said, High Spirits’ own instructors will swoop and dive for your viewing pleasure . Not only that, but there’d be food as well: barbecued hot dogs, salad buffet, French fries and make-your-own sundaes.
    â€œDouble, triple wow,” I exclaimed.
    Zoë patted my shoulder. “You choose a friend to bring along, and I’ll take you both there myself. And you’re not to worry about Rock Junior. He’s been told to stay away from this street. He’s caused you and your neighbors enough trouble!” She teetered off on her spike heels to the pink car.
    â€œWait,” I said as she prepared to take off again, Glinda-like, in a swirl of pink. “Do you happen to know if Rock Junior, has a buddy who’s bald?”
    Zoë stared. “A bald buddy,” she repeated, puzzled. “No, I can’t say that I do. But then Rock Junior would hardly confide in me about his social life.”
    When Madge got back and let me in, I faxed my memo off to Jack. Then I tried out my new turtle.
    â€œBombs away!” I shouted at an incoming hang glider. But the fun had gone out of the game for now. I was too bothered about Jack.
    What if he went the rest of his life without speaking to me? Suppose he and Madge had kids. Jack would refuse to introduce them to me. One day little Madge Junior might paw through a box of family photos and find a snap of a pudgy, bespectacled, red-haired girl.
    Who’s this, Dad?
    Oh, that’s Aunt Dinah. We don’t mention her name in this household.
    And r-r-rip ! Jack would tear up