The Summer of Moonlight Secrets by Danette Haworth

the box back. “Try again.”
    Sighing, I plant my right foot squarely on the board and pump with my left. Surprisingly, skateboarding over level ground is easier than riding down the hill. I think it has something to do with control.
    â€œDoing good!” Chase yells behind me.
    This is all right. Better than walking, for two reasons: number one, it’s faster; number two, I’m making my own breeze by sailing on the board.
    When we get up to the intersection, I put my foot down to stop, but my flip-flop curls under and I scrape my toes on the concrete. I stumble and fall off—visions of getting run over hit me—and the board skitters off the curb and gets stuck in a grate. Someone pounds their car horn at me while making the turn. It sounds like, Dummy! You’re a dummy!
    â€œIdiots,” Chase says as he catches up to me. “You all right?”
    My knee and ankle are scratched up, but there’s only a little bit of blood. Now I can understand how he got hurt. “I’m kinda done with this,” I say. “Besides, Brimble’s is right there.”
    He glances across the street, and I grin, knowing I’m saved.
    A chain of bells tinkles as we open Brimble’s door. Ah, air-conditioning. The bells are really Christmas décor; so are the white lights lining most roofs and porches downtown. It’s part of what gives this place so much character.
    â€œHello, Allie Jo.” Old Mrs. Brimble comes out from her sitting area. She’s got a TV back there and a couple of comfy chairs. “You have something for me?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” I hand her the box with stuff for the festival.
    â€œI don’t believe I’ve met you before, young man.” Her eyes twinkle at Chase.
    He cocks a smile and looks at her through his hair, which he flips out of his eyes.
    â€œI’m Chase,” he says, extending his hand across the counter.
    â€œOh, well”—Mrs. Brimble stretches her own hand and shakes his—“aren’t you something?”
    Chase laughs and looks down at his feet before looking up. “Thank you,” he says.
    I tell her we want two ice-cold lemonades, but before I can pay, Chase pulls some bills from his pocket and puts the change in the tip jar.
    â€œWell!” Mrs. Brimble says; then, in a stage whisper, “I like your young man!”
    â€œWhat? He’s not my—”
    â€œIt’s okay, honey. You enjoy those lemonades!” Her eyes sparkle like she knows something.
    I frown as I turn away from the counter, but Chase smirks.
    â€œIt’s not funny,” I say. “She thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend.”
    â€œThat’s why it’s funny,” Chase says.
    He starts for a table, but I head for the door. “Let’s sit outside,” I say. I don’t want any more of Mrs. Brimble’s lovey-dovey talk. The bells tinkle after us.
    We sit on white rockers and sip our lemonade. Fans spin lazily over our heads. One thing about Mrs. Brimble—she’s a hard worker. None of her tables or chairs are sticky, and that’s a challenge when you’re running an ice-cream store.
    A few cars pass through the light as it changes. People, mostly ladies, stroll along the sidewalk with fancy boutique bags.
    â€œUh-oh.” I shrink into my rocker.
    â€œWhat?” Chase leans forward. “What?”
    â€œDon’t look at them,” I say. “But see those three girls coming? They’re from my school.”
    Chase looks confused. “So? Don’t you want to say hi to them?”
    Jennifer, Heather, and Lori—the top girls in school. “I can’t say hi to them—they’re the popular people.”
    He shakes his head like I’m the one confused. So I say, “They kick my backpack and one of them slapped my shoulder because I sat in the bus seat she was saving. I didn’t even know she was saving