learning how to go lobstering without throwing up.
Why’d I bring that up? I drum my fingers on my desk. Then I get a clean sheet of paper.
Dear Ms. Spinney,
Hello. My name is Tess Brooks, and I am eleven years old. Your son, Aaron, came to live with my family several weeks ago. He would like to see you, but it’s not allowed.
I’ve been thinking about this, and I have an idea. We live on Bethsaida Island in Maine, and we get lots of tourists here in the summer. So we’re used to seeing strangers on the ferry and walking around the island.
We have an island talent show on August 15th at 2:00 pm at the parish hall, and if you came and sat in the back of the audience and maybe called yourself a tourist (which you would be, since you don’t live here — so it’s not technically lying), Aaron could see you and you could see him. And no one would get in trouble.
He wanted to run away to see you, and I think you’ll agree that’s not a good plan. So maybe this could work out?
Sincerely,
Tess Brooks
P.S. He’s playing his trumpet in the show for you — he’s really, really good.
P.P.S. I’m enclosing a ferry schedule and a map of the island with the parish hall marked.
P.P.P.S. Could you also wear a little disguise? Just in case? Nothing too extreme (like a false mustache) but maybe sunglasses and/or a wig?
I write the address on an envelope and fold up my letter small enough to fit. If you write your wish beneath the stamp on a letter, the letter will carry the wish with it. Without even pausing to think, I write under the stamp:
Please come.
S ummer is short and changeable in Maine — like the weather can’t make up its mind. One day it can be ninety degrees, so hot in the sun that rivers of sweat trickle down my spine and my rubberized hauling pants stick to my skin wherever they touch it. A week later, it can turn so chilly and foggy that I’ll need jeans and a sweatshirt. The talk at the store is always the weather and the Red Sox — starting with whichever one is doing worse.
Because summers are so short, each day feels extra urgent, like you’d better grab it and enjoy it before it slides away into fall and winter again. Slow down , I want to say, to keep time from going too fast. I don’t want to think about how it’s almost August already.
Like the weather, I feel like I’m just waiting to see what’ll come next. Eben hasn’t caused any new problems, but I don’t trust him. And I mailed Aaron’smom’s letter three weeks ago, and she still hasn’t written back. “Don’t worry,” Aaron keeps telling me. “She’ll come.”
“Aha! Now I’ve got all the railroads,” Libby says one stormy afternoon, grabbing the stack of Monopoly property cards to hunt for the last railroad. “And you haven’t got any.” She stretches “any” extra long.
I cross my arms. “Of course I don’t have any railroads if you’ve got all of them. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense.”
Libby and I have been sitting on the living room floor long enough that my back is starting to hurt. I can stand for hours on the boat and not feel it, but sitting’s a different story. Dad and I’ll fish in the rain and even in the fog, but heavy wind or lightning keeps us ashore. So when Dad said, “Not today,” about fishing, Mom said it “would be nice” if I’d play Monopoly with Libby instead. “And let her be the banker,” Mom said. “It’s good math practice for her.”
When Mom says something “would be nice,” it sounds like you have a choice, but really you don’t.
I blow on the dice for luck and roll an eight. Libby is winning because she has all the yellows: Marvin Gardens, Ventnor Avenue, and Atlantic Avenue, and she’s closing in on the reds. All she needs is KentuckyAvenue and then she’ll have that whole side of the board. When Libby was littler I used to let her win, but now she does it on her own.
I have Boardwalk, and if I can get Park Place, I might be able to turn this
Why’d I bring that up? I drum my fingers on my desk. Then I get a clean sheet of paper.
Dear Ms. Spinney,
Hello. My name is Tess Brooks, and I am eleven years old. Your son, Aaron, came to live with my family several weeks ago. He would like to see you, but it’s not allowed.
I’ve been thinking about this, and I have an idea. We live on Bethsaida Island in Maine, and we get lots of tourists here in the summer. So we’re used to seeing strangers on the ferry and walking around the island.
We have an island talent show on August 15th at 2:00 pm at the parish hall, and if you came and sat in the back of the audience and maybe called yourself a tourist (which you would be, since you don’t live here — so it’s not technically lying), Aaron could see you and you could see him. And no one would get in trouble.
He wanted to run away to see you, and I think you’ll agree that’s not a good plan. So maybe this could work out?
Sincerely,
Tess Brooks
P.S. He’s playing his trumpet in the show for you — he’s really, really good.
P.P.S. I’m enclosing a ferry schedule and a map of the island with the parish hall marked.
P.P.P.S. Could you also wear a little disguise? Just in case? Nothing too extreme (like a false mustache) but maybe sunglasses and/or a wig?
I write the address on an envelope and fold up my letter small enough to fit. If you write your wish beneath the stamp on a letter, the letter will carry the wish with it. Without even pausing to think, I write under the stamp:
Please come.
S ummer is short and changeable in Maine — like the weather can’t make up its mind. One day it can be ninety degrees, so hot in the sun that rivers of sweat trickle down my spine and my rubberized hauling pants stick to my skin wherever they touch it. A week later, it can turn so chilly and foggy that I’ll need jeans and a sweatshirt. The talk at the store is always the weather and the Red Sox — starting with whichever one is doing worse.
Because summers are so short, each day feels extra urgent, like you’d better grab it and enjoy it before it slides away into fall and winter again. Slow down , I want to say, to keep time from going too fast. I don’t want to think about how it’s almost August already.
Like the weather, I feel like I’m just waiting to see what’ll come next. Eben hasn’t caused any new problems, but I don’t trust him. And I mailed Aaron’smom’s letter three weeks ago, and she still hasn’t written back. “Don’t worry,” Aaron keeps telling me. “She’ll come.”
“Aha! Now I’ve got all the railroads,” Libby says one stormy afternoon, grabbing the stack of Monopoly property cards to hunt for the last railroad. “And you haven’t got any.” She stretches “any” extra long.
I cross my arms. “Of course I don’t have any railroads if you’ve got all of them. Otherwise it doesn’t make sense.”
Libby and I have been sitting on the living room floor long enough that my back is starting to hurt. I can stand for hours on the boat and not feel it, but sitting’s a different story. Dad and I’ll fish in the rain and even in the fog, but heavy wind or lightning keeps us ashore. So when Dad said, “Not today,” about fishing, Mom said it “would be nice” if I’d play Monopoly with Libby instead. “And let her be the banker,” Mom said. “It’s good math practice for her.”
When Mom says something “would be nice,” it sounds like you have a choice, but really you don’t.
I blow on the dice for luck and roll an eight. Libby is winning because she has all the yellows: Marvin Gardens, Ventnor Avenue, and Atlantic Avenue, and she’s closing in on the reds. All she needs is KentuckyAvenue and then she’ll have that whole side of the board. When Libby was littler I used to let her win, but now she does it on her own.
I have Boardwalk, and if I can get Park Place, I might be able to turn this
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