saltwater taffy and choose a new skinny-punch book.
42 Miles
by Tracie Vaughn Zimmer. There’s a girl’s face and a map on the cover.
Where is she going?
I wonder.
The first page tells me that the main character is facing big changes in her life. The second page starts:
I look just like Mom—
hazel eyes
straight brown hair.
Even my dimples
match hers.
My chest tightens. I close the book.
Why do I have to look just like my birthfather? Why can’t I look just like my mother? Maybe then I wouldn’t be such a painful reminder to her.
I finish the book quickly. On the page inside the front cover I write: “I like how JoEllen brings the half of herself she is in her mother’s house and the half of herself she is in her father’s house together to make a whole. Gorgeous writing, vibrant, fresh, and hopeful.”
I get a drink of water. Brush my teeth. Still no Mom. I remember the book Will gave me today, still in my beach bag.
I open
Skellig
and read the first line.
“I found him in the garage on a Sunday afternoon.”
The plot is engaging, the language lyrical, each chapter a quick, tight scene. I keep writing “nice” in the margins.
A knock on my door. My breath catches.
Finally. This is it. “Come on in, Mom.”
CHAPTER 20
Gifts from My Father
If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;
I had it from my father.
— Shakespeare
Straight out, I tell her. How Will thinks Billy Havisham is still alive. About Will’s folder full of newspaper clippings and clues. About our road trip around the Cape today checking out possible leads.
“Oh, Willa,” Mother says, coming to sit next to me on my bed. “I wish you had talked with me. I could have spared you….” She looks away.
“Spared me what?”
“Billy Havisham is dead,” she says.
“But it’s possible….”
“No.” Mother shakes her head. “It’s not. Your father died in a hot-air balloon crash the day after our wedding.”
“But are you sure?” I say. “His body was never recovered. What if he survived somehow and —”
“No, Willa. He didn’t.”
“How do you know?” I say, my voice rising. “Maybe he struck his head and got amnesia and when rescuers found him he didn’t know his name and —”
“No, honey. That didn’t happen. He’s dead. That’s all.”
“But what if you’re wrong, Mom?” I shout, my voice cracking.
“Willa.” My mother brushes my hair off my forehead. She stares at me. “Look at those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes. Just like his.”
“I know, I know,” I say angrily. “The one and only good thing.”
“Willa … no,” Mother says. “You have your father’s boundless enthusiasm. And his beautiful way with words. You get those gifts from your father.”
My eyes fill with tears. “But maybe, just maybe, he is still alive.” My whole body is shaking with conflicted feelings, like the point at Poppy Spit where the ocean current meets the mild bay, swirling, swirling.
“Wait here, Willa,” Mother says. “I need to get something.”
Moments later, she returns. She hands me a folder. I open it.
A letter from the US Coast Guard “regretting to inform …” I read through to the end. They searchedand dredged the waters for miles around. They found articles of his clothing, his wallet, and then, horribly, something washed up onshore farther up the coast two days later. A severed limb, Billy’s leg, with clear evidence of shark mutilation.
“Oh, my gosh.” I gasp, feeling sick to my stomach.
“I know, honey,” Mother says, touching my arm.
“But why didn’t you ever tell me this?”
“I’m sorry, Willa,” she says. “Maybe it was wrong not to tell you, but I didn’t want you having nightmares. He was dead and that was all. I know you, sweetheart. I imagined you’d play the awful story out over and over again in your beautiful imagination. I didn’t want that scary, tragic ending in your mind.” Mother makes a squeaking sound. Her lips tremble.
“I know you
42 Miles
by Tracie Vaughn Zimmer. There’s a girl’s face and a map on the cover.
Where is she going?
I wonder.
The first page tells me that the main character is facing big changes in her life. The second page starts:
I look just like Mom—
hazel eyes
straight brown hair.
Even my dimples
match hers.
My chest tightens. I close the book.
Why do I have to look just like my birthfather? Why can’t I look just like my mother? Maybe then I wouldn’t be such a painful reminder to her.
I finish the book quickly. On the page inside the front cover I write: “I like how JoEllen brings the half of herself she is in her mother’s house and the half of herself she is in her father’s house together to make a whole. Gorgeous writing, vibrant, fresh, and hopeful.”
I get a drink of water. Brush my teeth. Still no Mom. I remember the book Will gave me today, still in my beach bag.
I open
Skellig
and read the first line.
“I found him in the garage on a Sunday afternoon.”
The plot is engaging, the language lyrical, each chapter a quick, tight scene. I keep writing “nice” in the margins.
A knock on my door. My breath catches.
Finally. This is it. “Come on in, Mom.”
CHAPTER 20
Gifts from My Father
If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;
I had it from my father.
— Shakespeare
Straight out, I tell her. How Will thinks Billy Havisham is still alive. About Will’s folder full of newspaper clippings and clues. About our road trip around the Cape today checking out possible leads.
“Oh, Willa,” Mother says, coming to sit next to me on my bed. “I wish you had talked with me. I could have spared you….” She looks away.
“Spared me what?”
“Billy Havisham is dead,” she says.
“But it’s possible….”
“No.” Mother shakes her head. “It’s not. Your father died in a hot-air balloon crash the day after our wedding.”
“But are you sure?” I say. “His body was never recovered. What if he survived somehow and —”
“No, Willa. He didn’t.”
“How do you know?” I say, my voice rising. “Maybe he struck his head and got amnesia and when rescuers found him he didn’t know his name and —”
“No, honey. That didn’t happen. He’s dead. That’s all.”
“But what if you’re wrong, Mom?” I shout, my voice cracking.
“Willa.” My mother brushes my hair off my forehead. She stares at me. “Look at those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes. Just like his.”
“I know, I know,” I say angrily. “The one and only good thing.”
“Willa … no,” Mother says. “You have your father’s boundless enthusiasm. And his beautiful way with words. You get those gifts from your father.”
My eyes fill with tears. “But maybe, just maybe, he is still alive.” My whole body is shaking with conflicted feelings, like the point at Poppy Spit where the ocean current meets the mild bay, swirling, swirling.
“Wait here, Willa,” Mother says. “I need to get something.”
Moments later, she returns. She hands me a folder. I open it.
A letter from the US Coast Guard “regretting to inform …” I read through to the end. They searchedand dredged the waters for miles around. They found articles of his clothing, his wallet, and then, horribly, something washed up onshore farther up the coast two days later. A severed limb, Billy’s leg, with clear evidence of shark mutilation.
“Oh, my gosh.” I gasp, feeling sick to my stomach.
“I know, honey,” Mother says, touching my arm.
“But why didn’t you ever tell me this?”
“I’m sorry, Willa,” she says. “Maybe it was wrong not to tell you, but I didn’t want you having nightmares. He was dead and that was all. I know you, sweetheart. I imagined you’d play the awful story out over and over again in your beautiful imagination. I didn’t want that scary, tragic ending in your mind.” Mother makes a squeaking sound. Her lips tremble.
“I know you
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