My Life as a Book (12 page)

When I get home from camp, there's an email from my grandma saying she can't wait until we visit again. My grandfather died three years ago and now she spends most days bowling with her girlfriends, who are all old but dye their hair and wear big jewelry to pretend they're not. Grandma knows Photoshop even better than my father and every email from her includes a funny drawing she made on her computer.

The address of the other email is unfamiliar, but as soon as I read it, I know what it's about.

Derek—

Thanks so much for your entry in our daughter's guestbook. Are you Derek Fallon from California? If so, tell your mother hello. Susan is still very much with us, and it comforts us to know how much she meant to others. I bet you're a wonderful boy and Susan looks down on you from heaven with pride.

Sincerely,
Madeline James

I read the email four times. Why is this woman being so
nice
? If Susan's watching me from heaven, it's probably with daggers in her eyes thinking about all the fun she's missing down here on earth. It's amazing she doesn't magically appear and push me in front of a train.

I never thought of Susan as some kind of guardian angel; is it possible she's still looking out for me? I stare at my inbox with Mrs. James's note back-to-back with my grandma's. Genius strikes. I head to the kitchen to find my mom.

“Grandma sure seems lonely,” I tell her.

Mom hammers chicken breasts with the pounder to tenderize them for dinner. For someone who dedicates her life to saving animals, she's merciless with the dead ones. “I thought we'd get out to see her this summer, but I don't have anyone to cover for me. I feel really guilty about it.”

Mom obviously didn't think before she answered. I put my plan into action.

“I hate to go the whole summer without seeing Grandma. I miss her so, so, so much.” I wonder if I used too many
so
's, but Mom puts down the pounder and tilts her head.

“I miss her too,” she says. “Let's go out for a nice New England visit this fall.”

I wonder if Mom is onto me and is dangling a pull-you-out-of-school trip to shut me up. But I stick to my original plan.

“October is so far away. It's been a year—I really
miss
her.”

She stares out the kitchen window and for once I don't interrupt her silence.

“You're right,” she finally says. “I'm going to switch my schedule around. Even a few days with Grandma this summer will be better than no days at all.”

I jump up and give Mom a hug. I know I should wait until tonight or maybe even tomorrow before I begin the next phase of the plan, but as usual, my mouth works at a faster speed than my brain. “Maybe while we're back East, we can see Matt.”

I'm not sure if it's her veterinary training or just her maternal instincts, but my mother now smells a rat. “Is that what this is about—going to see Grandma because you miss your friend?” When she realizes the second phase of my plan, her face flushes with anger. Why wasn't I a little more patient?

“Please tell me this has nothing to do with Susan James.”

I insist I'm only thinking about Grandma. “She just sent me an email—she misses me.” I make the mistake of pointing to the laptop.

When Mom sees the open email from Susan James's mother, I get a heaping helping of MomMad. It takes several minutes before she stops yelling.

“I
do
miss Grandma…. I just thought we could go to Martha's Vineyard too,” I admit.

When Mom sends me up to my room, I go. With the laptop.

Just because Mom has ruined my plan doesn't mean I still can't email Grandma to help talk my mother into a visit.

The next night, my mother walks into the kitchen with two large pizza boxes. Before I can rip them from her hands, she sits across from me and guards them with her body.

“Okay, here's the deal.”

It's difficult to concentrate with the smell of tomato, cheese, and pepperoni, but I try.

“As much as I hate you hatching secret plans, we do owe Grandma a visit,” she says. “So we're all flying to Boston for five days, leaving next Friday. It's the only time I can get Dr. Taylor to cover for me and it's good for Dad too.”

“That's great!”

“Dad and I were also trying to take a romantic weekend this summer—”

“Don't leave me with Amy!”

“Calm down. We decided to all go back East instead.”

I gather up my courage for the next question because I have to know. “Can we go to Martha's Vineyard? To see Matt, I mean.”

“I already spoke to Matt's mother. They're flying back after the fair, so they won't be there.”

I'm a little sad about not going to the Scene of the Crime with my best friend, but three days off from Learning Camp, a plane ride, and seeing my grandma are all reasons to celebrate.

Mom pulls out another bit of unexpected news. “We're going to the Vineyard anyway,” she says. “You've been so curious about Susan all summer. We'll go to South Beach, even visit Susan's mom. That way you can see there's no big mystery and move on.”

I jump up and down with excitement before I realize there has to be a catch. There's
always
a catch.

“But you have to work on the school reading list so we don't spend the rest of the summer arguing about it.”

Before I say “deal,” I decide to negotiate. “Can Bodi come with us?”

She shakes her head. “I think Bodi should stay at Pet Camp, don't you?”

When I stand toe-to-toe with her, I can't wait till we're both the same height—maybe that will make these discussions a little more fair. I look her in the eye and try one last plea. “He's part of the family. He should come.”

She thinks about this for a moment. “It
is
always more of a family vacation with Bodi. Deal.” She pushes one of the pizza boxes toward me. “This one's all yours.”

I tear open the box, but instead of a large pepperoni and cheese, I find three of the books from my summer reading list, including the one Ms. Williams gave me that I haven't read since Dad contaminated my flip-o-rama book. (Mom is
really
good at finding stuff.) She tries not to laugh, then points upstairs.

A third of a pizza is much less fun than one all to yourself, but I'm starving and open the other box. I take a slice and rip a paper towel from the roll and head up to my room.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Mom asks.

I grab Ms. Williams's book from the pizza box—it'll make a good plate—then plop down on my bed. For the first time, I notice the notes Ms. Williams made in the margins.
What is the main character feeling? What do you think could happen next?
Her notes raise questions of my own.
How long will it take to read a book if I have to stop every minute to answer these stupid questions?

I shove the book under my mattress and do something easier: email Grandma to tell her how happy I am that we're coming to Boston.

I keep Bodi on the leash when I take him for his morning walk, even though I know he'd love to chase a few squirrels. I used to let him off-leash, but my mother just treated a Lab that got hit by a car, and it was
not
a pretty sight. When we reach the lot near the recreation field, Bodi takes a leak and I do too. I find a shady spot under a large beech, and Bodi sneaks in next to me. He ran through a stream on our way here and now he has that wet-dog smell. It's my favorite aroma on the planet so I bury my face in his fur.

Across the field, a group of women are playing softball. I ignore them and reach for my book. I suddenly realize I'm reading a comic where Calvin leans against a tree with Hobbes next to him in the exact same position Bodi and I are in. Weird.

“Derek Fallon, is that you?”

I look up to see Ms. Williams running over from first base. She's wearing a Red Hot Chili Peppers tank top and high-top sneakers, and her hair's in pigtails. I try to pretend I'm someone else and hide behind Bodi, but she's already across the field.

“How's your summer going?”

I can't look her in the eye. She's wearing cut-off jeans and has a tattoo of a dove on her shoulder that I've never noticed. I feel like running home. Fast.

I mumble something about having a stinky summer.

She points to my Calvin and Hobbes book. “I see you're reading. That's not stinky.” She bends down to pet Bodi who slobbers all over Ms. Williams's face. But instead of backing away, she lets Bodi cover her with kisses and talks to him in the same stupid baby-voice my mother uses with every animal, even though she's a professional. If some moron like Joe Brennan is across the field watching Ms. Williams make out with my dog, I will never hear the end of it.

“I found the notes you wrote in the margins of the book you gave me.”

“Were they helpful?”

“A little.” I take my sketchbook out of my pack and show her the flip-o-rama movie of my summer so far.

She sits next to me on the grass and goes through the book herself. “I got an email from Carly saying you've been doing some great drawings this summer—I guess she was right.”

Carly sends emails to teachers? During vacation? What a FREAK! I am forever grateful to the pitcher who yells, “Annie! You're up!”

Ms. Williams heads back to her position, calling over her shoulder for me to enjoy the rest of the summer. If she weren't my teacher, she would almost seem cool. I inhale Bodi's aroma one more time and try to return to my book, but I can't. Carly emails Ms. Williams? She said my drawings were great? I wonder why she never told me?

When I get home, there are three emails waiting from Grandma saying how excited she is for our visit and asking if I want her to cook any special meals. I email her back and tell her I can't wait to see her too. I also happen to mention barbecued chicken, mashed potatoes, and chocolate cake with coconut frosting.

I know my mom would be mad, but the next site I go to is Susan James's guestbook. I've read these entries several times already, but the ones by Lauren Hutchins are funny and nice. Reading her entries, I find out she was with Susan at the beach that day. No one said anything about Susan being with a friend! I decide not to say anything to Mom in case she thinks I'm obsessed and cancels our trip.

I type Lauren's name into the search engine and learn she has a jewelry stall in an artists' gallery in Chilmark, which just happens to be on Martha's Vineyard. The photo shows silver bracelets and glass beads displayed in bowls of uncooked rice. On the “About Me” page, Lauren looks around the same age as Ms. Williams. I write down her store address on the inside cover of the book I'm supposed to be reading. Seeing Ms. Williams today makes me feel a tiny bit guilty about blowing off my reading yet again. Instead, I try to decide what would be more fun:

Both ideas seem fun, but my markers are calling. My hand hovers over the case—deep blue? Orangey brown? I choose the lime green, grab a handful of cookies from the cupboard, and head for the porch to draw.