“Your own computer,” he echoed like an idiot. Being around this girl pretty much sucked all the brains out of his head.
“Yes. A notebook computer that runs on batteries so you can take it anywhere with you.”
“Oh. So you must really like computer games.”
The smile flashed again. “I want it for writing. I like to write.”
God. That was like doing homework without even being told. “What do you write?”
“Stories, poems, things that happen to me.” She reached under the passenger seat of the truck and pulled out a thick spiral-bound notebook. Flipping through it, she showed him page after page covered with writing in bright turquoise ink.
“You wrote all that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How long did it take you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t keep track.”
“Are you going to write about—about today?” he couldn’t help asking.
“Are you kidding? Of course I am.”
He found himself wondering what she would write about him. To his surprise, he realized that it mattered. He liked this girl as much has he’d ever liked any girl.
They heard a clatter from the kitchen, the sound of a rack being rolled toward the door.
“My grandfather,” Jenny said. “I’ll be leaving soon.”
Don’t go, he thought. “Listen, you shouldn’t be afraid to come back here. I’ll make sure those guys don’t mess with you again.”
“I’m not scared of them.” She paused, took a step back, folding her arms protectively across her chest. “The scariest thing about today was you.”
What the heck…? He sure hadn’t expected that.
“Rourke,” someone called. Joey. Back from his solo expedition. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over camp for you.” He arrived from the lakefront, still wearing his backpack and clanking with gear.
Sure, they were best friends, but just this once, Rourke wasn’t all that glad to see Joey. Rourke was having a real actual conversation with a real actual girl, and he wanted her all to himself. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, though. He introduced them, feeling formal and awkward as he did so.
Joey wasn’t awkward at all. He grinned from ear to ear, shook back his long black hair, turned on his boy-band charm, then launched into an animated account of his solo adventure in the wilderness. He’d only been gone two days, yet he seemed…different. More sure of himself, maybe.
“What’s up with the Band-Aids?” he asked Rourke.
“Trent,” was all Rourke said. It was all he had to say. Joey got it.
Jenny Majesky didn’t even seem to mind that Joey was filthy and sweating. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Does a bear crap in the woods?” Joey replied.
“I guess you’d know,” she said, and headed to the racks in the back of the truck. “Maple bars,” she said. “They’re my favorites.” She handed one to him and then one to Rourke.
“Thanks,” he said, but Joey was already gabbing away, some story about seeing the red eyes of wild animals at night.
And Rourke’s heart sank. Because it was already too late. Now Joey was checking her out, too. And Rourke knew that when two best friends wanted the same thing, it could only mean trouble.
CHAPTER SEVEN
July 3, 1988
Dear Mom,
This morning I was working behind the counter so Laura could get caught up on the books. When I was little, I used to feel really important, standing on a step stool behind the curved glass cases while people agonized over their choices. Kolache or cruller? Napoleon or cream puff? I suppose you could say it gave me a sense of power, having what they want so bad. Badly. I always get the -ly words mixed up, sorry.
And then this morning the Alger family came in, Mr. and Mrs. Alger and their little boy, Zach, who is about as cute as a kid on a Cheerios commercial. They have a big house up on the River Road and a new car every year.
They make me uncomfortable for several reasons. The top three are:
They are just a totally normal family, so traditional, it makes me feel like a freak, because our own family is so totally not traditional.
Mr. Alger is always asking me if I remember stuff about you, even though everybody in town knows I was really little when you took off. I would probably be carted off to the tee-hee farm if people knew all these diary entries are letters to you. But then again, maybe not. Anne Frank called her diary “Dear Kitty” so maybe it’s not that weird for me to call mine “Dear Mom.”
Mrs. Alger feels sorry for me, and she doesn’t even try to hide it. I hate that. I hate it anytime somebody thinks I’m this pathetic orphan and starts feeling sorry for me.
As soon as they left, I told Gram and Laura I wanted to do deliveries with Grandpa on the afternoon run. I had to get out. Because sometimes the bakery smells like safety—warm and sweet. But other times, like today, that same smell presses down on me and it’s hard to breathe.
“Such a glorious summer day,” Laura said. “You should be out in the fresh air.”
Laura always understands me. She says she’s like a second mom to me but that’s not quite right. In order to have a second mom, I’d need a first, and I don’t have that. I tell people you are doing undercover work for the government. When I was little, I thought they believed me but now I can see it in their faces—people think you took off and never came back because you didn’t want the trouble of raising a kid by yourself.
Well, you know what? I’m really not that much trouble. Ask anybody.
Like today, Grandpa was happy to let me ride along in the truck. He just retired from the glassworks down in Kingston. He’s hard of hearing on account of the noise at the plant. Now he helps out at the bakery and, every chance he gets, he goes fishing at Willow Lake. He’s friends with Mr. Bellamy, who owns the lake and Camp Kioga.
Fishing is
