Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Acknowledgements
The Martin Luther King Mitzvah
Mathew Tekulsky
Fitzroy Books
Copyright © 2018 Mathew Tekulsky. All rights reserved.
Published by Fitzroyk Books
an imprint of
Regal House Publishing, LLC
Raleigh, NC 27612
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN -13 (paperback): 978-1-947548-08-4
ISBN -13 (hardback): 978-1-947548-46-6
ISBN -13 (epub): 978-1-947548-09-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018939692
Interior design by Lafayette & Greene
Cover design by Lafayette & Greene
lafayetteandgreene.com
Cover image by AlohaHawaii/Shutterstock
Cover image by Lightfield Studios/Shutterstock
Fitzroy Books
fitzroybooks.com
Regal House Publishing, LLC
https://regalhousepublishing.com
To my parents, Patience Fish Tekulsky and Joseph D. Tekulsky;
and to my grandfather, Leo Fish, the real Grappa
Chapter One
I was twelve years old and in seventh grade when I started following Sally Fletcher home from school. She had the prettiest sandy-blonde ponytail I had ever seen and it swayed back and forth as she strolled ahead of me by half a block. I kept a safe distance just in case she turned around, and I tried to act nonchalant, as if I were just another kid on his way home from school. If she did look back in my direction, I figured I could always walk up a driveway or, if need be, duck behind a bush. However, I lived for each moment that she turned her head just far enough so that I could enjoy the beauty of her profile one last time before she turned up Willow Avenue to her house. We both lived in the historic section of Beachmont that was called the Manor, the area closest to the water where Colonial, Tudor, and Victorian houses lined the streets along the shores of the Long Island Sound in this Westchester suburb.
Sally had an angelic face, with a warm, friendly smile, a pair of intense blue eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. She took after Michelle Phillips from The Mamas and the Papas, and was just as beautiful. I was ecstatic when I discovered that we were in the same seventh grade class. I spent hours, when I should have been listening to the teacher, writing Sally Fletcher over and over on my pad, sometimes with her full name and sometimes with just her first.
Sally was twelve, like me, and she was a hippie girl. She loved to wear long, flowing white dresses and always had a flower in her hair. Sally was also an artist, and I loved to pass by Miss Palmer’s art class in school and take a look at Sally’s latest painting, usually something psychedelic in the style of a Peter Max poster. I was convinced that one glorious day Sally would notice me, and as a kid with my first crush, I could dream, couldn’t I? And dream I did as I followed Sally home on these after-school walks.
Sally and her older brother, Peter, lived in a house at the end of Willow Avenue, overlooking Willow Park, where a basketball court had been fashioned out of a concrete rectangle at the end of the baseball field. Every afternoon, I dribbled my basketball to the park and began shooting baskets, hoping that Sally would see me sinking fifteen-footers; but when I passed her in the hallways at school, rubbing up against her shoulder as if by accident, she never mentioned my basketball skills. I was quite sure that Sally was altogether unaware of my existence. But fortunately, when you are twelve, there are other things besides girls—things like Little League baseball, the creek, and the clubhouse that Jimmy Robbins and I built in the rushes. Jimmy and I spent many hours in that clubhouse, smoking cigarettes that he had stolen from his mother’s cigarette case. Even when I was relaxing in the clubhouse, however, I couldn’t entirely escape thoughts of Sally, knowing that she lived so close by.
All of the kids at school thought that Jimmy Robbins was a little slow, and I had overheard Mr. Roberts telling Principal Phillips about Jimmy’s difficulty with his homework, but that never bothered me. Sure, he had a hard time reading the books in Mr. Roberts’ English class, but that’s just because he had some kind of thing in his brain where he mixed up the words. Jimmy was actually very smart; he used to make balsa wood airplane models from the First World War; the Sopwith Camel was a particular favorite. The written instructions for this model consisted of lines and arrows and diagrams of every part of that plane, from the wings to the landing gear, and I couldn’t believe Jimmy could figure out how to put this thing together, but he did—not once, but again, and again until a whole fleet of them hung from the ceiling of his bedroom. He was like an engineer kid but because he couldn’t read quickly, a lot of people just assumed he was dumb. He was my friend, and I think he appreciated the fact that I thought of him as normal. But that didn’t stop the tough guys at school from calling Jimmy stupid, and they even called me an idiot when I stuck up for Jimmy. That didn’t keep me from palling around with him, though.
On my walks home from school, there was only one thing that could distract me from the rhythmic bob of Sally Fletcher’s ponytail, and that was Gladys McKinley’s house on the corner of Beach Avenue. Gladys McKinley was a great writer, and on every one of these walks home, I looked up the long driveway at her big house, hoping for a glimpse of her. I knew that she had once written children’s books, and I had even checked some of her books out from the school library. One was about a young girl, an amateur sleuth kind of like the Hardy Boys, who figured out the mystery of the missing cat food (the raccoon got it). I remembered running my hands along the spine of Where Did Whiskers’ Dinner Go? and imagining that someday my own name would be on the cover of a book that people would check out of the Beachmont Public Library. I couldn’t imagine anything better than being a famous writer, but now, Gladys had given all of that up and she didn’t want to be disturbed. She was a recluse.
The first time I encountered her was one chilly day in October, when I found myself walking down Beach
Avenue alone. I missed Sally’s bouncy ponytail, but there had been no sign of her when I left school. As I passed Gladys McKinley’s house, I sneaked up her driveway to try and catch a glimpse into her front porch. I got as far as the front step before I heard a woman’s voice shouting, “Go away! I don’t know who you are, but go away!”
I scampered down the driveway and onto Beach Avenue just as Sally Fletcher walked past. She nodded at me and my heart plummeted into my stomach; my fear of being pursued by Gladys was suddenly replaced by my terror at having to confront Sally Fletcher. Here she was, just inches away from me, and I could clearly see her deep blue eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but I just stood there with my mouth wide open.
“What are you doing?” Sally asked, her cheeks flushed from the crisp air. “Don’t you know she’s a
nutcase?”
I hadn’t really thought about it that way, but I was tempted to agree with Sally just because she was so pretty.
“Maybe,” I said. “I was just curious. I guess I want to be a writer too.”
“Do you want to carry my books?” Sally asked.
“Okay,” I said as nonchalantly as I could.
When we got to Sally’s house, she said, “Stay away from that old woman. I hear she eats little boys.” Then, breaking into a wholehearted laugh, Sally skipped up her front steps and into her house, her ponytail disappearing behind her.
I strolled home, consumed by a combination of delight and remorse; delight, because I had actually walked Sally Fletcher home; remorse, because during our brief exchange, I was worried that I hadn’t been cool enough or that I could have said something more amusing.
The next day, in English class, Sally passed me a note.
Thank you, it read.
I couldn’t believe my eyes, and my heart leapt with hope as I anticipated walking Sally home every afternoon. In my mind’s eye, I saw us strolling down Beach Avenue, hand in hand, as the autumn leaves fell. During the winter, she would throw a snowball at me and we would fall, laughing, into a big snowdrift together.
“Adam,” Mr. Roberts interrupted my thoughts. Our English teacher wore bow ties and sweater vests; he had white hair, was short and a bit stocky, and had never
married. “Adam,” Mr. Roberts repeated, “can you tell us Jack
London’s intentions in writing The Call of the Wild?”
I muttered something about the spirit of the wilderness but all I could think about was the way Sally Fletcher’s eyes shone in the afternoon light, her wide-open laugh, and the golden streaks in her bouncing ponytail. After school, I walked down Beach Avenue but Sally was nowhere to be seen. At Gladys McKinley’s house, I saw the great author raking up a few stray leaves in her front yard. She paused, leaning on her rake for a moment, before calling out to me, “Aren’t you that kid who snuck up to my porch the other day?”
I nodded sheepishly, standing there like a fool.
“You should learn to give people a little privacy,” Gladys McKinley went on. “If I want you to visit me, I’ll ask.”
I kept standing there while she continued her raking. Then she stopped again and looked over at me.
“What are you looking at?” she inquired sharply.
“Nothing,” I replied, hastening down Beach Avenue, wondering how the real Gladys McKinley could be so different from the person who had written all of those charming books. How could she be so mean? I thought. And being a great writer, too. Maybe writing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I walked all the way home without Sally and without my vision of Gladys McKinley as a nice person who would someday be a friend.
Over the next few days, Sally let me carry her books home, and when we passed Gladys McKinley’s house, we didn’t see any activity at all. Sally told me that she wanted to be a painter like Peter Max and have her posters plastered on the walls of everybody’s bedroom. Maybe she could even do album covers too, she said, like for The Mamas and the Papas. When I told her that she looked just like Michelle Phillips, Sally smiled and flipped her ponytail back and forth with her hand.
“You really think so?” she asked.
“Well, you don’t look like Cass,” I replied, and we both got a laugh out of that. I left her then and walked home six feet off the ground.
The next day, I passed Sally’s table in the lunchroom and she called out to me. Sally was sitting with Paula Young, the most popular girl in seventh grade. Paula wore a stylish pink polka-dot dress with a matching ribbon in her hair and Sally looked sweetly lovely in a green dress with yellow and orange flowers. I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified that Sally had asked me to come over. Perhaps sensing my nervousness, Paula left with a twitter and a sideways glance, and Sally and I were alone.
“Do you want to sit down?” she asked.
I lowered myself onto the chair across from her and took out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from my lunchbox. Looking across the crowded lunchroom, I noticed Jimmy Robbins looking over at me, holding both thumbs up. I suddenly felt nervous again. I didn’t know how to tell Sally that I wanted to be a famous writer without sounding really stupid, but I couldn’t figure out what to do about Gladys McKinley. Maybe Sally could help me, I thought, so I told her about how Gladys McKinley had barked at me.
“Why don’t you write her a note?” Sally suggested. “Put it in her mailbox. Ask her if you can come over and visit. Tell her you want to be a writer.”
“I couldn’t do that,” I muttered dejectedly. “She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Sally said. “She’s just unhappy. I think she needs our help.”
I thought about it as I finished my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It dawned on me that Sally was offering to help. I was secretly thrilled that she was talking about us now, and not you, and that perhaps we could be a team in some particular way.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said.
“Write out the note,” Sally replied as the bell rang. Jimmy Robbins met me in the hallway, and we walked together to Mr. Roberts’ English class. After I had finished my composition on The Call of the Wild, I penned out a note for Gladys—
I’m sorry I bothered you and I’m sorry that I snuck up on your house, but I want to be a writer and you’re the only writer I know. Can you help me?
After school, Sally and I walked to Gladys’ driveway, at the end of which, perched on a pole, was a wooden mailbox in the form of a red barn.
“Well?” Sally poked me in my side. “Go on, open the mailbox.”
“Maybe she’s watching,” I said, glancing nervously at the silent porch. I had a vision of Gladys running down the driveway, wielding her rake like a weapon to chase us both away.
“Give me that note,” Sally demanded, yanking open the mailbox and shoving the note inside. “There. Done.”
We were halfway to Sally’s house before I realized that I hadn’t included my phone number or any contact information on the note.
“I think she’ll know where to find you,” Sally said, as she jumped up the steps to her front door. “Courage!” she called as she waved goodbye. Then she was gone.
Walking back to my house, I wondered how a girl with a bouncy ponytail could have more courage than me—a boy who shot baskets every day and was, like other boys, expected to be brave all the time. I was in awe of her determination and resolve, and the way she asked me in a forthright, confident fashion if I wanted to carry her books and eat lunch together.
In fact, I was so nervous about leaving the note in Gladys McKinley’s mailbox that I could hardly eat or sleep that night. During school the following day, I pondered about how she might react, whether she would call my parents to make me stop harassing her or contact the Beachmont Police Department. I became increasingly jittery and anxious, and had worked myself up into such a state that I avoided walking home on Beach Avenue, just because I didn’t want Gladys to come running out of the house and yell at me for leaving notes in her mailbox.
That night we had a windstorm and in the morning maple leaves littered the ground. These were the fresh, invigorating days of October in the New York suburbs. I always knew when autumn had arrived because Mr. Walton, who lived across the street from us, was particular about his yard looking perfect; he didn’t like the fallen leaves smothering his flowerbeds. Each year after the first big leaf fall, he brought his teenage son out into the yard to rake up the leaves and shove them into metal garbage cans. I knew then that it wouldn’t be long before I had to rake up our own leaves and pile them into our own garbage can. I always felt that the best part of fall was running into those massive piles of leaves and disappearing into a darkness that was red and brown when you squinted with your eyes, or lying atop the leaves as if they were a gi
ant mattress. The leaves had a musty smell and the dirt always got onto your clothes, but I didn’t care, and my mother never complained about it. I guess she knew that this was a small price to pay for enjoying the leaves and being close to the earth at that time of year.
I must have been lost in my thoughts that afternoon as I made my way home; I suddenly realized that I had accidentally taken Beach Avenue and was walking right past Gladys McKinley’s house. And, as if in a dream, I heard her voice calling out to me, and there was Gladys, standing in her front yard with a rake in her hand. I felt like running away, but instead I just stood there, not knowing what to do.
“Well,” she said, “are you going to help me or not?”
I scurried over to her.
“Put the leaves into the garbage can,” Gladys instructed as she raked the leaves into a pile. “I’ll pay you fifty cents to finish this up with me.”
I scooped the leaves from the ground with wide-open arms and dropped them in the can. I worked until the can was filled, and then pulled it down to the curb for the garbage men. Gladys handed me two quarters and invited me inside for a cup of hot chocolate. Her kitchen looked like a red gingham country cupboard, with neatly lined jars of preserves and jellies, and white curtains on the windows. Gladys heated up the milk on the stove and motioned for me to sit at the table.
“Now, what’s this about wanting to be a writer?” she asked, adding, “I got your note.”
“I want to be like you,” I stated, hands fidgeting in my lap.
“Oh, you do, do you?” Gladys replied. She smoothed her white hair behind her ears and went on, “All good writers are great readers, you know. What’s your favorite book?”
“The Twisted Claw,” I replied, referring to the Hardy Boys book that I was currently reading. Then I added quickly, “and Treasure Island.”
“Have you ever written anything before?” she asked.
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