A Summer of Sundays

by Lindsay Eland

  “Bo?” It was Henry now.

  “We’re in the basement!”

  Henry blasted into the room and looked around. “What’s down here?”

  “You know, more old dusty boxes,” I said, walking to the doors and hoping they’d follow me. “Nothing much. Now, why don’t you guys go upstairs and see what Mom and Dad need help with?”

  Bo sat down on one of the chairs, then Henry did, too. “No, I want to stay down here with you.”

  “Yeah, me too. CJ might like this for a fort,” Henry said, glancing around.

  “NO!” I said quickly. “You should make one outside. Besides, we have to organize down here.”

  “Oh.”

  I sighed.

  “Sunday?” Now it was Mom.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you come up here and help finish sorting this stack? And boys, I still need you to help move more books.”

  I followed Bo and Henry out of the basement and turned to get one last look at the box.

  I had to find out what was in there.

  THE NEXT three days were filled from sunrise till sunset with so much stacking, separating, wiping, sweeping, vacuuming, and dusting that I never got a chance to sneak away to the basement. I saw the silver box glinting now and then in the bit of sun that slipped through the small basement window, but with Bo on my heels and CJ getting into mischief every time I turned around, there was never anything I could do about it. On the third day, after the triangle clanged announcing dinner, I realized I was just going to have to go to the library by myself. I’d creep out while my brothers were taking their baths and my sisters were holed up in their room.

  Dad locked up the library, and we all met in the dining room. Spaghetti and bread sat steaming on the table.

  “The director said that I could help with costumes for the play,” Emma said. Her eyes sparkled, and she talked in quick bursts of excitement. “They’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’m thinking simple but elegant.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Mom said, though I could tell she was calculating the number of hours she was going to spend behind Emma’s sewing machine.

  “Mom let me drive home,” May said, twirling a glob of spaghetti around her fork.

  Mom nodded and gave Dad a shaky smile.

  I’d witnessed both of my parents in the car with May and decided that even though Mom’s face and neck broke into hives, and she and May always ended up crying at the end, Mom was a little better under pressure than Dad. He always got frustrated with May’s lack of driving skills and wound up throwing his hands in the air, yelling, and then taking the wheel and driving back to the house.

  “And how did it go?” Dad asked.

  May let the spaghetti drop off her fork and shrugged. “It went pretty good.”

  “Pretty good?” Emma cried. “She almost killed us! First she barely missed a mailbox when she looked out the window at a dog, then she ran a stoplight and got honked at, and then she knocked over the trash cans in the driveway because she—”

  “I just misjudged the distance!” May shouted.

  “They were right in front of you!”

  “That’s enough,” Dad said. “I think you have the driving part down. It’s just the paying-attention part that needs some work.”

  Emma laughed and mumbled something under her breath but was silenced by a glare from Dad.

  After dinner was finally over, I waited up in my room until I heard the water running downstairs and my sisters’ door close. Then I found Dad. He was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the timer to ding, signaling that the last dozen of his Fowler Family Chocolate Chip Cookies were ready to come out of the oven. On the counter, earlier batches of cookies were cooling on wire racks next to four loaves of Mom’s pumpkin bread.

  “Dad, I think I left something over at the library. Can I run and get it?”

  Lucky for me, the timer dinged at that moment. Dad sprang out of his seat, rustled in his pocket, and handed me a set of keys before rushing to the oven and pulling out a tray of lightly browned cookies. He smiled with almost evil delight. My dad loved chocolate chip cookies almost more than life itself. If Mom didn’t hide some of them, we’d be lucky if we got to eat two each before they were gone.

  He lifted them one by one off the tray and onto a cooling rack. “The key to the library is the gold one,” he said, not taking his eyes off his task. “Make sure you turn out the lights and lock up after you’re done.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I slipped out the front door, dashed for the library, and was inside before anyone saw me.

  I ran down to the basement, pushed through the door, and went to where the silver box sat. My fingertips tingled with anticipation. Whatever was inside, it had to be really important or it wouldn’t have been locked up and set high on a shelf.

  Maybe it was a confession.

  SUNDAY FOWLER UNLOCKS CRIME OF THE PAST.

  Hefting the box onto the desk, I took a deep breath and gently opened the small door.

  A bundle of envelopes, yellow with age, sat on top with the word Librarian written in blue ink—just old, musty documents. I plopped them into the cardboard box, my excitement dwindling.

  The only other thing was a stack of typed papers held together by a large red rubber band. I picked up the bundle and read:

  CHAPTER ONE

  The town of Price was as old and tired as the wrinkled ladies who sat outside fanning themselves on porches in the afternoon sun. Everyone and everything seemed to melt together. The girl, Lilly, rubbed her stomach, hungry. Like always. But the creek below her on the other side of the Johnstons’ house was calling her name, and she had a frog that needed something to eat. Since she was the one who captured him, she thought it best that she feed him before herself. It was only fair.

  Lilly, wearing the overalls she was only allowed to wear on Saturdays—every other day she had to wear tight-necked dresses—picked her way down the path, poison ivy thick and drippy on the one side and jaggers reaching out for her skin on the other. Not paying too much mind to anything else besides catching a few crickets and then getting back home, she almost missed the boy in the weeds.

  If it wasn’t for his greased-back dark hair shining in all that green, and his glasses catching a glimmer of sunlight, she probably would have, and inwardly chastised herself for not paying better attention.

  “Hey,” she said. The boy sat among the ivy, the ugly leaves caressing his skin. “You know you’re sitting right smack-dab in the middle of poison ivy?”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “Well, aren’t you gonna get out?”

  He shook his head no. “I’m not allergic. I’m not allergic to anything.”

  “Are you stupid or something?”

  “Nope. I get all A’s.”

  Lilly laughed. She either liked him already or hated his guts. “Well, maybe they didn’t teach you anything in your school ’cause everyone’s allergic to poison ivy.” Of course, she didn’t know if that was completely true. Still, she’d listened to enough of her daddy’s yelling to realize that if you say something as if it were true, why then, everyone believes it is.

  “I’m not.”

  Lilly’s smile disappeared.

  Nope. She definitely did not like him.

  Her hand itched to reach out and take a swipe at him. But she didn’t want to get poison ivy herself—something her daddy would be awful unforgiving about. Lilly shrugged and continued on her way. “Suit yourself.”

  When she came back up the path, her jar full of plump black crickets and one grasshopper, the boy was gone. Lilly smiled to herself. He must’ve come to his senses and realized she was right. She was right about most things and wouldn’t admit it if she wasn’t. That’s why the boy stirred her up. He seemed pretty certain, and the only thing she hated more than being wrong was being made to look silly.

  The next day, Lilly was sitting on the front porch while her daddy was in his bedroom sleep
ing on and on, when who should walk up but that dark-haired boy with his ridiculous-looking glasses.

  He stopped at the little run-down fence and wiggled a loose white post. “You’re Lilly, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The man at the corner store told me you were. I’m Mark.”

  “Maybe you are smart,” she said in her best sarcastic voice. “Well, Mark, how bad do you itch?”

  He smiled wide, which irked Lilly something awful, then held out his arm, the skin smooth as buttermilk without so much as a single bump or mark. “Told you. I’m not allergic.”

  That was when she officially went from not liking the dark-haired, ridiculous-looking boy to hating that dark-haired, ridiculous-looking boy.

  I smiled at the pages in my hand.

  “Hello? Is someone down there?” Mom’s voice called from the top of the stairs.

  I jumped, my heart pounding. “It’s only me. I’ll be up in a minute. I just thought I left something down here.”

  “Is that you, CJ?”

  I sighed. “No, it’s Sunday.”

  Her footsteps started down the stairs, and I rushed to close the box and put it back against the wall. “Do you know where he and Henry and Bo are? They dried off after their baths and then disappeared.”

  I tucked the papers under my top, thankful that I was wearing my loosest T-shirt—the one I’d gotten for reading the most books during the summer last year (I was hoping to win this year’s T-shirt, too). “No, but I haven’t been here long.”

  The footsteps stopped. “Are you coming up?”

  “Yeah, in a minute.”

  “Well, make sure you lock the doors.”

  “I will.”

  I patted the pages under my shirt. Why had they been locked away in the basement of the library? Maybe it really was a long, drawn-out confession of a crime. Or maybe it was a story written by someone in town? Like someone’s diary.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Or it might be nothing at all.

  I started up the basement stairs, careful to keep the papers pressed against my stomach. Either way, nobody in my family could know about this.

  I FLICKED off the main light in the library, then turned the key in the lock. The hazy twilight melted with the ground, and the evening air was crisp. Fireflies blinked on and off, and the hidden crickets were just beginning to sing. I started back to the house, excited about the rubber-banded pages.

  “What are you hiding?”

  My heart stopped for a second and I jolted to a halt, clutching the papers tighter against my skin. I searched the dusk. The voice came from behind a large tree. “CJ, is that you? I swear I’m going to kill you.”

  I waited for my brother’s laughter. Getting scared by him again; he’d never let me live it down. A twig snapped, and the leaves shivered above me. I swallowed down the urge to scream. “CJ, you better come out. I mean it.” I tried to make my voice strong, but it came out more like a timid squeak.

  I watched the darkness. There was a small rustling of grass and branches. A figure stepped out from behind a tree. Whirling around, I bolted toward the house.

  “No, wait!” the voice called out behind me.

  I stopped and turned slowly.

  The fingernail moon revealed the figure of a boy. The large figure. A big, round boy in white shorts and a white shirt. Even though it was almost dark I could tell that the shirt he wore was as clean as the day it was bought. I don’t think there was a piece of clothing in our entire house that was that clean.

  “I’m Jude Zachariah Caleb Trist the Third,” he said. “What are you hiding inside your shirt?”

  I ignored his question and kicked myself for not being nearly as sneaky as I thought I’d been. “That’s a lot of names.” Then again, he was a lot of boy. He stepped closer and I stepped back. “What do you want?”

  Now he ignored me. “I’m eleven years old,” he said.

  “Oh, really? I’m almost twelve.” I stood up straighter. The manuscript slipped and I grabbed it quickly to keep it inside my shirt.

  “Really? You look pretty small. I thought you were maybe seven.”

  This boy was getting on my nerves even more than CJ. “I might be small, but I’m still almost twelve. You can ask my mom.”

  “All right.” His voice seemed almost cheery like I’d really invited him. He walked up and stood beside me.

  “What do you mean, ‘all right’?”

  “All right. I’ll go and ask your mom.”

  “Y-y-you can’t.”

  “Why not? I know you have one. I’ve been watching you and your family all day long. Are all those kids really your brothers and sisters?” He stopped and sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

  I knew without even taking a breath that it was a combination of Dad’s cookies and Mom’s pumpkin bread.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, and started back to the house. “Must be coming from that house across the field.”

  He laughed. “No way. He’s a lunatic.”

  I have to admit, the word lunatic made me stop in my tracks. But only for a second. This boy was the lunatic.

  “You still haven’t told me what you’re hiding.” He caught up to me. “If you stole something from the library, I’ll tell.”

  I turned on him. “I didn’t steal anything. I’m just looking at it. And you’re not going to tell anyone.”

  He lifted his chin. “How are you going to stop me?”

  I clenched my left fist real tight, my fingernails biting into my palms. “Because … because. I’ll …”

  The door opened and Mom stepped onto the porch, knocking over the red watering can. It clanged as it hit the wood. “Emm—I mean, Sunday. Are you still out there?”

  “Yeah, I’m coming.” I turned back to Judah Zachariah Whatever-His-Name-Was. “Just go home,” I said.

  “No. And I will tell.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “Yes I will.”

  “Sunday, who’s out there with you?” I heard my mom’s footsteps on the stairs. “CJ, if you snuck out the back door again, I swear I will ground you for life.”

  The boy and I locked eyes in the dark and I sighed. “Fine.” I turned back to Mom. “There’s a boy here. He says he wants to ask you how old I am.”

  Mom came the rest of the way down the stairs. “What? A boy?”

  Jude I-Have-Six-Names brushed past me and met my mom with an outstretched hand. “I’m Jude Zachariah Caleb Trist the Third. My mom works at the bank. Is she really twelve years old?” he asked, pointing at me.

  “Almost twelve,” I corrected. I didn’t need to look like a fool (though I was sure I already did) arguing in the dark with a boy I didn’t even know with hidden papers stuffed underneath my T-shirt.

  Mom smiled. “It’s nice to meet you. And yes, Sunday is almost twelve.”

  He nodded but didn’t move.

  “There. See? Now you can go home.”

  “Sunday!” Mom scolded. She shot me a look, her eyes flashing as they caught a bit of moonlight.

  “Well—” I whined.

  Mom turned back to Jude-the-Intruder. “If you don’t think your mother will mind, you’re welcome to join us for dessert. We were just about to have some pumpkin bread with butter.”

  Jude didn’t even hesitate. He followed my mom up the stairs and into the house, where I heard Henry crying because he didn’t get the first piece.

  Mom turned around. “Let me just bring in an extra chair. You coming, Sunday?”

  “Yeah.” I followed them into the house, then dashed up the stairs to my bedroom, where I stashed the papers underneath my bed. Then I rejoined everyone in the dining room, ignoring the boy who was just standing there staring with his mouth hanging open like a goldfish. The plate that held the pumpkin bread was nothing but crumbs, well, besides the heels, which were everyone’s least favorite parts. I picked one up, slathered it with butter that melted instantly into the still-warm bread, and ate it
.

  CJ, Bo, and Henry had pumpkin bread masks over their faces. They’d poked out holes for their eyes, noses, and mouths.

  Mom lugged a chair through the door and set it next to me at the table. “There you go.”

  CJ looked at me and then at Jude. He let his bread fall off his face into his hands, then took an obscenely big bite. “Who are you?”

  “Jude Zachariah Caleb Trist the Third.”

  I could tell Henry was impressed.

  “How old are you?” CJ asked.

  Jude made himself look taller, even though he was already big—in more ways than one. “Eleven.”

  CJ lifted one eyebrow and looked at him skeptically. “You got hair on your chest?”

  Jude’s cheeks blushed pink, and he glanced around the table at my sisters and parents, but they weren’t paying any attention. “No.”

  CJ seemed satisfied and handed Jude the last slice of bread.

  I watched the intruder lick his lips. “Thanks.”

  “Sit by me, sit by me!” Henry said, patting his chair. “I can squish myself real small. Watch.”

  “That’s really good,” Jude said. He squeezed himself onto the sliver of chair next to Henry.

  I rolled my eyes and listened in on Mom and Dad.

  “I need to take a mop to the floor again now that the books are mostly sorted.” Mom let her pen glide across the notepad already halfway filled.

  Emma was taking turns nibbling the smallest bites imaginable from her slice of pumpkin bread and pressing the buttons on her phone. Since she’d gotten the phone a few months ago, Dad joked that he should’ve just had it surgically implanted in her ear.

  I glanced back at Jude With-a-Zillion-Names. He looked even bigger sitting next to Henry. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Jude Trist-Caleb-Whatever. He’d been pressed and stuffed into that bright white shirt and the buttons looked as if they were struggling to stay in the buttonholes. He was like a marshmallow on the end of a stick sitting over hot, gray coals. But he looked content, with a thick slice of pumpkin bread in his hands and butter dripping down his right wrist. His eyes were large and wide as he looked from one of my siblings to the next. I noticed his gaze fell on Emma more than once. Emma was the beauty. Always had been, probably always would be. She had the same features as the rest of us, but for some reason she wore them better. I felt myself bristle. It wasn’t as if I liked this boy or even wanted him to like me. He’d been completely annoying and had threatened to tell on me. But still. It was hard to sit by and watch Emma get admired while I didn’t get so much as a second glance. Or even a first glance.