A Summer of Sundays

by Lindsay Eland

  “Mom! I am not.”

  Wally strolled over and put his arm around Jude’s mom. “He’s not delicate, Rachel.”

  Jude rolled his eyes and shrugged away the hand that Wally tried to place on his shoulder.

  Ms. Trist smiled. “Well, he might be a little shy—”

  “Mom!”

  Jude’s mom kissed one of his pudgy cheeks. “It’s true. He’s not used to a lot of … rough play.”

  I think that was code for “please don’t let that unruly boy shove a disgusting booger in my son’s face.” I understood exactly where she was coming from.

  Ms. Trist handed Mom the brown paper bag. “I packed Jude a lunch. He only eats organic foods. There’s an extra arrowroot cookie for you, Sunday.” She turned to Jude. “And for a snack I’ve packed your third serving of fruit. You’ll need to get two more servings of veggies tonight. Okay?”

  Jude nodded, his face a deep crimson. “I’ll be fine.”

  Mom raised her voice. She had to be louder than Emma, who was yelling something at May. “We’ll take good care of him!”

  Emma stomped off to the house, and CJ, Bo, and Henry (who had his pants pulled back up) ran over to Ms. Trist and smiled, revealing lemon rinds stuck to their teeth.

  “We better go, Rachel,” Wally said, heading back to the car. “I have to be at the shop in five minutes.”

  “I’m coming.” Ms. Trist glanced around nervously once more, then handed Mom a business card with every single number and email address she had in case we needed to get ahold of her. “For any reason at all,” she said.

  Mom took the card and tucked it into her back pocket. Ms. Trist smothered Jude in a hug, had him promise to be home at five, and then slid into the passenger seat.

  “Your mom seems nice,” I said, biting into a sandwich.

  “Yeah.” He pulled out containers and plastic bags, each labeled with his name and a description of what was inside: tofu and brown rice, vitamins, mini tomatoes, and two lumps that could’ve been cookies. Last he drew out a bag of sliced mango and a bottle of water with a sticker that said ORGANICALLY COLLECTED IN THE UNDERGROUND SPRINGS OF THE ALPS.

  Jude stared down at his lunch, which didn’t look all that bad. That is, if you took away the tofu, vitamins, brown rice, tomatoes, and probably the cookies. “She’s trying to get me healthy.”

  “Yeah. I sort of guessed that.” I crunched down on another stalk of celery. He eyed it. I grabbed the container of tofu and stuffed it back into the brown bag. Then I handed him a celery stick with enough peanut butter to seal his tongue to the roof of his mouth for a day.

  “Don’t worry, this’ll count as one of your servings of vegetables and one serving of protein.”

  AFTER lunch a woman on a bike rode up to the library, pushed the kickstand down, smoothed down her dark windblown hair, and walked toward the library.

  “That must be her,” Mom whispered, wiping her hands on her jeans and standing. “The new librarian.” She smiled and met the woman halfway down the stairs and shook her hand. “You must be Miss Dunghop?”

  Dunghop?

  CJ was going to lose it when he met her, and then Bo and Henry would lose it, and then Mom would lose it … except not in the same way.

  Mom walked her up the stairs, where Jude and I were arranging books into boxes, and May and Emma were labeling them. “These are my three girls, Emma, May, and Sunday, and their friend Jude. This is Miss Dunghop.”

  We all smiled. She was the youngest librarian I had ever seen. She had perfect white teeth, big brown eyes, and ears that stuck out slightly from her dark brown hair. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks like a dusting of cinnamon and she was exactly how I pictured Miss Honey from Matilda. I liked her instantly.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  There was the sudden screeching of voices coming from the house, and we saw the boys tripping out the front door and then traipsing over to the library.

  “Oh dear. I mean, Oh good,” Mom said, forcing a smile. “You can meet my boys.” She shot CJ a nervous look, but I could tell he didn’t notice.

  “Boys, I’d like you to meet Miss Dunghop—”

  That’s when CJ burst out laughing. I elbowed him hard, and he brought his giggles to a quiet snicker behind my back. He whispered to Bo and Henry, who also started to laugh.

  Mom continued louder, probably hoping to drown them out. “These are my boys, CJ, Bo, and Henry.”

  Miss Dunghop smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Dunghop,” CJ said, giggling.

  Bo and Henry started laughing, and Mom’s face turned the color of a raspberry. I thought fast and, grabbing both Henry’s and Bo’s hands, started down the library steps. “Come on, CJ. Didn’t you want to make a fort?”

  Miss Dunghop waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. With a last name like Dunghop I’ve heard it all. That’s why I go by Miss Jenny.”

  CJ stared at her for a few moments as if he wasn’t quite sure what to think, then shrugged. “All right. But I like Dunghop better.” He tugged Henry and Bo the rest of the way down the stairs. “Come on. Let’s go build our fort.”

  Mom let out a long sigh as they disappeared behind the library. I watched her cheeks slowly return to their normal color. “Now, Miss Jenny,” Mom said, “would you like to come in and look around at the remodel? Then the kids and I can show you the books we’ve gone through.”

  Miss Jenny nodded and smiled. “Lead the way.”

  Despite all the cleaning and organizing over the next few days, Jude hadn’t forgotten about the manuscript or about my plans to make my mark. He bugged me like a fly around a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  But I had my reasons for holding out.

  First, even though we were becoming better friends, I still didn’t know him all that well, and I needed to make sure he wasn’t going to turn around and tattle on me the moment I showed him the manuscript.

  Second, I needed to make sure that he wasn’t going to tell my family about what we were up to because that would ruin everything, too.

  And third, well, I hadn’t come up with any plans to do anything spectacular yet. I’d been so busy at the library that I was hardly able to keep myself awake at night to read the Nancy Drew book The Mystery at Lilac Inn or the manuscript, let alone try to come up with a plan to be noticed. Each day that I didn’t come up with anything made me more anxious to get started. I didn’t want to leave Alma as still just one-of-the-six.

  But just that morning, Mom and Miss Jenny had told Jude and me that we didn’t have to stay at the library all day long anymore. It was finally time to come up with a huge plan to make my mark.

  That’s why, after lunch, I took Jude up to my room.

  He plopped down on the floor in front of the fan and looked around. “So, where is that book you’re reading? The one you took from the library.”

  I stared hard at him. He could be trusted. To a certain point. “Close your eyes and turn around.”

  “Really, Sunday, that’s silly. I won’t tell.”

  “What if one of my brothers or sisters captures you and forces you to tell them all your secrets? If you don’t know where the book is, then there won’t be a chance of you spilling the beans.”

  He sighed and shrugged. “Okay.”

  I waited till he was facing the opposite way and then checked to make sure his eyes were closed. Lifting the mattress, I pulled out the pages. I carried them over to the floor and took a seat in front of him. “You can open your eyes.”

  “This isn’t a book.”

  “Sure it is. It’s just not a published one. Maybe someone in Alma is destined to become a famous writer.”

  The headline in the Alma newspaper, SUNDAY FOWLER TURNS UNKNOWN LOCAL INTO FAMOUS AUTHOR, scrolled through my mind.

  “So you don’t know who wrote it?”

  I shook my head no and grinned. “It’s a mystery.”

  “I guess it could be anyone’s.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “How in the world are you going to find out who it belongs to? It’s impossible.”

  The headline disappeared in a puff of smoke and I snatched the papers back. “You sure know how to kill a person’s dreams.”

  “I’m just saying. Lots of people write books. My mom even says she wants to write one someday.”

  “Well, maybe she wrote it? And if we can prove it, then maybe she’ll be in the newspaper or it’ll get published and made into a movie or something.”

  I could tell Jude liked that idea. “Maybe. She has always liked going to the library.”

  “I found this one locked in a box in the library basement.”

  “A safe? You broke into a safe?” His eyebrows rose over his wide-open eyes.

  I hadn’t thought of it as a safe, but the idea sounded much more intriguing that way. “Well, sort of. So the book has to be kind of valuable, right?”

  Jude shrugged. “I guess so. Or what if it’s something that someone wrote and didn’t want anyone to read? Like a diary or something.”

  I stood up, set the pages beside The Mystery at Lilac Inn, and sat on my bed. “It’s not written like a diary and, besides, if they didn’t want anyone to read it, then they should’ve kept it at home and not in the library where anyone could find the key and open the box.” I lifted my nose in the air, more determined than ever. “I’m going to figure out who wrote this and I think we should start with your mom.”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “In the meantime, you can help me think of ideas for what I can do to make myself stand out. The manuscript from the library might not turn out to be anything.”

  We were both silent for a few moments. The only sound was the whirring of the fan and the choking sound of the car trying to start in the driveway.

  “I saw on a map that there’s a lake outside of town. I could swim across it all by myself,” I said. “I’m sure that would get people’s attention.”

  Jude laughed, pushing aside the bangs that had crept in front of his eyes. “Yeah, I guess you could. But your brother Henry could do that, too.”

  “No, he can’t swim.”

  “You don’t need to. It’s so shallow and small that anyone can cross it. And it’s pretty gross. My mom won’t let me get within two feet of it.”

  I let out a groan. I had pictured a shimmering lake with boats tied up to docks, water-skiers gliding across the water, and fishermen casting rods. Not a slimy puddle.

  “You could try to break a record or something.”

  “I’ve already tried that. Didn’t work. You don’t have a unicycle, do you?”

  “That’s the last thing my mom would ever let me have.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Visions of tents, balloons, food, and contests filled my head. “I was thinking I could throw a big party for the reopening of the library.”

  He smiled and nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

  A party wasn’t as grand an idea as I was hoping for, but it was something I could probably pull off. Jude could help. We’d just have to make it really extravagant if it was going to make me stand out. “It’s keeping my brothers and sisters from poking around that’ll be the hard part. They’ll definitely know something is up.”

  “Yeah, but everyone will still know it was your idea.”

  I laughed. “You don’t know my family.”

  I took out a notebook and a blue pen I’d brought with me from home and paced the floor.

  “The party has to be big. Something that people won’t be able to forget.” I wrote BIG at the top of the piece of paper. “Like … rides and a … a hot-air balloon. Things like that.”

  “Rides and a hot-air balloon? Where are you going to get the money for that? And how are you going to keep all that from your family?”

  “Well, I’ll have to tell my parents eventually. But …” I fell silent. Jude was right. How in the world would I ever be able to pull something like that off without everyone in my family putting their hands in? “Okay, forget the balloon and rides for now. Maybe we could see if there are people in town who could do tricks or entertain or something. I can bake food and make lemonade and I can talk to my parents to see if there is a little extra money from the anonymous donation to buy decorations.”

  I pictured my name etched on a bronze plaque screwed into a bench. “Hey, maybe the town will name something in the library after me. You think?”

  “Maybe. I have an idea. You could write to some famous authors and ask if they could come and speak at the party!”

  “That’s perfect!” I scribbled the idea down. That would be huge. “Who should I write to? Judy Blume? Stephen King? J. K. Rowling?”

  “Sure. You might as well try as many as you can think of. Let’s make a list.”

  We both shouted out authors, getting distracted with almost every name by talking about their books.

  “I loved The Invention of Hugo Cabret, too!” I said, scribbling down Brian Selznick.

  Kate DiCamillo. “Have you read The Tale of Despereaux?”

  “How about A Long Way from Chicago by Richard Peck?”

  “That’s one of my favorites. Remember the part—”

  I stopped when the notebook page was filled with names. “Okay, we have to stop there. If everyone on this page says no, then we’ll think of more.” I glanced down at the list. “What if they don’t get the letters in time … or what if they don’t get back to us?”

  Jude took the pen and scribbled Rick Riordan down. “I don’t know. It’s a long shot either way, but we should try.”

  I glanced down at the manuscript. If only I could find out who wrote it.

  That would be big news in town.

  News big enough to announce at the party. Big enough for the Alma Gazette.

  Big enough for my name to be printed in bold black ink and my picture to be on the front page.

  “All right,” Jude said, interrupting my thoughts. “Let’s start writing the letters. We should send them soon.”

  “Right.” I pulled out a clean sheet of paper. “Dear J. K. Rowling …”

  JUDE and I walked along the sidewalks toward town the next morning. He said that on our way to the post office we had to stop and try a crepe at the Crepe Café.

  “They’re the best.”

  “And your mom lets you eat them?”

  He shrugged. “Ms. Bodnar uses organic milk and eggs, so Mom doesn’t mind.”

  “Hmm.” A big, flat French pancake didn’t sound that appealing, but we needed to send off the letters, and I was itching to walk around downtown for the first time.

  But not so itchy that I was going to let May drive Jude and me the few blocks to Main Street.

  “She can’t be all that bad,” Jude said, huffing beside me.

  Just then the van came jerking down the street, heaving forward and back like a wild stallion. It passed us, then stalled. May’s muffled wail erupted behind the windows and I picked up my pace. “I guess that just depends on your definition of ‘bad.’ ”

  Jude wiped the beads of sweat that had collected above his lip and we turned right onto Main Street.

  I gulped down the little town. I’d been at the library for the past week, so I hadn’t had a chance to walk along the streets or glance into any of the shops. The sidewalks were swept clean, handprints and initials stuck forever in some of the cement squares. Flowers hung in pots from light posts, bursting in shades of purple, blue, red, and pink, and swayed gently back and forth. The air was warm but not heavy like it was in the city. It smelled like flowers, grass, and something baking in the oven. The giant dog I had spotted from my seat in the van when we first arrived dashed down the sidewalk, an old man half running, half sprinting after him. It looked like if he dug his heels in the sidewalk and held on, the dog would pull him along and he’d be waterskiing. I could hear him breathing from across the road. “Mr. Castor!” he yelled. “Heel! Heel!”

  “That’s Papa Gil.” J
ude said. “He’s married to Muzzy. Their dog is the worst dog I’ve ever seen.”

  “I think I remember him and his wife coming to the library the other day. They brought over a pie. I didn’t get to meet them because Mom and Dad sent me to take down the zip line that CJ had rigged up from the upstairs bathroom before he sent Henry down. Muzzy and Papa Gil? Are those their real names?”

  “No, but that’s what everyone calls them. They own the thrift store over there. My mom said they never were able to have kids, so all the kids in town are sort of like their grandchildren.” He leaned in closer. “And they always have candy.”

  I smiled toward the thrift store window, where clothes hung a little crooked on the cardboard mannequins. When my grandpa was alive, he would always come over to visit on Sunday afternoon. “It’s my favorite day of the week,” he’d say to me, scooping me up in his arms. “ ’Cause you’re my Sunday.” I remember how he smelled like peanut butter and had a deep, rough voice. It would be nice to have a grandpa and grandma nearby, at least for the summer.

  “Here it is,” Jude said.

  We walked into the small café I had spied when we first drove through town. That’s where all the good smells were coming from. It looked like a picture of France I had seen in a calendar once.

  So did the woman behind the counter.

  She wore flowers in her reddish hair and flashed Jude and me a smile as she slid a crepe into a to-go box and handed it to a bulky man whose roly-poly stomach showed just how much he enjoyed her cooking. “Have a good day, Mr. Ryans,” she said, her voice slightly accented.

  Mr. Ryans licked his lips and smiled before bustling back onto the sidewalk.

  The woman behind the counter was a little older than my parents. There were streaks of gray mixed in with her wiry red curls, which she had pulled off her freckled face in a loose, low ponytail. She wore a red T-shirt with the phrase I LOVE FOOD written across the chest in bright white letters, and she wore five or six silver bangles that jingled around her wrist like bells.