Running is hard work. It also feels good.
We get to the hardware store. Mom waits outside, running in place, while I go in.
I take a deep breath (hard to do when you’re already out of breath) and go up to the man at the counter and pretend to have Quinny’s personality. “Hello, I need enough wood to build a Little Free Library. It’s the size of a big mailbox. Like this sketch. Can you tell me the price?”
The man looks at my sketch. He says the hardware store doesn’t sell wood, but a lumberyard does, and it would probably cost about ninety-five dollars for enough wood.
That’s a lot of money. And I don’t know where there is a lumberyard.
I go back outside and keep running with Mom. We don’t go straight home but that’s fine. Mom’s been taking her Turkey Trot training pretty seriously. This is her first race ever, and she’ll run it on Thanksgiving morning. Mom’s phone beeps while we run.
“Yay,” says Mom, looking at her phone. “Another pledge.”
She shows me her phone. Someone just gave her twenty dollars for running the Turkey Trot.
“Cool,” I say.
Mom asked her friends to sponsor her for the race, which means donating money to this charity she picked, which feeds hungry people. If she runs the race, they donate money.
We finish our run and walk back home. I’m really tired, but the weird thing is I also have more energy than when I started. Dad is out in the yard with Trevor and Ty. They’re back from soccer and horsing around. Trevor is walking our slack line. It’s wider than a tightrope, but just as wobbly. Quinny’s there, too, doing a handstand. I guess her arm really is all better.
“Thanks for the run,” Mom says to me. “We should do this again sometime.”
We really should.
Ty grabs Quinny’s ankles and swings her out of her handstand. I want to go rescue her, but she doesn’t cry—she laughs as he swings her around. I feel happier with my brothers lately. Maybe not happier, but okay-er, which isn’t a word, just the truth. I think it’s because of Quinny. She’s not afraid of them. She shows me how not to be, either.
I go over and step on the slack line. Staying balanced on it is hard. Trevor helps me get steady. When I’m ready to take a step, he knocks me off and laughs. But I don’t care—I get back on and try again. I take a couple steps, but then I stop, and stand there, wobbling on it. I feel extra awake all of a sudden, because I just thought of another idea. A gigantic one.
I go up to Dad. “I’m running the Turkey Trot race with Mom.”
“What?” He looks down at me, confused.
“I’m going to train with Mom and run the race and raise money to build a Little Free Library on the school playground.”
“You are?” Mom looks really surprised. I know the race is only a week away.
“I am,” I tell them. It feels good to say that out loud.
The next thing I say feels even better: “Will you guys sponsor me?”
The best way to forget about all the math homework I didn’t understand this week is…Saturday-morning Open Swim with Hopper, of course!
I put my bathing suit on under my clothes and Mom packs my swim cap and towel. Daddy isn’t coming, because he’s taking Piper and Cleo to a birthday party. (The party is at a zoo and I think he should just leave Piper there for good.) So on the ride to the Y, it’s just me, Mom, Hopper, and Hopper’s dad, who drives. When I look at our reflection in a store window, it’s like we’re one family, like Hopper is my very own brother. How awesome would that be!
From the front seat, Hopper’s dad says, “So, Quinny, I heard you’re making great progress on the field. Coach can’t believe you’ve never played before.”
All Hopper’s dad talks to me about is soccer. “It’s because I used to do a lot of kicking in tae kwon do,” I tell him. “Plus, I eat lots of cookies.”
“No kidding.” He makes a curious face in the car mirror.
“I’m serious, Mr. Grey. Cookies make you happy, and a happy person has stronger kicking muscles than a sour grumpy person, and that’s why I started a petition to—”
“Enough about the petition,” Mom interrupts me.
But I explain it all to Hopper’s dad anyway—and then I whip the petition out of my bag (because I take it everywhere, of course) and I ask for his autograph.
“Quinny, are you sure it counts if the person isn’t a student?” says Hopper.
“A person’s a person, everyone counts. Mr. Grey, please sign it, cookies are an important part of a balanced diet. And your own son illustrated this petition to make it look extra yummy.”
“I’d be happy to sign it, once I stop driving. Good luck, guys—you can do anything you set your minds to.” Mr. Grey looks at Hopper when he says this, then at me. “You know, Quinny, Coach thinks you could make the club team next year, with a bit of hard work.”
It’s interesting what Mr. Grey is saying, but I don’t say anything back. The twins do club soccer and it takes up a lot of time (like five afternoons a week!) and it’s kind of a big deal. Alex, Caleb, and Maeve at school do it, too. But there’s also a less fancy kind of soccer that Caleb told me about, called rec soccer, and it’s just once a week. If I want to do other things like skating or swimming, too, then rec soccer might be better for me. But I don’t tell Hopper’s dad this, no way.
“As for us, we’ve been focusing more on swimming lately,” he says. “I’ve been having a blast taking Hopper to Open Swim every week. Did he mention he’s thinking of joining the Y team?”
“Really?” I look at Hopper to see if it’s true, but he’s looking out the window, so I can’t see the answer. His quiet gives me a clue to the answer, though.
In the Y’s locker room, Mom stretches the pinchy-tight, sticky-white swim cap on me. It’s a rule that you have to wear a cap in the pool if you have big hair, but—ouch!—my head needs two or three of these caps, I think.
When my hair is finally all trapped in that painful swim cap, I run out to the pool.
“Hopper Hopper Hopper!” I rush over to him standing by the edge of the pool. He’s got blue alien-bug eyes and swim trunks with sharks on them.
“Quinny, be careful,” says Mom. “No running at the pool.”
The lifeguard also beeps his whistle at me. I wave up at him.
Then I crash into Hopper and laugh. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He smiles a little smile.
And then, oh-so-casually, he pushes me into that pool—and the water is freezing!
I splash and kick. “Get in, Hopper, get in right this minute!”
I swim over to the side of the pool so I can pull at his leg, but he moves away and laughs. I learned to swim when I was little, but there weren’t a lot of pools in our neighborhood back in New York. When we moved to Whisper Valley, I was going to take swimming lessons again, but the class was full by the time Mom called, so I kind of taught myself to swim all over again, just enough so that I don’t sink to the bottom.
But I am amazed by how great Hopper can swim. He jumps in, headfirst, and it’s like he just slips and sneaks right into the water, without even a splash. And then he’s under for so long and he pops back up at the opposite end of the pool, like a magic trick!
He spits out a bit of water, like a funny fish, smiles at me, and then goes back under. If Hopper were a Wac-A-Mole, I’d never be able to whack him because he goes faster under the water than my eyes can find him. Then he gets out and jumps back in with his headfirst jump. I love watching him! Hopper has such a slow and calm personality, but such a fast, fishy body. It’s strange how the same person can be so different from his very own self sometimes.
“Hopper, come back here, show me how to do all that stuff! I would love to jump in with my head, like a fancy swimmer, plus those somersaults you just did.”
“The somersaults are called turns, when you finish a lap. And diving just takes practice.”
I’m not good at practicing—I get impatient—so I decide to skip practicing an
d just do the diving itself. I get out of the pool and stand in the same position Hopper did. It doesn’t look that hard. You just aim your head down and jump forward in a big curve—what could go wrong?
I reach out my arms, I bend my knees, and then, as big as I can, I JUMP….
The slapping sound of Quinny’s belly flop echoes through the whole pool.
It makes my own belly sting.
I swim over to her. She flails and splashes and coughs.
I pull her over to the side of the pool. She’s coughing even more now.
“Quinny, are you okay?”
Dad swims over to us. The lifeguard comes over, too.
“I’m great!” She coughs. “Super-duper! But Hopper, jumping in with your head first is harder than it looks. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s okay. Just breathe.”
Dad and the lifeguard go away after Quinny calms down a bit. Her mom is busy talking to a grown-up by the locker rooms and I guess didn’t even see her do the belly flop. I stay with Quinny. I want to make sure she’s really okay. We dangle our feet in the pool. Sitting here with her feels more important than swimming by myself.
“Sorry,” says Quinny. “You can go back in and swim.”
“I don’t mind. Does it still hurt? I know belly flops really hurt.”
“A little. I don’t think I can feel my belly, actually. Hopper, by the way, how did you sneak under the water so fast and slippery?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like you just disappeared all quiet without even letting anyone know.”
“I don’t know. I swim a lot, I guess. Grandpa Gooley used to take me a lot.”
“Not me.” She looks down. “I guess I’m not a very good swimmer.”
I look down, too. Her feet in the water look pizza-dough pale, while mine are almost the color of a walnut. “You have a lot of potential,” I tell her. “A lot of energy and enthusiasm.”
Quinny smiles. Finally, she seems ready to get back in the water.
“Wait here a minute.” I get up. “Stay right here, don’t move.”
I rush back to the locker room and find my bag. I get out my old goggles, the ones I don’t wear anymore because Dad got me these fancy new blue ones for my birthday.
I go back out to Quinny, and pull my blue goggles off, and hand them to her.
“Really?” She smiles. “Wow, thanks, Hopper.”
I put on my old brown goggles while she stretches the new blue ones over her head.
These old goggles make me feel good. They remind me of Grandpa Gooley, who used to take me to Open Swim. But then last month Dad started taking me, and he got me the fancy new goggles, and it all seemed to make him really happy—coming to the pool with me, swimming laps, doing something together. Dad even has a picture of me and him in his office, both of us wearing the new blue goggles. It’s okay with me, I guess. But sometimes I miss just going swimming with Grandpa Gooley, who didn’t get so excited about it all.
“Whoa,” says Quinny, looking through those blue goggles for the first time. They turn the whole world blue and a little bit clearer, so you have to get used to them.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” I say. “The freestyle is the most basic swimming stroke.”
I show her how to do the freestyle. Then she does it, but not like how I showed her.
She flaps one arm up and over, and digs beneath the water with the other arm, way too fast. Her legs pop up in a big splash every once in a while, and she’s sticking her tongue out.
“Slow down, Quinny…what’s the rush?”
“Can we work on diving?” she asks. “Or somersaults?”
“We need to work on your basic freestyle technique first.”
“Or cannonballs! I think we need to work on my basic cannonball technique!”
“We can do cannonballs after you swim freestyle from here to the edge of the pool.”
I show her the right freestyle positions again. Where your head and arms should be. How to turn your head to the side while you swim, so you can breathe.
She does a lopsided Quinny-paddle again.
I don’t think she’ll ever be an Olympic swimmer, but after a few more tries her Quinny-paddle starts to look a little stronger, a little smoother. It’s turning into a freestyle, Quinny-style.
“Hopper, this is hard—how did you get to be such an amazing swimmer?”
“Grandpa Gooley taught me. He can teach you to swim, too, when he gets back.”
“Or you could. You’re already doing it, right now.”
I kind of am. If only she would pay attention.
Quinny’s mom comes over and watches us and waves.
“Mom, look, Hopper reminded me how to swim! Now we’re working on cannonballs!”
Quinny pulls me over to the side of the pool. We climb out and jump back in—both of us at once, her hand grabbing on to mine. We explode down into the water.
Quinny waves to me underwater. Her body twists sideways and upside down. Her hair pokes out from her swim cap and floats gently, like reddish seaweed. Her cheeks puff out and her blue-goggle eyes are an even brighter blue.
It’s quiet under the water. Life feels slower and gentler down here.
I appreciate it while it lasts.
Back home, Quinny runs off to see the chickens, but her mom stays in our driveway and thanks me for helping her swim. She offers me a five-dollar bill. Wow.
But I don’t take the money—she doesn’t have to pay me to be with Quinny.
Mrs. Bumble slips it into my bag anyway. She says her family is going to join the Y. She asks if I could give Quinny another “swimming lesson” sometime.
I can’t believe she said lesson. Like I’m a real teacher.
I say yes. She smiles and says, “I’m glad you guys are friends.”
I’m glad, too. I wave good-bye and head inside.
I think about what to do with my new five-dollar bill.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Saturday, Nov 22; 11:43 a.m.
Principal Ramsey,
This is Hopper Grey typing again.
Thank you for letting me turn the Friendship Bench into the Books & Buddies Bench. Caleb and I are still painting it. Xander is helping, and Juniper a little, too. I think it looks pretty good so far. The wagon full of books is out there, too. But the problem is those books will get ruined if we leave them outside all the time.
So here is another idea. I want to make a Little Free Library to go with the bench. It is a small house to keep the books dry and safe. It’s like a chicken coop for books. Anyone can borrow books from it, or even keep the books. You trust people to use it and take books out and put books in. The first Little Free Library was built in 2009 in Hudson, Wisconsin. Now there are more than fifty thousand of them all over the world. I did not make this up. I looked it up on my mom’s computer. The website LittleFreeLibrary.org has more information.
I hope you say yes, because I’m already saving money to buy wood to make a Little Free Library. I’m going to run the Turkey Trot race with Mom next week to raise money. I’m also getting paid money to give Quinny Bumble swimming lessons. I just got five dollars for doing that today. Quinny will need a lot of lessons, since she likes to spend all her time doing cannonballs.
Please let me know if you think the Little Free Library is a good idea. I could start as soon as I have enough money saved up to buy the wood.
Your student,
Hopper Grey
After almost a week of asking for autographs, my save the cookies! petition is finally impressive enough to show Principal Ramsey.
I see him in the hall on Tuesday morning talking to Nurse Mira, and pull out my petition.
“Look, Principal Ramsey, I have almost a hundred autographs, would you like to sign it, too?”
He makes a very funny smile and takes a peek at the petition—and then he looks concerned. “Hmm. Quinny, I think we need to talk.”
“Sure. I’m free right now!”
Principal Ramsey guides me to a corner of the hallway. “Quinny, the problem I’m seeing, apart from how messy this is, is that a student petition needs to be signed by students—”
“Oh, it is signed by students!”
“I meant signed only by students—that’s a student council rule. Also, you need first and last names, printed, and with homerooms or grades, so we know who everyone is.”
“But I do know who everyone is—I met every single person who signed this.”
“I’m sorry, Quinny, those are the rules. First names and last.”
Ugh. Hopper did say something about that before, but I didn’t really listen. I can’t believe this. It took me tons of days just to get all these autographs and now they don’t even count?
After Principal Ramsey finishes picking on my petition, I spend lunch and recess feeling slumpy and stuck. There is nothing worse than having to do a whole bunch of work all over again because you did it wrong the first time.
Then it’s time for math and I’m still so upset that I can’t focus on the quiz Mrs. Flavio gives us. I don’t know the answers, so I just doodle on that quiz. Everyone is writing down numbers, but I draw a cookie. I curve my hand around that doodle so nobody can see that I’m not answering a real math question.
After the quiz, Mrs. Flavio talks and writes on the whiteboard, and I don’t understand the new math stuff she says there, either. Then she hands us back our math homework from yesterday and puts mine facedown on my desk.
I understand what that means. Everybody does.
After math, it’s time to walk to art, but Mrs. Flavio stops me.
“Quinny? I need a word with you….”
Whenever Mrs. Flavio says that, it’s never just one word that she needs.
She pulls me to her desk and her face looks at me, all strict, but then her voice is kind of gentle. “I know math has been a struggle lately. I’ve spoken to your parents, and we agree that we need to get you some extra support.”
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