Also by Nancy J. Cavanaugh
This Journal Belongs to Ratchet
Always, Abigail
Just Like Me
Elsie Mae Has Something to Say
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Nancy J. Cavanaugh
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design and illustration © Risa Rodil
Internal design by Danielle McNaughton/Sourcebooks
Internal illustrations © 9george/Shutterstock
Internal illustrations by Travis Hasenour/Sourcebooks
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Young Readers, an imprint of Sourcebooks Kids
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebookskids.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
When I Hit the Road
Recipe for Chocolate Chip Cookies
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
In loving memory of you, Susan, because none of my memories or stories would be the same if I hadn’t had you for a sister, because I wouldn’t be the same.
And in loving memory of my grandparents, Lenora & Harry and Marguerite & Everett: There’s nothing like the love that comes from grandparents and the memories that grow out of that love. I’m blessed to have had you for grandmas and grandpas.
Dear Me,
As soon as Mom came up with Operation Sunny Sandy Shores, I knew I had no choice but to write these Dear Me letters.
Who else besides the future me would want to know every little detail of what I’m about to go through?
Of course, you already know how it all turns out. But I don’t. Which is why I told Mom I’m filled with a slight feeling of dread.
(Mom, of course, says I’m being overly dramatic, but you and I both know that’s not true.)
I don’t have to tell you that once Mom gets something into her head, there’s no stopping her. I bet a million trillion dollars she’s still like that. Who knows? Maybe she’s even worse.
But you’re lucky. You’re probably old enough by now that she can’t boss you around anymore. I’m still in her sphere of supreme rule, which means when she says she’s taking me with her to spend two weeks visiting Gram at her new condo at Sunny Sandy Shores Condominium Complex in Florida, there’s nothing left to do but start packing.
Any of this sound familiar yet?
I sure hope so, because if not, that might mean this trip turned out so badly, you blocked the whole thing out of your mind, so you’d never have to think about it again.
Too bad you can’t write me a letter. Then I’d at least have a hint of what’s about to happen to me.
Love,
Me
Dear Me,
Maybe you’re thinking, “Wow, I must’ve been a really brilliant twelve-year-old to think of writing letters to my future self.”
But, if you’re thinking that, you must’ve forgotten that Mom’s the real reason I’m writing these letters.
Remember Make It, Take It, Live It, Give It? The crafts, gifts, and photo album company where Mom works? Well, the Dear Me Journal is her most recent brainstorm.
Dear Me Journals
record it today, cherish it tomorrow.
Dear Me Journals are a revolutionary way of journaling.
Don’t just write “Dear diary.”
Don’t just keep a log of your life.
Make it even more memorable.
Make it even more personal.
Write “Dear Me” letters to your future self.
Dear Me Journals—a way to do something unforgettable for the future you.
Dear Me Journal prototypes overflow from every tote bag Mom owns. So, since she’d forgotten to pick up a new spiral notebook for me to use for my summer journal, she tossed one of her Dear Me Journals onto my bed. Each journal comes with a cutesy carrying case, a pocketful of envelopes, and thematic decorative stickers. (Ugh! I mean, c’mon Mom, I’m going to be in seventh grade next year. Stickers? Really?)
But even though I gave Mom the are-you-kidding-me look when that Dear Me Journal practically landed in my lap, she didn’t even acknowledge my annoyance. Her mind was way too focused on Operation Sunny Sandy Shores as well as her big Dear Me Journal presentation coming up next month at Make It, Take It.
Before I even had time to pick up the Dear Me Journal, Mom came running back into my room and exploded with enthusiasm, “I just had the most amazing idea, Samantha!”
But here’s the thing, I knew from experience, which means you know it too, that if I had even one dollar for every time Mom said she had an amazing idea—even though the ideas weren’t amazing at all—I’d be writing this letter from the deck of the cruise ship I was able to buy with all that money.
Mom’s voice got even more ecstatic. “If you write Dear Me letters to yourself while we’re in Florida, recording all your memorable moments with Gram, I’ll include the letters in my Dear Me proposal presentation next month!”
I gave Mom the you-have-to-be-out-of-your-mind look.
But she continued anyway, telling me it would be an authentic example of just how fun and versatile these Dear Me Journals could be.
To that I said, “What?! No way! I’m not letting a bunch of strangers read what I write. I’m using it for a journal, Mom! A journal is private. As in, personal. As in, not public. Forget it!”
But you know how full of optimistic enthusiasm Mom is. My objections didn’t even dampen her exuberance one little bit.
She told me to use the Dear Me Journal she’d already given me for my personal journal, and she’d give me another one to write letters in.
“It’s a win-win situation, Sam,” she said, sounding super excited.
Are you thinking what I’m thinking?
Win-win?
For who?
But I kept my mouth shut. I hoped my silence was enough to let Mom know her little plan was not going to happen.
But we both know Mom. Later, when I was in the shower, she put another Dear Me Journal on my bed with a lightbulb-shaped sticky note stuck to it that read, “Just
think about it!”
So, that’s how I ended up writing Dear Me letters.
But I’m not doing it for Mom.
Or the executives at Make It, Take It.
I’m doing it for me.
And for you.
So, you’re the only one who’s going to get to read them.
I don’t plan on letting Mom even know I’m writing them.
Love,
Me
Dear Me,
So, according to Mom’s product description, these letters are supposed to be chock-full of cherish-worthy memories. But don’t get your hopes up, because here’s the thing… Mom’s pretending this is a friendly visit to spend time with Gram at her new condo and that it will be nothing but a memory-making fun-fest for the three of us. But Operation Sunny Sandy Shores, or OSSS (that’s what I’m going to start calling it because I can’t keep writing out that long name every single time) is all about Mom making her case that Gram should’ve never even moved to Florida.
Mom had the perfect little condo—which was exactly eight and a half minutes from our house without traffic—all picked out for Gram after Grandpa died. But Gram said she’d always wanted to live in Florida and had never had the chance, so that was what she was going to do.
Does this seem like a problem to you?
No. Of course not.
But it was a huuuuuge problem for Mom, “who always knows best.” But, because no one in our family really “fights” or “argues” out in the open, when Mom talked to Gram on the phone, she just kept saying things to Gram like, “Well, if that’s what you really want…”
And then she’d sigh.
It was classic, I’ll-be-polite-on-the-outside-even-though-I’m-not-happy-about-this-situation-on-the-inside Mom behavior.
(Mom should probably win an Oscar or something for how convincing she can be, except to people like you and me who can see right through her little act.)
Anyway, once Gram moved to Florida, Mom began laying the groundwork for her new plan.
After every phone call with her, Mom would say (to no one in particular) things like, “Something just doesn’t seem right with her…” Or, “I’m really becoming concerned about her well-being.”
You and I both know this is code for one thing. Mom was devising one of her I’ll-take-control-of-this-situation-one-way-or-another strategies.
So, she put her let’s-get-Gram-a-condo-near-us plan on the back burner and set OSSS into motion. It was a two-step rescue-and-recovery mission, with a very simple, straightforward objective:
1. Find just enough things in Gram’s new life in disarray to make a case that moving to Florida was a big mistake.
2. Bring Gram back to Illinois and get her that condo eight and a half minutes from our house before it goes off the market.
I know Mom really believes Gram needs rescuing. But what does she think? That she’s the Coast Guard? The National Guard? The I’m-gonna-save-my-mom-from-enjoying-a-new-life-in-Florida Guard? I mean, c’mon, Mom. Gram obviously doesn’t think she needs rescuing, so I say let her be.
The problem is that no matter how Gram is really doing when we get there, Mom’s going to “creatively” interpret the situation so that OSSS is a success. You and I both know this is just a nice way to say that Mom will make stuff up to fit her plan. And now, since I’m going with her, I feel like I’m an accomplice.
Besides not liking that I’m Mom’s little minion on this mission, I’m only slightly excited to visit Gram. And if you’re thinking that sounds terrible, then you must not remember the reason for my marginal amount of enthusiasm.
Gram and Grandpa lived pretty far from us, so we didn’t see them all that often. Since Mom and Dad were always tied up with work—and Tori, Annalise, and I were always busy with school and other stuff—there never seemed to be time for our family to make the eight-hour drive to visit them.
And that long drive was the same reason they rarely came to visit us, especially once Grandpa was diagnosed with his heart condition.
The few times I do remember visiting them, it wasn’t all that fun. It’s not that I didn’t like Gram and Grandpa. It was just that their fancy furniture, white carpeting, and breakables on every end table meant a lot “sitting still” and “being good.” I don’t think any kid would think that was fantastically fun.
So, we really weren’t all that close.
But that wasn’t the only thing dampening my eagerness. I had a sneaking suspicion that this Sunny Sandy Shores Condominium Complex where Gram had moved was one of those senior citizen communities I’d seen advertised on TV that showed all kinds of old people playing cards and wandering on walking paths, smiling and laughing with each other.
So, I’ve kind of been being a brat about the trip, whining and complaining. All the while, Mom continues spreading her positive, optimistic attitude all over the place.
“Most people would love to be going to Florida for a couple weeks,” she says smiling.
“Not if you’re going to an old people’s home,” I say back.
To spy on your grandma, I want to say, but don’t.
“I bet you’ll end up having the time of your life!” Mom continues in that overexaggerated cheerful voice.
You know the voice I’m talking about, right? That always-see-the-glass-half-full voice.
Then I say, “If spending time at an old people’s home is the time of my life, I should just crawl under the nearest rock, curl up, and die right now to save myself the misery.”
I know this is a little dramatic, even for me, so I’m not surprised when Mom uses her I’m-at-the-end-of-my-rope voice to say, “Samantha, stop being so dramatic!”
Then she adds matter-of-factly, with very little cheerfulness left in her voice, “And I’ve told you a million times, Sunny Sandy Shores is not an old people’s home. It’s just a regular condominium complex.”
“What do you wanna bet all the people are gonna be old?” I say, pushing my luck, knowing full well that I’ve likely just gotten on Mom’s last nerve.
Then she glares at me with that you’re-tipping-over-my-half-full-glass look. And I know to put a lid on it before that glass of hers tips all the way over and breaks.
You’re all grown up now, but does she still give you that look sometimes?
I sure hope, by the time you read this letter, you’re old enough to give Mom that same look right back without getting into trouble.
Love,
Me
Dear Me,
Do you remember much about sixth grade?
Well, just in case your memory is failing a little, I think it’s important to remind you of a few details.
My goal when I got to middle school was to be able to tape a practice or rehearsal schedule up on the fridge next to Tori’s varsity volleyball schedule and Annalise’s concert piano schedule. So, I set out to find my “thing.”
But here are the top ten reasons why that never happened:
1. I hit seven balls over the fence during tennis tryouts and didn’t get one single serve inbounds.
2. I fell doing a cartwheel and twisted my ankle at dance squad auditions.
3. In volleyball tryouts, I never got a single ball over the net but managed to get one spiked in my face.
4. I pulled a muscle trying to kick as high as everyone else at cheerleading tryouts, and Mom had to take me to physical therapy for a month.
5. I tripped on the ball running down the field at soccer tryouts and literally ended up with grass stains on my chin.
6. Trying to qualify for the math decathlon, I didn’t even make it past the first placement test.
7. I hit two people in the head with a giant prop candy cane and knocked over the Styrofoam streetlamp at the holiday showcase auditions.
8. The school nurse had to be called when I landed on the hig
h-jump bar during indoor track tryouts. (I was pretty sure I broke my back, so Mom took me to the urgent care center, but it ended up only being a bad bone bruise.)
9. I whiffed the ball six times at bat during softball tryouts and face-planted trying to catch a grounder.
10. The details of the Spring Fine Arts Festival auditions are so horrific that I would be super surprised if you don’t remember it like it was yesterday. Even so, I promise to write more about it later, but it will require me to devote an entire letter to that subject alone.
Maybe you’re wondering why I was such a glutton for punishment, but here’s the thing: all these disastrous tryouts surprised me. In elementary school, I had joined lots of teams/groups/clubs. So, I just assumed middle school would be the same. But here’s the other thing: in elementary school, everyone makes the team or gets into the group or can be part of the club. But it didn’t take long to realize all those obligatory participation ribbons that hung on my dresser mirror didn’t mean anything, because it turns out that in middle school, some type of talent combined with a certain amount of skill is a prerequisite for everything you do. And from the list above, it’s extremely obvious that I was lacking both in all the things that really mattered.
It seems impossible, with sisters like Tori and Annalise, that there isn’t something I’m exceptionally good at. But with each new epic fail, it became harder and harder for me to believe that I possessed an adeptness for anything at all. Even so, I kept signing up to try out for things because of Mom’s mantra of “Keep trying!” or “Your perseverance will pay off eventually!”
This did not turn out to be good advice for someone like me, and sixth grade became a long, arduous year.
I planned to spend my summer searching for that overlooked aptitude that just had to be inside me somewhere. That way, I’d have time to master and perfect it before the start of seventh grade. But now, just because I’m not off at sports camp like Tori or participating in the downtown music conservatory like Annalise this summer, Mom has recruited me for her OSSS mission. So, I don’t see how I’ll have time to discover any hidden talents that might be lurking below the surface somewhere deep inside me.
When I Hit the Road Page 1