Fifteenth Summer Read Free Page B

paper mills that spewed sulfurous plumes of smoke, I daydreamed about jumping into the lake. It would wash away theickiness of too many fast-food french fries and too many gas station restrooms.
    I pulled a pen and a little notepad out of my backpack. Lethargically I flipped past page after scribbled-on page until I found a blank one.
    Gary, Indiana, I wrote in green ballpoint. Our motto is, “The Smell of Rotten Eggs Is Character-Building!”
    What’s it like to live with that smell in your pores, your tears, your breath? What’s it like to smell a smell so much that you don’t smell it anymore? But then you take a trip. You go to Chicago for the weekend. You go camping in the woods. You go to summer camp in Iowa, where the air smells like fresh corn. And you come back and realize that your hair, your clothes, the sheets on your bed, you, smell like Gary, Indiana.
    I flipped my notebook closed and tossed it back into my pack. Then I breathed through my mouth until we reached Michigan.
    Finally we pulled up in front of Granly’s squat, shingled house on Sparrow Road and all limped out of the car. As my sisters groaned and stretched, I was stunned by the sudden wave of happiness that washed over me. The air smelled distinctly Bluepointe-ish—heavy and sweet with flowers, and pine needles, and the clean aftertaste of the two-blocks-away lake.
    I tromped up the pea gravel drive to the screened-in front porch, where everything looked just the same as it always had. It was neatly furnished with deep-seated wicker rockers and a couch, lots of glass lanterns, and a big bowl full of shells from the lake.
    My mom, already in to-do mode, bounced a big roller suitcaseup the steps and joined me in the screened porch. She gave me a big grin before turning the knob of the front door.
    It didn’t turn.
    It was locked.
    Of course it was. My parents had probably locked the house up after the funeral. It made sense.
    Mom shook her head and grinned at me again, but this time her smile was tight and her eyes looked a little shiny. She fumbled with her key chain for a moment before finding the right key.
    Even though part of me didn’t want to go into the cottage, I took a deep breath and went to stand next to my mom at the door. I pressed the side of my arm lightly against hers as she unlocked it.
    Maybe it’s mean to say, but it kind of helped me to realize that my mom might be in even more agony than I was at that moment, that she needed my support as much as I needed hers.
    Mom opened the door, and I followed her in.
    The air in the cottage felt still and stale, so my mom briskly started opening windows. I rolled her suitcase to the tiny bedroom my parents always used, then wandered back to the living room up front. I let my eyes skim over the framed watercolors of beach scenes and cozy cabins. I peered at the crowd of family photos on the mantel. I kicked off my flip-flops and padded across the nubbly braided rag rug and . . . continued to feel surprisingly okay!
    Outside, Hannah was struggling to pull a big bag of shoes out of the back of the car, while Abbie lurched toward the house, dragging another suitcase behind her.
    She spotted me through the open door and scowled.
    “Why are we doing all the unpacking while you just stand there?” she said. “You’re not allowed to crack one book until you’ve helped us unload.”
    I stomped to the screen door and said, “You’re not the boss of me.” Which made me feel about ten years old. But it was true! I couldn’t not say it.
    I also couldn’t get away without helping, so I shuffled my feet back into my flip-flops and began hauling stuff from the car to the cottage.
    I think we were all glad for the distracting bustle of unpacking. While Mom organized dry goods in the kitchen and Dad lined our beach shoes up on the screened porch, Abbie, Hannah, and I crammed into our room. Abbie and I were in the bunk beds, and Hannah had the twin bed near the window, with the slightly