Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle Read Free Page A

too.
    I push open the window and climb outside to the roof of the garage. The warm air sticks to my skin. I wait for my eyes to get used to the dark and then find my way along the tar paper. When I reach the edge, I sit down and let my feet swing down toward Ramble Street.
    In the entire town of Massapequa Park, there’s no place like the garage rooftop. It’s above the glare of the streetlights, so I get a clear view of the stars and the moon. When I look down, I can see every house on our block, from Old Mrs. Murphy’s house crammed with flowers to Conchetta Marchetta’s house crammed with kids.
    But the best thing about the roof is that no one knows I’m here. I’ve been coming out since I was eight and haven’t got caught yet.
    In the forty-two days since Kebsie left, I’ve learned that there’s only one thing that can help when I’m missing her.
    A howl at the moon.
    â€œArgooo!” My first try sounds like a squeaky sneeze.
    Kebsie would be disappointed. She was the expert. Full moons. New moons. Crescent moons. Waxing gibbous. Waning gibbous. Quarter moons. Kebsie knew about every phase of the moon and howled at each and every one.
    It drove the adults on Ramble Street crazy. You should hear the fuss they all made. MaryBeth Grabowsky said her parents complained about Kebsie every morning. Shirley said that all those TV shows about werewolves and vampires did a job on Kebsie’s brain.
    At first, I didn’t know what to think. A howling girl is not exactly a common thing to find on Ramble Street. But Kebsie didn’t care what anyone thought, even me. She was fearless. And I loved her for it.
    I never howled when Kebsie was here. I was too afraid to try. She’d climb on top of Mrs. Kutchner’s garage roof and make a racket, while I pressed myself flat against my own roof, trying my best to looking invisible, worried my parents would catch me. Nights like tonight, when the moon is full and bright, made me especially nervous.
    I take a deep breath and give it another try.
    â€œArgooooo!”
    Better, but still not great.
    I look across the street to Mrs. Kutchner’s empty garage roof and try again.
    â€œArrooo!” My last one is almost perfect. I can see why this was Kebsie’s joy.
    I’m about to give it one more try when Marshall calls.
    â€œTamara! Is that you? Are you making that noise?” His voice is muffled so I can tell he’s still in his bedroom.
    I climb back through the window and slink under my covers. “No, Daddy.”
    I hear footsteps, quick ones, heading my way. They stop at the foot of the stairs. “Do you have any idea how early I have to wake up?” Marshall yells, and I’m suddenly grateful that my parents are stair shouters and not face-to-face yellers like Big Danny’s mom and dad. For now, my garage roof secret is safe.
    â€œWhat are you doing up there?”
    â€œNothing, Daddy.”
    â€œDo you know what time my train comes in the morning?”
    â€œ7:11,” I say, because he tells me all the time.
    â€œDo you think it’s easy having to take the Long Island Railroad into the city and then work eight long hours and then take the train all the way back to Massapequa Park every day?”
    â€œNo, Daddy.”
    â€œAre you trying to make my life difficult? Is that what you’re doing up there?” he asks.
    Every bone in my body wants to scream, “You betcha!” If Kebsie were here, that’s what she’d say. No. If Kebsie were here, she’d say, “You betcha, Marshall ,” because Kebsie believes you shouldn’t take any flack from anyone, and she calls everyone, even grown-ups, by their first names directly to their faces and not just behind their backs, like I do.
    You should have seen Mrs. Webber’s jaw drop the day Kebsie marched into the classroom and said, “Hi, Agnes.” Even my older brother Tim wouldn’t have had the