The Great Good Summer Read Free

year.” I lean down to touch her face, but she turns in toward Mrs. Murray’s leg, so I let her be. Last summer she’d just barely turned one, so I’m sure she really doesn’t remember me at all.
    Mrs. Murray backs into the house with Lucy still attached to her knee and says, “Let’s pack a bag for y’all, with snacks and such, right? And, Ivy, tell me about your mama, honey. Your daddy’s doing a roof for Mr. Dolan and told him your mama went away for the summer?”
    Which I guess means it’s public, Mama’s taking off. I mean if Abby and Kimmy know, and Mr. Dolan and Mrs. Murray know, and Daddy’s talking about it as if Mama’s taken off to Paris for a holiday or something, then it must be public.
    â€œShe did. I mean, I guess she did. We don’t reallyknow exactly how long she’ll be gone, I guess.” I don’t know what else to say, unless I go into the part about my granddaddy’s church burning down and Mama’s freaking out and the six days in bed and all. Right now just doesn’t seem the time.
    So instead I say, “She’s at church.” Which sounds really funny, since normally if you go to church, you would go for, like, an hour or two. Not for a whole summer.
    â€œWell. I’ll bet you’re going to miss her, huh?” Mrs. Murray says, and I just nod, because a knot of tears suddenly sticks in the back of my throat and makes it so I can’t talk.
    Yes, I think. Yes, I’m going to miss her .
    I guess that’s what I’ve been trying to tell Daddy since she left. And, now that I think of it, ever since the fires in the spring. The fires that left behind black trees and charcoaly rubble and some sort of hole in my mama’s heart. Yes. I just plain miss Mama.
    I lean up against the counter next to Mrs. Murray and the snacks and the apple juice, and I think about my mama in our kitchen—how she’s always been there every day of my whole entire life and now she’s not.
    And then I help Mrs. Murray bag up the little crackers and chunks of pear without saying another word. She fillsthe sippy cups, grabs a stack of clean, dry clothes—just in case—and helps me shove everything into my pack. When we’re all set, she grabs Lucy and I grab Devon and we step back outside and plop them in their double stroller, which is the size, I promise you, of a small train.
    â€œKisses, little Luce,” Mrs. Murray says to Lucy, and then plants a kiss on the top of Lucy’s head. “Kisses, Devon-bo-beven,” she says to Devon, with the same kiss for him.
    â€œAnd thank you, Ivy,” she says to me. “You’re an angel.” And I know she doesn’t mean it in a churchy or mysterious way at all. She just means I’m helping out.

    East Loomer Park is kind of fancy. It wasn’t when I was little, but a couple of years ago there was some big pile of money from an election or something, and now it’s all city-slickered up. That’s what Daddy calls it—city-slickered up, and fancy. It’s where all of Loomer goes when the mayor gives a speech or someone’s hosting a fund-raiser or a family wants to have a big birthday party with a bouncy house.
    There is a red stone track around the pond for people to jog on, and there’re two playgrounds—one for babies and one for big kids—with brand-new, bright-coloredplastic equipment. And there’s a dog park and a few gardens and a whole bunch of other stuff.
    â€œDo ya want me to push you guys high?” I ask Lucy and Devon as we come up on the swings.
    â€œNo,” says Lucy.
    â€œDo ya want to play in the sand?” I ask when we get to the dinosaur dig.
    â€œNo,” says Devon.
    â€œDo ya want a snack?” I ask at Picnic Hill, with its tables and shade trees and thick green grass.
    â€œNo snack at all,” Lucy says, and even though I’m getting a little tired of them