The Great Good Summer Read Free Page B

that’s when Devon starts to scream. He screams, “No, no, no, no, no,” and he makes his body stiff and heavy. He always seems so much older than Lucy, but really he’s just a little three-year-old himself.
    â€œDevon, help me out here. Lucy’s got to go. Will you help me, buddy?” But he can’t hear me for all his screaming, and then Lucy starts to cry too—hard, till her face is bright pink and puffy.
    â€œIvy, do you need help?” Paul’s looking at us through the fence, his hands hanging limply at his sides, flying gear in each one.
    I look up at him to make certain he’s not laughing at me, before I say, “No, I don’t think so.” Not because I don’t need help but because I don’t know what onGod’s green earth I would ask him to do. I have two crying babies and a stroller the size of a small train, and in between every cry all I can hear is the model planes whirring a noisy, endless whir.
    It’s hardly a wonder that as I partly push, partly drag the stroller and the babies toward the bathroom on the other side of Picnic Hill, the knot of tears pops back into my throat.
    By the time we’ve made it all the way to the bathroom—but too late—and changed Lucy’s clothes and calmed everyone down and wiped noses and repacked the bag, I just don’t have it in me to hoof back over to the airspace.
    â€œWe’re near the dog park,” I say. “Wanna have a snack and watch the dogs?”
    And to my deep, deep relief, both Lucy and Devon say yes.
    I’m pretty sure I prefer dogs to flying machines anyway.

Chapter Three
    M orning comes in, all pink, through the lacy layers of my curtains and lands like a sunburn on my skin. I roll away from the light and think, It is summer, and Mama has gone to The Great Good Bible Church of Panhandle Florida, and I’m gonna have cold cereal for breakfast again.
    And then I think, I’m gonna be sad but I’ll pretend I’m not sad, and Daddy’s gonna be sad but he’ll pretend he’s not sad. That’s all we can really do for each other these days.
    And then I think, Today is Sunday, and Daddy’s gonna make us go to church for the first time since Mama left two weeks ago. “We can’t avoid it forever,” he said last night, even while I was thinking, Oh, yes we can. We should.
    Once I’m dressed in a sundress and a shrug and sandals—sandals that are hand-me-downs from Mama—I wander downstairs. Daddy hurries us through our breakfast as if he’s actually excited to get to church. I am not excited. I would be happier doing pretty much anything else. Honestly, at this moment I would rather go to the dentist than go to church, and that’s saying something.(I hate the dentist because I always, without fail, have a cavity. Mama says it’s not my fault—that I have soft teeth, teeth like loam, just like she did as a little girl—but the reason doesn’t matter when the dentist gets his drill out. It hurts every time. But then, when he’s done, I feel fine. I feel better, actually.)
    This is different. I just know that church isn’t gonna fix up any holes in me today.
    â€œIvy-girl, you’re dawdling,” says Daddy. “Church doesn’t wait on its sheep, sweetheart.”
    â€œDaddy, what are we gonna say when people ask us about Mama?” I stir my bowl of milk. Daddy’s right. I’m dawdling.
    â€œThe truth, baby. They’re church folks. Church folks understand other church folks.”
    I follow Daddy out the kitchen door into the garage. “This thing with Mama is churchier than church, though. Right? Isn’t that the problem?”
    Daddy doesn’t answer me for a second because he’s getting settled in his seat and looking around—at my bike on one side and mama’s car on the other. Mama’s car just sitting there, all locked up in the hot and dark.