Three Bird Summer Read Free

birches like a genuine northern forest. Lucky for us, she had more than a thousand feet of shoreline and more than a hundred acres of woods. If you stuck to her property, you could still feel like you were someplace wild, even if the other people on the lake owned Jet Skis and plastic flamingos.
    The end of the dock was my favorite place on Grandma’s property. I spent hours here doing nothing at all. Grandma teased me about it sometimes. “World’s best dock-sitter” she sometimes called me. “The neighbors probably think you’re a statue, there to scare off the gulls.” But I didn’t care. I loved the big sky and the big lake rolling out at my feet.
    A cool breeze crossed the water. It felt like the great North was barreling through me with my every breath. Here’s what slipped away: schedules, bus rides, the stale smell of the school cafeteria, algebraic equations, Mom and Dad’s phone arguments, girl talk, and Grandma’s interrogations. Here’s what I got in exchange: water sloshing slowly and steadily against the dock like the heartbeat of a great whale. A pair of black-and-white loons swimming into view. Fresh air and a lake that, right then, felt like it was all mine.
    I sat down and dropped my feet in the water. It was cold for the middle of June, but I’d get used to it in a few days. Minnows darted at my toes, casting busy black shadows on the sand below.
    I heard voices across the water. Grandma’s dock was the one place on her property where you were aware of having neighbors. On land, the woods wrapped us in dense cover, but out here, you could see a few nearby docks and the edges of the neighbors’ lawns. Now a girl about my age and a boy maybe a couple of years older were standing on the nearest dock, loading a small rowboat with gear. The famous neighbor. Grandma hadn’t said anything about a brother, so I figured this was her boyfriend. Maybe that would put an end to Grandma’s teasing. Both kids were tall, blond, and tan. Typical Minnesotans. They were probably ace tennis players and competitive Nordic skiers. Not dock-sitters, at least.
    I stared across the water at the loons and pretended not to notice the kids. Loons were more interesting anyway. Their heads were glossy and black, with a band of vertical black-and-white stripes around their necks that looked like something they’d stolen from a zebra. Their eyes were red. Across their backs, dozens of small white squares aligned in near-perfect rows.
    The two loons drifted closer to me, then abruptly dove underwater. A moment later, I heard the sound of oars clunking against the oarlocks of a boat and looked up to see the two kids rowing into talking range.
    “Hey,” said the girl. Her long hair was pulled back in a smooth ponytail, and she wore a faded T-shirt from someplace called Camp Watson. “Are you Mrs. Stegner’s grandson?”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    The boy was looking at me coolly. I turned my attention to my foot and started picking idly at my big toenail. There were certain boys at my school who turned into total jerks whenever girls were around, and I sensed he was one of them.
    “What’s the matter? Too much toe jam?” the boy asked.
    I pulled my hand away and shrugged. “It’s nothing,” I mumbled.
    “We’re going fishing,” the girl said. “Want to come?”
    The boy’s eyes traveled over the inside of the boat, which was already stuffed full with tackle boxes, cushions, and a white plastic pail. “Where’s he going to sit — your lap?”
    “Very funny, Tyler. There’s plenty of room if you slide those worms under your butt,” she told him.
    Tyler made a face at her.
    “That’s OK,” I said quickly. “I promised my grandmother I’d help her out with some things around the cabin.”
    “No problem,” the girl said. “I’m Alice, by the way. And this is my cousin Tyler.”
    I nodded. Cousin. So much for my defense against Grandma’s teasing.
    “You got a name?” Tyler asked when I didn’t say