Forget Me Not Read Online Free

was a famous nineteenth-century American poet and essayist. I first discovered this book in Sam’s study upstairs and when Sam noticed how interested I was, he ordered me my own copy. Sam knows I like to read with a pen in my hand, marking it up, making the book my own. Sam says I read like a writer.
    To me reading and writing are inseparably connected. Someday I want to write books. My wonderful Gramp Tweed, whom I loved so much, told me he thought I’d be a writer. Gramp said the best way toprepare for that was to read all the best books I could. That was very good advice.
    Emerson kept a journal just like I do. On June 27, 1839, he wrote:
              “ I wish to write such rhymes as shall not suggest a restraint,
                  but contrariwise the wildest freedom. ”
    The wildest freedom, nice. I like that. I wonder if JFK has written any new rhymes? He writes rap lyrics, good ones, about important things. JFK says rap is like poetry, but it’s music. I look at the clock. He’ll be here soon. He wouldn’t tell me where we’re going, but he’s awfully excited about it. He said he wanted to surprise me.
    I shower and get dressed, pull on a pink T-shirt and my favorite jean shorts. I put on some makeup, towel dry my hair, scrunching up curls on one side, combing straight the other, my signature hairstyle, “the Willa.” Ruby Sivler actually invented it for me. At least there’s that one nice thing between us. I think about Tina and Ruby hanging out together, checking out the lifeguards at the beach, and then I push that thought from my mind.
    I pick up my locket, open the heart, and smile at the faces, JFK on one side, me on the other. I snap the heart shut and clasp the chain around my neck.
    JFK is waiting for me at the kitchen door like I asked. That way we won’t have to make chitchat with the guests on the front porch. The Red Hats got one look at my guy last night and were all so absolutely smitten, they nearly locked him up in the library so they could talk to him.
    JFK was a good sport. He’s always such a good sport.
    But today I’m being selfish. I want my boyfriend all to myself.
    JFK is wearing long tan shorts and a yellow polo shirt. His brown hair is streaked lighter from the summer sun, nearly collar length and wavy.
    “Ready?” He smiles with those sea-blue eyes I could sail to Singapore in.
    “Ready,” I say.
    Chef Sam looks over at us from the stove. “Have a good time,” he says.
    “Thanks, Mr. Gracemore,” JFK says.
    “Bye, Dad. See ya later.”
    “Where are we going anyway?” I ask JFK. “You’ve had me wondering all day.”
    “You’ll see,” he says, smiling. “You won’t be disappointed. But bring a jacket. It could get chilly.”
    We take our bikes. It’s still gorgeous out. I love these long summer days.
    Passing through town, I see Nana’s store, Sweet Bramble Books, a combination bookstore and candy shop, is bustling busy. We love the tourists. In July and August, Bramble balloons to three times its normal size with summer visitors. Small stores like Nana’s depend on that business.
    Biking side by side, I tell JFK about Emerson, the part about rhymes and freedom. “How’s your writing coming?” I ask.
    “It was flowing today,” he says. “I was mowing the lawn, mindless, and then all of a sudden, over the roar, I started getting more lines about the war. Hey, that rhymes.” He smiles. “Flags can’t hide the body bags. Had enough talk. Time to walk. People dying. Stop the lying. Don’t see your kids on the line fighting. Made in America.”
    “Whoa,” I say. “Powerful.”
    “What about you?” he says. “Writing any more letters to stir up trouble?”
    He means the letter I wrote to the Cape Times about the lack of affordable housing on Cape Cod. A wealthy couple from New Seabury read my letter andstarted a foundation to build houses for low-income residents.
    “No, just my journal.”
    JFK leads us toward Sandy