My Almost Epic Summer Read Online Free Page A

of work.” She smiles grimly. Why didn’t my teeth turn out like that?
    “Yeah, I guess. So. Where do you go to school?”
    “Thomas Edison,” she answers. “I’m starting tenth.”
    “I’m starting there, ninth. I was at Bishop Middle.”
    She looks at me for the first time. “I’m kinda working here now, right?”
    From the beach blanket I see Lainie watching, impressed. I wish I knew how to make the conversation last longer. All that comes to my mind is a quote from my Bartlett’s about how silence is our universal refuge and the sequel to foolish acts. But this moment might not be the best time for a quote. “I’m Irene Morse,” I say. Did I already say that?
    She turns her head and looks at me hard. We sit in a painfully silent sequel to my foolish act. Then she says, “Okay.” She puts some steam on the second syllable.
    “Okay. Well. Thanks again. Bye.”
    Her hand ripples. She has already forgotten me.

I Have a Small Realization
     
     
     
    THAT NIGHT IN my bedroom, I get out my manila envelope marked P.P. and sift through the most recent photos that Whitney, Britta and I sneak-took of Paul Pelicano from eighth grade Spring Spirit Day. His face is disguised by red and blue paint—Bishop Middle School colors—but seeing the photos gives me the same queasy feeling. Whitney calls it being hot for and lusting after, but I think the feeling is best described as nausea. Because I feel truly sick when I see Paul Pelicano, even in pictures. He is perfect. Long ago I gave up searching for his tragic flaw.
    We’ve been taking candid snaps of Paul since fifth grade. It started as a joke, but the stack has accumulated to the point where we could reclassify Paul Pelicano as our friendly obsession. None of us has a visual eye, so every picture catches Paul in the throes of some bland act, such as standing in the outfield or waiting for the bus. Paul Pelicano, the face that launched a thousand stomach-cramping questions, and all of them starting: What would you do if Paul Pelicano . . . ?
    Tonight, I would trade a Paul Pelicano photo for one of the girl in the lifeguard chair. Just so I could look at her some more, to figure out what sets her apart from the rest of us.
    Mom and Roy are talking on the other side of the wall that divides the bedrooms. Their voices have that out-of-tune sound that’s not a fight yet, but has potential.
    I refold the envelope and I think about the lifeguard girl, and I think about Paul Pelicano, the only person in this world I ever thought I could gaze at worshipfully all day.
    Something thuds against the wall, rattling my lamp stand. Fight. I stand up to lock my bedroom door, since Mom has a habit of swooping in, post-fight, for a teary chat—without ever acknowledging the tears, or the problem.
    I press my ear to the wall, but I can’t tell if Mom is crying yet.
    So I get in bed and open Lolita and turn up the volume of the words to block out the sound on the other side of the wall. There’s no way this book is going to have a happy ending. Right from the start you can tell pervy old Humbert Humbert is up for anything. Here he’s taking this girl, Dolores, on a road trip for the express purpose of slurping all over her, on and on about her round toes and her red, red lips and the way she chews gum—and all Dolores does is eat, which kind of reminds me of hanging out with Whitney, and then suddenly I really, really miss Whit, miss watching her loop mozzarella around her finger while we rank all the guys in our class from cutest to most repulsive, and I miss our Humbert-ish Paul Pelicano surveillances, and I wish that, for once in my life, my summer could have turned out to be better than hers.

Lainie Astonishes Me
     
     
     
    BY THE NEXT DAY, I’ve schemed up a plan to ask the lifeguard girl if she wants to pose for my notebook. Although I can’t think of a single occasion when I’ve asked someone to sit for me, I figure there’s a chance that one of three things might