The Sugar Mountain Snow Ball Read Online Free Page A

very thing—talking stuff over with Eleanor—I realized I never got to talk stuff over with her. We only talked between classes in the crowded hallways, or sitting on the bleachers in gym class, faking injuries, or during lunch, where we were always surrounded by the Math Squad boys, who drooled all over Eleanor, even though she had no idea they all liked her—especially that Anton Orlov. He was so in love with Eleanor that he couldn’t stop insulting everyone around her, especially me.
    It didn’t seem fair that her mother forced her to do all these special activities and classes, and then run home instantly every single day. I had never heard of anyone who had so many rules and chores and lessons, like the cello, not to mention all the other junk she had to sign up for.
    The funny thing is, she was never expected to work at her father’s gas station. If kids had any extra time to do anything around here,they would work, especially if their families owned businesses. But Eleanor said her thaththa (which is “Dad” in their Sinhala language) told her she had the rest of her life to worry about making money; he believed childhood was the time to learn and explore. The problem was, her amma (which is “Mom”) told her what to learn and where to explore. And none of it ever included me.
    On my way home, I had to stop again and catch my breath. For some reason, my wheezing had been acting up more than usual lately. I rested against the tall iron fence in front of the town’s only mansion near the far end of Maine Street, at the corner of Bon Hiver Lane. Mim had told me that the people who built the giant stone house back in the 1800s were rich railroad folks, and their relatives had lived there for more than a hundred years, until the train business went belly-up and they moved away.
    All I know is, I’d never seen a bigger front yard in my entire life, except in pictures of those humongous castles over in France. Come to think of it, this mansion reminded me of a real French castle with its tower at each end, and an enormous rectangular section in the middle with lots and lots of windows.
    After the train family left for good, other millionaires bought and sold it, but no one ever knew who they were—probably rich Outers who wanted somewhere to ski. But since the economy had been bad for a while now, that old mansion had been sitting empty. Until today.
    In the distance, beyond the front yard, an eighteen-wheeler (the kind Pop drove) was backed up behind the house with several guys moving furniture down the ramp. I pressed my face betweenthe cold metal bars to see if there were kids or dogs or horses or anything interesting.
    And that’s when I saw him.
    A boy stood way over to the left side of the property, far from all the commotion. He was even taller than Eleanor, and skinnier, too, and I mean stick-figure skinny, like someone who doesn’t even like food. He had a mess of brown hair hanging down around his face, and I think he wore glasses—it was hard to tell from so far away. His baggy green jacket came down to his knees and it was unzipped, even though a cold wind blew down from the mountains.
    He peered at me through a pair of binoculars like he was a spy, so I jammed my arms through the fence and waved, pretending to surrender.
    â€œI give up! Come on over and arrest me.”
    But instead of laughing, the boy dropped his binoculars like he thought it was a real holdup.
    â€œSorry, I’m only goofin’ around,” I yelled. “What’s your name?”
    I couldn’t tell if he could hear me or if I had truly scared him, because all of a sudden he turned and took off around the corner of one of those towers. It seemed like everyone was running away from me today.
    â€œCharlie! Quit touching every cookie chunk with your nasty little hands. And Henry, move your melon head so I can see the television, mister.”
    My little brothers and