started first in his wheelchair, forcing the teenager to walk behind him until they had passed Dylan and Clare. “Come on, old man, could you go any slower ?” the teenager called out.
Dylan’s first reaction was one of shock that someone would say such a thing to an elderly man. Then, with an even greater shock, Dylan recognized the teenager’s words as the very words he himself had said, not even a week ago! Oh, he had only muttered them under his breath, and the old man in question had not heard them, but they had been the exact same words. “Come on, old man, could you go any slower ?” Even though the old man had not heard Dylan at the time, his friend Danny, who was with him, had heard and had laughed—which was just what Dylan had hoped for. Then Dylan got his third shock. The old man was just at the point of passing Dylan and Clare, so Dylan could clearly see the spiteful grin that spread across his face at the teenager’s words.
“I’ll take all the time I want, kid, and I don’t care who has to wait!” the old man said.
“Nice place,” Clare muttered, but Dylan did not answer. He was too stunned by the way two strangers in a row had said the exact words he remembered saying himself. For one thing, the coincidence was just too weird; but for another thing, hearing these things said right out loud by other people made him see how nasty they really sounded. And then it happened again. They passed a church whose doors were open, with well-dressed people entering. A mom, a dad, and their son were coming from the parking lot, and the son was complaining, for all the world to hear. “Why do you always make me come?” he groused. “I hate coming! It’s boring!” And once again, Dylan recognized himself. That was what he thought almost every Sunday.
The widest road, the one the tree had said to keep to, turned again, and Dylan and Clare were back in the part of town that was dirtier and run-down. Little groups of slouching people still loafed there, pointing at passersby and whispering. Shadows were growing long as the afternoon drew to a close. The cousins hurried.
When they first heard feet coming after them, they walked faster and tried to ignore them. The footsteps began to run, then, so they whirled around to see who followed. “Oh, it’s just him,” Clare said, as they both recognized the pleasant-faced man who had such an odd way of turning up wherever they went.
“It is you,” Mr. Smith beamed. “I thought so, but it was hard to tell from the back. Bad part of town, this, isn’t it?” he said, shaking his head. “Bet you’re glad you don’t live here and that you’re not like these people.” As always, the man’s voice was friendly enough, but Dylan felt that the look Mr. Smith fixed on him was somehow accusing and mocking at the same time—as though he realized what shameful things Dylan kept hearing people say and realized, too, that Dylan had said or thought them all himself. Mr. Smith shook his head again. “This is what we get when we go looking for a real Holiday,” he said. “There is no such thing. The best we can do is just enjoy our vacations in Holiday once a year and hold on to the memories. What you see here is just what people are, everywhere, all the rest of the time.”
“Oh, no!” Clare countered. “People in the real Holiday aren’t like this—Dylan, show him your list,”
and Dylan reached, reluctant, for the flyer in his pocket.
The man waved his hand. “Oh, no, save yourself the trouble,” he smiled. “I’ve seen the list—always kind, always keeping one’s temper and mouth under control, thinking of other people, not just yourself—isn’t that how it goes? Where are you possibly going to find people like that to live in such a place?” He winked at Dylan. “Do you think you’ll get authorized?” He chuckled softly, then gave a friendly wave. “Maybe I’ll see you again,” and he went on ahead of Dylan and Clare.
“The nerve of
Dylan’s first reaction was one of shock that someone would say such a thing to an elderly man. Then, with an even greater shock, Dylan recognized the teenager’s words as the very words he himself had said, not even a week ago! Oh, he had only muttered them under his breath, and the old man in question had not heard them, but they had been the exact same words. “Come on, old man, could you go any slower ?” Even though the old man had not heard Dylan at the time, his friend Danny, who was with him, had heard and had laughed—which was just what Dylan had hoped for. Then Dylan got his third shock. The old man was just at the point of passing Dylan and Clare, so Dylan could clearly see the spiteful grin that spread across his face at the teenager’s words.
“I’ll take all the time I want, kid, and I don’t care who has to wait!” the old man said.
“Nice place,” Clare muttered, but Dylan did not answer. He was too stunned by the way two strangers in a row had said the exact words he remembered saying himself. For one thing, the coincidence was just too weird; but for another thing, hearing these things said right out loud by other people made him see how nasty they really sounded. And then it happened again. They passed a church whose doors were open, with well-dressed people entering. A mom, a dad, and their son were coming from the parking lot, and the son was complaining, for all the world to hear. “Why do you always make me come?” he groused. “I hate coming! It’s boring!” And once again, Dylan recognized himself. That was what he thought almost every Sunday.
The widest road, the one the tree had said to keep to, turned again, and Dylan and Clare were back in the part of town that was dirtier and run-down. Little groups of slouching people still loafed there, pointing at passersby and whispering. Shadows were growing long as the afternoon drew to a close. The cousins hurried.
When they first heard feet coming after them, they walked faster and tried to ignore them. The footsteps began to run, then, so they whirled around to see who followed. “Oh, it’s just him,” Clare said, as they both recognized the pleasant-faced man who had such an odd way of turning up wherever they went.
“It is you,” Mr. Smith beamed. “I thought so, but it was hard to tell from the back. Bad part of town, this, isn’t it?” he said, shaking his head. “Bet you’re glad you don’t live here and that you’re not like these people.” As always, the man’s voice was friendly enough, but Dylan felt that the look Mr. Smith fixed on him was somehow accusing and mocking at the same time—as though he realized what shameful things Dylan kept hearing people say and realized, too, that Dylan had said or thought them all himself. Mr. Smith shook his head again. “This is what we get when we go looking for a real Holiday,” he said. “There is no such thing. The best we can do is just enjoy our vacations in Holiday once a year and hold on to the memories. What you see here is just what people are, everywhere, all the rest of the time.”
“Oh, no!” Clare countered. “People in the real Holiday aren’t like this—Dylan, show him your list,”
and Dylan reached, reluctant, for the flyer in his pocket.
The man waved his hand. “Oh, no, save yourself the trouble,” he smiled. “I’ve seen the list—always kind, always keeping one’s temper and mouth under control, thinking of other people, not just yourself—isn’t that how it goes? Where are you possibly going to find people like that to live in such a place?” He winked at Dylan. “Do you think you’ll get authorized?” He chuckled softly, then gave a friendly wave. “Maybe I’ll see you again,” and he went on ahead of Dylan and Clare.
“The nerve of
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