Read Online Personal Touch by Caroline B. Cooney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caroline B. Cooney
Ads: Link
hungry. Have something.”
I was exhausted. I wanted to go home and go to bed, but Mrs. Lansberry seemed frantic for company, so I stayed. Mrs. Lansberry sort of wandered around the room trying to think of things to say to me, but we were both too tired to think of anything.
Finally she thanked me for coming. “I’ve been—well, I’ve been a bit under the weather this month,” she told me at the door. “I guess it shows. Tim worries too much. Tell him not to worry so much.”
How peculiar for them to be giving me messages to carry back and forth. I wondered what “under the weather” might mean. I had a feeling that the “work” Tim had had to do last Sunday might be his mother.
I yawned so many times I was afraid I might have yawning disease. My jaw hurt. Thank goodness you don’t yawn in your sleep.
I spent a few moments thinking about the mysteries of yawning and then turned to the mysteries of crushes on boys.
I know! I thought gleefully. I can be with Tim very easily on the Fourth! Long-time next door neighbors ought to do things together, and we never had. We’d invite Mrs. Lansberry and Tim to go with us to all the festivities. My parents wouldn’t think there was anything odd about that because Tim was around so much anyway.
Perfect.
I congratulated myself, yawned a final jaw-breaking yawn, tipped over on the pillow, and went to sleep.
7
M R. HARTLEY DECIDED THAT nobody in his right patriotic mind would want to exchange a paperback on the Fourth of July, so he gave me the day off.
My mother, on the contrary, felt that all people with decent patriotic attitudes would want to buy a folding lawn chair to sit on so as to watch the festivities from dawn until midnight in comfort. It was her duty as a citizen, she informed us, to keep Chair Fair open.
With the help of Jeter, my father, Tim, and me.
My father and Jeter declined. Tim and I, being ever eager for higher incomes, agreed. “Do we get double time for working on a national holiday?” said Tim hopefully.
My mother just looked at him silently.
“From that expression,” Tim said to me, “I deduce that requesting double time is not a patriotic thing to do.”
I giggled, and Tim grinned at me and my heart fluttered—but the first customer needing a blanket to spread on the Green walked in, and for the next four hours, that was the end of any pleasant conversational exchange with Tim. Quite literally there was no longer time to look out the window of the shop. When Mrs. Lansberry came in about 11:00, loaded down with the picnic she had promised to supply, I was amazed to see outside that Main Street was not only blocked off, but that little booths stretched as far as I could see and that several thousand people were busily entertaining themselves right in front of our door.
“What better place?” said my mother, rubbing her hands together in what Tim told her was an unseemly greedy fashion.
Mrs. Lansberry announced that we were going to have a picnic to end all picnics. We were featuring, she announced, everything from sangria to ham on rye; from crabmeat dip to chocolate cheesecake, from melon balls to poppy seed buns.
My father inspected Mrs. Lansberry’s baskets. Our family leans toward very primitive picnics—the kind where you shove some old stale baloney sandwiches into a bag and drop a can of soda on top of them and walk down to the beach. When my father saw the contents were exactly what she had advertised, he said, “Close up early, folks. It isn’t worth any amount of chair income to let this bounty spoil.”
Mrs. Lansberry laughed as if my father had awarded her Chef-of-the-Year blue ribbons. How odd, I thought. I have never heard her laugh before. I’ve watched her tan and I’ve listened to her scold, but I’ve never heard her sound happy before. In five summers.
She looked much better today than she had the other night. Kind of excited, as if she was expecting something really special to happen on the
I was exhausted. I wanted to go home and go to bed, but Mrs. Lansberry seemed frantic for company, so I stayed. Mrs. Lansberry sort of wandered around the room trying to think of things to say to me, but we were both too tired to think of anything.
Finally she thanked me for coming. “I’ve been—well, I’ve been a bit under the weather this month,” she told me at the door. “I guess it shows. Tim worries too much. Tell him not to worry so much.”
How peculiar for them to be giving me messages to carry back and forth. I wondered what “under the weather” might mean. I had a feeling that the “work” Tim had had to do last Sunday might be his mother.
I yawned so many times I was afraid I might have yawning disease. My jaw hurt. Thank goodness you don’t yawn in your sleep.
I spent a few moments thinking about the mysteries of yawning and then turned to the mysteries of crushes on boys.
I know! I thought gleefully. I can be with Tim very easily on the Fourth! Long-time next door neighbors ought to do things together, and we never had. We’d invite Mrs. Lansberry and Tim to go with us to all the festivities. My parents wouldn’t think there was anything odd about that because Tim was around so much anyway.
Perfect.
I congratulated myself, yawned a final jaw-breaking yawn, tipped over on the pillow, and went to sleep.
7
M R. HARTLEY DECIDED THAT nobody in his right patriotic mind would want to exchange a paperback on the Fourth of July, so he gave me the day off.
My mother, on the contrary, felt that all people with decent patriotic attitudes would want to buy a folding lawn chair to sit on so as to watch the festivities from dawn until midnight in comfort. It was her duty as a citizen, she informed us, to keep Chair Fair open.
With the help of Jeter, my father, Tim, and me.
My father and Jeter declined. Tim and I, being ever eager for higher incomes, agreed. “Do we get double time for working on a national holiday?” said Tim hopefully.
My mother just looked at him silently.
“From that expression,” Tim said to me, “I deduce that requesting double time is not a patriotic thing to do.”
I giggled, and Tim grinned at me and my heart fluttered—but the first customer needing a blanket to spread on the Green walked in, and for the next four hours, that was the end of any pleasant conversational exchange with Tim. Quite literally there was no longer time to look out the window of the shop. When Mrs. Lansberry came in about 11:00, loaded down with the picnic she had promised to supply, I was amazed to see outside that Main Street was not only blocked off, but that little booths stretched as far as I could see and that several thousand people were busily entertaining themselves right in front of our door.
“What better place?” said my mother, rubbing her hands together in what Tim told her was an unseemly greedy fashion.
Mrs. Lansberry announced that we were going to have a picnic to end all picnics. We were featuring, she announced, everything from sangria to ham on rye; from crabmeat dip to chocolate cheesecake, from melon balls to poppy seed buns.
My father inspected Mrs. Lansberry’s baskets. Our family leans toward very primitive picnics—the kind where you shove some old stale baloney sandwiches into a bag and drop a can of soda on top of them and walk down to the beach. When my father saw the contents were exactly what she had advertised, he said, “Close up early, folks. It isn’t worth any amount of chair income to let this bounty spoil.”
Mrs. Lansberry laughed as if my father had awarded her Chef-of-the-Year blue ribbons. How odd, I thought. I have never heard her laugh before. I’ve watched her tan and I’ve listened to her scold, but I’ve never heard her sound happy before. In five summers.
She looked much better today than she had the other night. Kind of excited, as if she was expecting something really special to happen on the
Similar Books
