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Authors: Jennifer Anne Kogler
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literally.”
“Oh, it’s not a problem, Mary Lou. I appreciate someone who says what they think.” Mr. Summers extended his hand toward Sam like it was an olive branch. “Sam, I’m Mr. Summers.” Sam took the man’s hand and shook it limply, refusing to look the neighbor in the eye. “Good to meet you,” he said before moving on down the line.
“You must be Fern!” Mr. Summers bent over so he was closer to her eye level.
“You know my name?” she asked warily.
“Eddie mentioned it. Now what’s this I hear about your record on predicting the weather? Is that true?”
Fern looked quizzical. She found it very unlikely that Eddie had told this man about her predictions on the weather.
“I’m pretty good at it,” Fern said.
“Pretty good? I’d say correct forecasts over two years is better than pretty good .”
“Yeah,” Fern said, slightly embarrassed.
“You climb trees, too?”
“Yes,” Fern said.
“Mrs. Atwood down the street works at St. Gregory’s—she says all anyone’s been talking about is your disappearance at school. Do we have a Houdini Jr. in our midst?”
“No,” Fern said as her face turned hot.
“I remember playing hooky once or twice when I was your age.” Mr. Summers smiled and his dimples made him seem perfectly innocuous. He looked up at Mrs. McAllister and winked. “Of course, I’m not encouraging such behavior.”
Fern was now terribly self-conscious. Was she really that much of a topic of conversation? Sam stepped in between Mr. Summers and Fern, rather awkwardly.
“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions, Mr. Summers?” Sam asked with scorn. “Or is it only Fern that you’re interested in?”
Mr. Summers took a step back. Fern thought she recognized a glint of anger in Mr. Summers’s otherwise charming face.
Eddie, still on the couch, jumped up, yelped, and pumped his fist. “Holy . . . awesome!” Kobe Bryant had sunk a long three pointer just as the halftime buzzer sounded.
Mrs. McAllister caught Sam’s eye and raised an eyebrow at him. She would deal with him later. The four of them were still crowded in the doorway.
“Please sit back down, Wallace,” she said. “Sam, why don’t you ask Mr. Summers if he would like something to drink?”
Sam didn’t move an inch. He looked at Mr. Summers as if the two were about to duel.
“Sam? Did you hear me?” Mrs. McAllister said, losing patience by the second.
“Sorry. I thought you told me not to take things so literally.”
Mrs. McAllister zeroed in on Sam and was about to send him to his room for the night when Wallace Summers stepped in.
“No, no, Mary Lou, don’t trouble yourself,” Mr. Summers said, sitting down. “I’ll just watch with Eddie here and let myself out when the game’s over.”
Upstairs, minutes later, Sam was unable to shake his anger at Mr. Summers’s intrusion. Fern, still grounded, had been sent up to her room after her brief encounter with Mr. Summers, and Sam snuck into her room, hoping to discuss the strange arrival. The two were now whispering back and forth.
“You really made Mom mad, Sam. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grounds you or something. She hates it when you get mouthy.”
“I didn’t like all the questions he was asking you. What if he knows you can teleport?” Sam said, sliding their newly discovered word seamlessly into the conversation.
“I thought you said I shouldn’t be worried about people finding out about me teleporting.”
“You shouldn’t worry,” Sam said, folding his arms and sitting in Fern’s rocking chair. “I just don’t like him is all.”
“You’re mad because he has a crush on Mom,” Fern said.
“I don’t care if he wants to marry Mom. He seems nosy.”
“Yeah, a little,” Fern said, thinking of the chilly feeling she’d had when Mr. Summers arrived.
Suddenly, Fern doubled over in pain, clutching her sides. It was her stomach.
“Stomachache, again?” Sam said, unable to hide his alarm. She was
“Oh, it’s not a problem, Mary Lou. I appreciate someone who says what they think.” Mr. Summers extended his hand toward Sam like it was an olive branch. “Sam, I’m Mr. Summers.” Sam took the man’s hand and shook it limply, refusing to look the neighbor in the eye. “Good to meet you,” he said before moving on down the line.
“You must be Fern!” Mr. Summers bent over so he was closer to her eye level.
“You know my name?” she asked warily.
“Eddie mentioned it. Now what’s this I hear about your record on predicting the weather? Is that true?”
Fern looked quizzical. She found it very unlikely that Eddie had told this man about her predictions on the weather.
“I’m pretty good at it,” Fern said.
“Pretty good? I’d say correct forecasts over two years is better than pretty good .”
“Yeah,” Fern said, slightly embarrassed.
“You climb trees, too?”
“Yes,” Fern said.
“Mrs. Atwood down the street works at St. Gregory’s—she says all anyone’s been talking about is your disappearance at school. Do we have a Houdini Jr. in our midst?”
“No,” Fern said as her face turned hot.
“I remember playing hooky once or twice when I was your age.” Mr. Summers smiled and his dimples made him seem perfectly innocuous. He looked up at Mrs. McAllister and winked. “Of course, I’m not encouraging such behavior.”
Fern was now terribly self-conscious. Was she really that much of a topic of conversation? Sam stepped in between Mr. Summers and Fern, rather awkwardly.
“Aren’t you going to ask me any questions, Mr. Summers?” Sam asked with scorn. “Or is it only Fern that you’re interested in?”
Mr. Summers took a step back. Fern thought she recognized a glint of anger in Mr. Summers’s otherwise charming face.
Eddie, still on the couch, jumped up, yelped, and pumped his fist. “Holy . . . awesome!” Kobe Bryant had sunk a long three pointer just as the halftime buzzer sounded.
Mrs. McAllister caught Sam’s eye and raised an eyebrow at him. She would deal with him later. The four of them were still crowded in the doorway.
“Please sit back down, Wallace,” she said. “Sam, why don’t you ask Mr. Summers if he would like something to drink?”
Sam didn’t move an inch. He looked at Mr. Summers as if the two were about to duel.
“Sam? Did you hear me?” Mrs. McAllister said, losing patience by the second.
“Sorry. I thought you told me not to take things so literally.”
Mrs. McAllister zeroed in on Sam and was about to send him to his room for the night when Wallace Summers stepped in.
“No, no, Mary Lou, don’t trouble yourself,” Mr. Summers said, sitting down. “I’ll just watch with Eddie here and let myself out when the game’s over.”
Upstairs, minutes later, Sam was unable to shake his anger at Mr. Summers’s intrusion. Fern, still grounded, had been sent up to her room after her brief encounter with Mr. Summers, and Sam snuck into her room, hoping to discuss the strange arrival. The two were now whispering back and forth.
“You really made Mom mad, Sam. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grounds you or something. She hates it when you get mouthy.”
“I didn’t like all the questions he was asking you. What if he knows you can teleport?” Sam said, sliding their newly discovered word seamlessly into the conversation.
“I thought you said I shouldn’t be worried about people finding out about me teleporting.”
“You shouldn’t worry,” Sam said, folding his arms and sitting in Fern’s rocking chair. “I just don’t like him is all.”
“You’re mad because he has a crush on Mom,” Fern said.
“I don’t care if he wants to marry Mom. He seems nosy.”
“Yeah, a little,” Fern said, thinking of the chilly feeling she’d had when Mr. Summers arrived.
Suddenly, Fern doubled over in pain, clutching her sides. It was her stomach.
“Stomachache, again?” Sam said, unable to hide his alarm. She was
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