Summer of the Gypsy Moths Read Online Free PDF Page B

beautiful.”
    â€œOh, I like the broken ones fine,” George said. He picked up a sand dollar. It was bleached white, at least four inches across, pretty as a sugar cookie. He snapped it in half, and I gasped.
    George held the palm of his hand out to me and tapped the broken shell over it. A tiny white chip fell out, and then another. “Look here,” he said. “Inside here, these are the teeth. They look like doves, don’t you think? A lot of folks take the sand dollar as a message about God and Jesus and all—the nail holes of the cross on the shell, the little doves inside, you see—and that’s all right, I guess. But what I see are the doves being released. Now, I see a broken shell and I remind myself that something might have needed setting free. See, broken things always have a story, don’t they?”
    I shrugged. I didn’t think I agreed with him, but I liked imagining it might be true.
    â€œPlace like this, families on vacation—well, you’d betterget used to things getting broken. Why, I keep a stack of bed slats in the shed because five or six get broken every year. Kids just have to jump on beds, I suppose.”
    â€œYou could put a sign up,” I said. “No jumping on the beds!”
    George laughed hard at that. “Oh, no,” he said. “I wouldn’t even want to live in a world where kids don’t jump on beds. No, I don’t mind any of the broken things. I like to figure out their stories.” He turned away then, as if he was embarrassed he’d said too much, and set the sand dollar halves carefully back on the shelf.
    I didn’t think he’d said too much. In fact, if things were different, I thought there might be a lot more I would want to ask him about broken things. Or whatever else he wanted to talk about.

CHAPTER 5
    T here sure was a lot to do. We laid out cakes of Ivory in their waxy wrappers by the sinks, hung dish towels on wooden spindles, filled salt and pepper shakers, lined cupboards with fresh shelf paper and garbage pails with trash bags, made beds, and checked lightbulbs. We swept down cobwebs and escorted hundreds of daddy long-legs outside, and set mousetraps under the sinks. “Mice,” George muttered. “They’d walk away with these cottages, you give them half a chance.”
    I kept stealing nervous glances at Angel, sure she would just disappear. The funny thing was, she didn’t act at allconcerned about losing the morning. She trotted along with George, looking fascinated at whatever he was saying and happy to do whatever he asked. I could barely recognize her as the girl who would sulk and glare her way through a silent weekend. And she sure didn’t look at all like a girl who was itching to get onto the Mid-Cape Highway heading west. That girl could lie with her whole self.
    Finally, George said, “That does it.” We went outside and he explained the plan. “There are three cottages left, and three of us. You know what to do now. I’ll take Gull; Miss Angel, you take Plover; and Sandpiper is yours, Stella by Starlight. Okay?”
    We nodded, but I could see Angel didn’t like the plan very much. I tried to catch her eye so I could tell her she should just slip away, but she had turned to follow George, who was opening up Plover for her.
    I unlocked Sandpiper’s door and headed to the kitchen to get started. The oilskin tablecloth sprigged with strawberries struck me first. Then the cat-shaped cookie jar. I spun around. A stack of puzzles centered on the lobster-pot coffee table in front of the gold plaid couch—yes. In the bedroom: a lighthouse lamp—yes. In the bathroom, two brass anchor hooks, a seahorse shower curtain—yes!
    I flew over to Plover, yanked open the screen door, and ran inside.
    â€œOh my God!” I cried.
    â€œWhat? What?” I could hear Angel calling behind me, but I was already flying over the lawn to Gull