The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days Read Online Free PDF Page A

Some of Grandma’s friends played that game, with the tiles that have Chinese symbols.
    Mrs. Millman has a very predictable schedule. With her two-hour mahjong outings every weekday afternoon, that’s more than enough time to go ahead with my plan.
    Not only do I worry about Mrs. Chung (number eight: untangled a plastic bag caught on one of her trees; and number nine: hung up the wind chimes that had fallen off the hook by her door), but I’ve been concerned about Mr. Dembrowski. Does he have food in there? How old is he now? Maybe he’s become a hoarder and can’t get out the door. Is that why no one ever sees him?
    Mr. Dembrowski used to be the guy all us little kids were scared of. There’s one in every neighborhood. He yelled when a ball went into his yard, or someone ran across his grass, or someone left their bike on his sidewalk.
    When Jorie, Eli, and I were eight, we were playinghide-and-seek on a sweltering summer night. Our cheeks were red and hot and we were buzzing with the electricity and heart-pumping thrill that happens when a neighborhood goes from day to night and you’re finally old enough to stay up and be outside in the dark.
    Eli and I were hiding from Jorie. We were in back of Mrs. Chung’s house, behind a row of bushes, hugging our knees tight. I could hear the sweet piano music coming from her house and wondered if she was giving a lesson. Jorie’s voice was getting madder. “Where are you guys? This isn’t funny!” But Eli put a finger up to his lips and shook his head. He took my sweaty hand. I swear I could feel his heartbeat through his fingers.
    After Jorie found us, someone—and to this day, I don’t know who—ran through Mr. Dembrowski’s flower bed. He had all these unusual kinds, fragile and exotic, but how were we supposed to know that? We were just trying to find the best hiding places.
    It had just rained, and in the morning, there were shoe prints and trampled flowers. Mr. Dembrowski marched over to each of our houses and demanded a shoe. So he could match the print.
    This was one of the times when my mother was not fine. She flipped on her lawyer switch and made a federal case about not turning over my shoe. It could havebeen anyone, she said. Jorie’s dad got mad too (he is a very high-strung stock trader) and said Mr. Dembrowski was making too much out of it and we were just kids. Eli’s parents were getting divorced about that time, so no one was even there when Mr. Dembrowski rang their bell.
    That was when Eli started to pull away, and I get it, I really do. He had a lot going on. His parents got back together just long enough to have Thomas; then they split again. Messed-up normal.
    I’ve always felt guilty about Mr. Dembrowski’s flower bed. We all should have taken the blame. But our parents argued us out of the situation.
    So good thing number ten will be for Mr. Dembrowski.
    I find a dusty package of brownie mix on the top shelf of our pantry. The expiration date is this month, but I figure that’s okay. I’m pretty good at baking when I concentrate. I preheat the oven, follow the directions, and mix with exactly fifty strokes like the package says.
    Then I start a sketch for art while the chocolate smell fills the kitchen. The assignment is to do a realistic drawing of a normal household item, with shading, light and dark, and good composition. I choose to draw a chair, which somehow ends up looking like a house on stilts.
    I take the brownies out and stick in a toothpick. Done. Let them cool. Cut into neat squares, and place ten (for good thing number ten) on a paper plate, then slide it into a ziplock bag.
    Mrs. Millman is at mahjong, and no one else is in sight, so it’s easy to walk across to Mr. Dembrowski’s house. I stand at his front step for a second. Whoa! The rose is gone.
    Every shade is pulled down. I have no evidence that he actually took the rose. It could have blown