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

I shouldn’t. She’s serious about Eli and homecoming. Usually Jorie’s ideas come and go in a flash.
    Eli and Jorie don’t see me, and I go back inside, a little shaky.
    Mom’s cleaning up their papers. She’s been wearing her short hair gelled back behind her ears. Not even one strand came loose all day.
    â€œI’m running to the grocery store,” she says. “Do you want anything special?”
    I hesitate. “You know what I really want?”
    She piles the papers into her briefcase. “What?”
    â€œGrandma’s carrot ring.”
    She looks up, her face tight. “I can’t make that. I don’t even know where the recipe is.”
    A long second goes by. She picks up her purse, takes out her keys.
    â€œWe’re out of frozen pizza,” I say, and shrug.
    â€œOkay. I’ll get a few.”
    Yeah.
    Grandma used to make her carrot ring a lot when we went to her apartment for dinner. It was one of the best things I’ve ever tasted, and I don’t even like carrots that much.
    Dad’s on the sofa, feet up on the table, flipping through channels. As I pass him, he says, “What’s the matter?”
    I keep walking. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYes.” Which is completely untrue.
    I can still hear Jorie’s and Eli’s voices outside. Why am I upset? I mean, if they like each other … I just didn’t think Eli was like that. Going for the butt-hugging shorts and obvious flirting.
    But I’m thinking about the Eli from when we werelittle. The quiet, protective boy who wouldn’t let go of my hand that summer night we hid from Jorie. The funny, sweet, awkward Eli who gave me a crumpled Valentine with a picture of a cartoon truck with goofy-looking eyes that said
Sending you truckloads of
[scratched-out word]
on Valentine’s Day. Your friend, Eli Bennett
. When I held it up to my lamp, I could tell the scratched-out word was “love.”
    Do I even know the Eli from now?
    And then this hits me: Do I know Jorie anymore?

O n the way to summer school, Jorie doesn’t say anything about Eli, and I don’t ask. I show her my chair drawing. “What do you think this is?”
    She tilts her head. “I don’t know … one of those old-fashioned tables where you do your hair and makeup?”
    â€œYou mean a vanity?”
    â€œYeah.”
    I sigh. “No. It’s a chair.”
    She squints. “Oh, okay. I see it.” Then she laughs. “I told you that you should’ve done the computer classwith me. It’s easy. And I’m meeting so many new people.
Lots
of cute guys.”
    Great.
    In art, when I hold up my drawing, people guess a table, a bed, and a spaceship. But then the quiet girl, Sariah, says softly, “Is it a chair?” I almost want to hug her.
    Ms. Quinlan gives me some tips about shading and dimension, and while I’m reworking the drawing, I glance at Sariah. She’s tall and skinny, with smooth brown skin and braces. Long, straight dark hair. Her drawing is a bowl of fruit, and it’s really good. When it’s time for the break, I try to catch her eye, but she walks out ahead of me and sits near a group in the commons. I hang at the edge of Jorie’s group.
    By the end of class, my chair is starting to look more like a chair. Ms. Quinlan says, “Better. Keep going.”

    And I do.
    I bring Mrs. Chung’s mail to her door every day, but I’m not counting that anymore. It’s just my routine; I’m pretty sure she thinks it’s the mailman. I drop off two more plates of something sweet at Mr. Dembrowski’s door (fifteen, sixteen). Either the squirrels or Mr. Dembrowski take them, because they’re both gone the next day. I make chocolate chip cookies—just thebreak-and-bake kind—and leave some on Matt’s desk (seventeen). The empty dish is in the sink the next