Water Steps Read Online Free PDF Page B

what they did for a living. And Pep had a pretty good job as a freelance writer for magazines, but I knew he’d come to class with his jolly green Irish accent and his fairy stories and the kids at school would imitate
him for weeks, asking me all sorts of questions about Ireland that I couldn’t answer.
    It happened after my class heard Mem and Pep talking to my teacher about using artificial instead of real trees for the classroom during the Winter Pageant. They are real nature lovers, my parents. They use post-recycling, environmentally friendly, organic products only. And their motto is to never harm nature. So I guess I didn’t really forget about career day. I just stalled a little. Like until the event was over.
    Pep moped over that one for weeks, looking all sad and misty each time he asked after my day at school. Guess I made him feel bad. And I didn’t want to do that again, so I said, “I forgot. Can you come help me do it after lunch?”
    He tilted his head like he had to think about it, then sighed and said, “I think I can fit that into my schedule.”
    I loved how he said shed-yule for schedule. Made me think of a shed just for Christmas, chock-full of presents. The kids in my class may make fun of Irish accents, but it’s music to my ears.
    â€œRight-oh!” I shouted with the best Irish brogue I could muster. Mem and Pep laughed, then did their deep-in-the-throat American “No way,” like a couple
of fog horns. I guess Yanks sounded like bull frogs to them.
    After lunch, Pep and I trekked back to the tree. Pep leaned back to take in every branch and leaf, then he patted the wrinkled old trunk. “Grandmother of a tree, this one. Probably nearly two hundred years old. Been here since all these trees were but saplings.” He waved to the trees around us. “Probably had a clear view of the mountains in her youth.”
    I could almost see it—that tree just stretching into sapling height, nothing but grass, rocks, violets, and wild strawberries for miles around, all that nature butting up to those craggy old mountains without a road or a human in sight. Would that be the “good old days” to nature? Sometimes I really did wonder if nature thought for itself.
    Pep gave me a wink. “I see that you used twine to tie in the boards like I taught you.”
    â€œNails poison trees,” I recited, remembering that lecture from when he built my first tree fort. I had learned a thing or two from Pep. And it felt pretty good to be there with him, asking for the tree’s permission to build my fort in its branches. The early peoples of the world always respected nature—the Druids of Pep’s homeland, the Mohawks of New York,
even the Bantus of Africa that we’d studied in school. And since many of their people still believe in the spirits of nature today, why should I find it odd that Pep did? No good reason, I guess.
    And as we worked the day away, building and making trips into the woods or to town for this or that to make a nice old fort, I began to think this summer in New York might not be so bad after all.

TEARS
    T hat night, I slept in my own room, knowing Mem and Pep would go back to the lake after I fell asleep. Couldn’t put them this close to water without expecting to see them go for a dip. And if I had my fort, then they should be able to do a bit of swimming.
    I tried to sleep with the sound of the waves lapping away down below. Even did it for a little while, thanks to Kippers’ purring. Then Mem and Pep showed up in my doorway, whispering with some woman I didn’t know. I kept my eyes closed and didn’t move so they’d think I was still asleep, but I could hear them as clearly as if they’d whispered in my ear.

    â€œHere she is, Rosien,” Mem whispered. Rosien? That’s an Irish name.
    â€œShe’s a real cutie,” the woman said, but she didn’t sound like she believed