A Summer of Sundays (6 page)

I smiled at the pages in my hand.

“Hello? Is someone down there?” Mom’s voice called from the top of the stairs.

I jumped, my heart pounding. “It’s only me. I’ll be up in a minute. I just thought I left something down here.”

“Is that you, CJ?”

I sighed. “No, it’s Sunday.”

Her footsteps started down the stairs, and I rushed to close the box and put it back against the wall. “Do you
know where he and Henry and Bo are? They dried off after their baths and then disappeared.”

I tucked the papers under my top, thankful that I was wearing my loosest T-shirt—the one I’d gotten for reading the most books during the summer last year (I was hoping to win this year’s T-shirt, too). “No, but I haven’t been here long.”

The footsteps stopped. “Are you coming up?”

“Yeah, in a minute.”

“Well, make sure you lock the doors.”

“I will.”

I patted the pages under my shirt. Why had they been locked away in the basement of the library? Maybe it really was a long, drawn-out confession of a crime. Or maybe it was a story written by someone in town? Like someone’s diary.

My heart skipped a beat.

Or it might be nothing at all.

I started up the basement stairs, careful to keep the papers pressed against my stomach. Either way, nobody in my family could know about this.

I FLICKED
off the main light in the library, then turned the key in the lock. The hazy twilight melted with the ground, and the evening air was crisp. Fireflies blinked on and off, and the hidden crickets were just beginning to sing. I started back to the house, excited about the rubber-banded pages.

“What are you hiding?”

My heart stopped for a second and I jolted to a halt, clutching the papers tighter against my skin. I searched the dusk. The voice came from behind a large tree. “CJ, is that you? I swear I’m going to kill you.”

I waited for my brother’s laughter. Getting scared by him again; he’d never let me live it down. A twig snapped, and the leaves shivered above me. I swallowed down the urge to scream. “CJ, you better come out. I mean it.” I tried to make my voice strong, but it came out more like a timid squeak.

I watched the darkness. There was a small rustling of
grass and branches. A figure stepped out from behind a tree. Whirling around, I bolted toward the house.

“No, wait!” the voice called out behind me.

I stopped and turned slowly.

The fingernail moon revealed the figure of a boy. The large figure. A big, round boy in white shorts and a white shirt. Even though it was almost dark I could tell that the shirt he wore was as clean as the day it was bought. I don’t think there was a piece of clothing in our entire house that was that clean.

“I’m Jude Zachariah Caleb Trist the Third,” he said. “What are you hiding inside your shirt?”

I ignored his question and kicked myself for not being nearly as sneaky as I thought I’d been. “That’s a lot of names.” Then again, he was a lot of boy. He stepped closer and I stepped back. “What do you want?”

Now he ignored me. “I’m eleven years old,” he said.

“Oh, really? I’m almost twelve.” I stood up straighter. The manuscript slipped and I grabbed it quickly to keep it inside my shirt.

“Really? You look pretty small. I thought you were maybe seven.”

This boy was getting on my nerves even more than CJ. “I might be small, but I’m still almost twelve. You can ask my mom.”

“All right.” His voice seemed almost cheery like I’d
really invited him. He walked up and stood beside me.

“What do you mean, ‘all right’?”

“All right. I’ll go and ask your mom.”

“Y-y-you can’t.”

“Why not? I know you have one. I’ve been watching you and your family all day long. Are all those kids really your brothers and sisters?” He stopped and sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

I knew without even taking a breath that it was a combination of Dad’s cookies and Mom’s pumpkin bread.

“It’s nothing,” I said, and started back to the house. “Must be coming from that house across the field.”

He laughed. “No way. He’s a lunatic.”

I have to admit, the word
lunatic
made me stop in my tracks. But only for a second. This boy was the lunatic.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re hiding.” He caught up to me. “If you stole something from the library, I’ll tell.”

I turned on him. “I didn’t steal anything. I’m just looking at it. And you’re not going to tell anyone.”

He lifted his chin. “How are you going to stop me?”

I clenched my left fist real tight, my fingernails biting into my palms. “Because … because. I’ll …”

The door opened and Mom stepped onto the porch, knocking over the red watering can. It clanged as it hit the wood. “Emm—I mean, Sunday. Are you still out there?”

“Yeah, I’m coming.” I turned back to Judah Zachariah Whatever-His-Name-Was. “Just go home,” I said.

“No. And I will tell.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I will.”

“Sunday, who’s out there with you?” I heard my mom’s footsteps on the stairs. “CJ, if you snuck out the back door again, I swear I will ground you for life.”

The boy and I locked eyes in the dark and I sighed. “Fine.” I turned back to Mom. “There’s a boy here. He says he wants to ask you how old I am.”

Mom came the rest of the way down the stairs. “What? A boy?”

Jude I-Have-Six-Names brushed past me and met my mom with an outstretched hand. “I’m Jude Zachariah Caleb Trist the Third. My mom works at the bank. Is she really twelve years old?” he asked, pointing at me.

“Almost twelve,” I corrected. I didn’t need to look like a fool (though I was sure I already did) arguing in the dark with a boy I didn’t even know with hidden papers stuffed underneath my T-shirt.

Mom smiled. “It’s nice to meet you. And yes, Sunday is almost twelve.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

“There. See? Now you can go home.”

“Sunday!” Mom scolded. She shot me a look, her eyes
flashing as they caught a bit of moonlight.

“Well—” I whined.

Mom turned back to Jude-the-Intruder. “If you don’t think your mother will mind, you’re welcome to join us for dessert. We were just about to have some pumpkin bread with butter.”

Jude didn’t even hesitate. He followed my mom up the stairs and into the house, where I heard Henry crying because he didn’t get the first piece.

Mom turned around. “Let me just bring in an extra chair. You coming, Sunday?”

“Yeah.” I followed them into the house, then dashed up the stairs to my bedroom, where I stashed the papers underneath my bed. Then I rejoined everyone in the dining room, ignoring the boy who was just standing there staring with his mouth hanging open like a goldfish. The plate that held the pumpkin bread was nothing but crumbs, well, besides the heels, which were everyone’s least favorite parts. I picked one up, slathered it with butter that melted instantly into the still-warm bread, and ate it.

CJ, Bo, and Henry had pumpkin bread masks over their faces. They’d poked out holes for their eyes, noses, and mouths.

Mom lugged a chair through the door and set it next to me at the table. “There you go.”

CJ looked at me and then at Jude. He let his bread fall off his face into his hands, then took an obscenely big bite. “Who are you?”

“Jude Zachariah Caleb Trist the Third.”

I could tell Henry was impressed.

“How old are you?” CJ asked.

Jude made himself look taller, even though he was already big—in more ways than one. “Eleven.”

CJ lifted one eyebrow and looked at him skeptically. “You got hair on your chest?”

Jude’s cheeks blushed pink, and he glanced around the table at my sisters and parents, but they weren’t paying any attention. “No.”

CJ seemed satisfied and handed Jude the last slice of bread.

I watched the intruder lick his lips. “Thanks.”

“Sit by me, sit by me!” Henry said, patting his chair. “I can squish myself real small. Watch.”

“That’s really good,” Jude said. He squeezed himself onto the sliver of chair next to Henry.

I rolled my eyes and listened in on Mom and Dad.

“I need to take a mop to the floor again now that the books are mostly sorted.” Mom let her pen glide across the notepad already halfway filled.

Emma was taking turns nibbling the smallest bites imaginable from her slice of pumpkin bread and pressing
the buttons on her phone. Since she’d gotten the phone a few months ago, Dad joked that he should’ve just had it surgically implanted in her ear.

I glanced back at Jude With-a-Zillion-Names. He looked even bigger sitting next to Henry. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Jude Trist-Caleb-Whatever. He’d been pressed and stuffed into that bright white shirt and the buttons looked as if they were struggling to stay in the buttonholes. He was like a marshmallow on the end of a stick sitting over hot, gray coals. But he looked content, with a thick slice of pumpkin bread in his hands and butter dripping down his right wrist. His eyes were large and wide as he looked from one of my siblings to the next. I noticed his gaze fell on Emma more than once. Emma was the beauty. Always had been, probably always would be. She had the same features as the rest of us, but for some reason she wore them better. I felt myself bristle. It wasn’t as if I liked this boy or even wanted him to like me. He’d been completely annoying and had threatened to tell on me. But still. It was hard to sit by and watch Emma get admired while I didn’t get so much as a second glance. Or even a first glance.

Eventually everyone got up from the table, and it was clear that Mom had forgotten that she’d invited a strange boy with too many names into our house for dessert. But Jude was wrapped up in watching the chaos and I could tell he didn’t know which way was up.

I grabbed his arm and walked him to the door. “Thanks for coming,” I said, opening it.

He craned his neck to take a look at CJ, who had tied a basket from the top of the stairs and was trying to coax Henry into getting inside so he could hoist him up to the second floor. I closed the door on Jude a little more and he snapped out of his trance. “Wow, that was … was so much fun. Is it always like this at your house?”

“Complete craziness and so noisy you can hardly hear yourself think? Yes.”

“What’s the name of your sister, the one playing with her phone?”

I lifted my chin. “Emma. She’s practically engaged, though.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Tommy Anderson had proposed to her on the bus in sixth grade and she’d said yes. Emma was a freshman in high school now and Tommy Anderson had moved away, but still.

Jude’s smile deflated. “Oh.”

“Your mom is probably wondering where you are, don’t you think?”

He looked down at his watch, the huge white face glinting a little from the light escaping through the door. He almost bolted down the stairs. “Yeah, I should go,” he called back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I called back, “All right,” though it was only when I
closed the door that I realized I’d be seeing him again. And he knew I had hidden something underneath my shirt from the library.

Just my luck.

I tromped up the stairs, Butters at my heels.

Once inside my room with the door closed, I kicked the thought of the boy out of my head along with my shoes, which landed by the trunk of old clothes. After slipping into my pajamas and flicking on the fan, I grabbed
The Secret Garden
and flopped onto my bed. I’d been reading it every night since we arrived and only had three chapters left.

After I read the last words, I closed the cover with a satisfied sigh. The book had been just as brilliant the second time as it had been the first.

The whirring fan rustled the pages I had snuck from the library. Rolling over onto my stomach, I reached under the bed where I had hidden them and pulled the stack onto my lap.

After flipping through the musty pages, I smoothed my hand across the top and pressed my nose to them. I’d always loved reading a new book. Opening up one to the first page was like starting a new life. And the story I held in my hands now was even more exciting. Whose was it? Was I the very first person to read it?

I found where I had stopped and continued:

My eyes started to droop. Yawning, I got up and slipped the pages underneath the mattress—safe from my nosy brothers and prying sisters.