“How’s your book?” she asks you. Guess she didn’t get the idea.
“Good.”
“What’s it about?” She grabs a finger-full of her hay-blonde hair and stares at it while she twists.
Put the book down and fold your hands over your lap. “The beauty of literature is that it can’t be summarized, you see. Sam Clemens—I mean, Mark Twain—he’s a genius author. He creates this world in only so many words, and it pops up in my mind. I don’t see words running around each other, I see trees, and a river, and a young boy and his friend.”
“Sounds neat. What do the boy and his friend do?” She’s involved her other hand at this point, creating intricate twirls around two fingers on each hand.
“I guess since you’ll probably never read it, it wouldn’t be bad to summarize it. I won’t do this for every book I read though.” You raise your eyebrows at her. After she nods, you continue. “Basically, it’s about a boy named Huckleberry. And he frees himself from people who are trying to control him. And he goes down a river, just him and his friend, looking at the world and having fun. It’s on a river.”
“Sounds interesting, I guess. I don’t like to read much though. You know who I like? Beverly Cleary. She’s a wonderful author too.”
You grin to yourself and pick up your book again. In the corner of your eye you see your mother approaching the back door.
She pushes open the back door and leans her head past the three little steps between the kitchen and the patio. “Dinner’s about ready, Lainey. You enjoying yourself? It’s much nicer out here than it was in your dark, stuffy room, isn’t it?”
The leaves in the sky are shimmering with the wind, and the sun makes everything a golden-yellow color. Yeah, mom, you say. Great. Beautiful day.
Now she turns to Katie. “Dinner will be ready soon. Why don’t you girls go wash your hands.” Katie pushes out of the chair. But before she goes in, she pauses. Her ears perk up. She jerks her head around.
“You hear that?”
“No? What is it?” You look up too, and the wind pushes the pages of your book together in a slow fan, but you don’t notice. Five kids that look to be about your age run through your yard to get to the street out in front. You finally hear what they all must have heard—some notes carried by the wind. You didn’t hear it before, but now you listen. The ice cream truck. Last time he came it was the beginning of summer, but you only know this because Katie ran to your house after the USA red white and blue ice cream had already dried sticky on her hands. She turns around to you, her eyes wide and her smile growing ever larger. “I’ll pass,” you say. “I’m coming up on the end of this chapter and I want to finish it before dinner.”
“Come on, Lainey. Don’t be boring.” She runs around the corner of your house along the same path the other kids took.
You force a loud sigh, but Katie’s too far away from the house to hear you. You close your book and rush around the corner of your house. You see Katie and the rest of kids crowded around the ice cream truck parked five houses away. They look silly out there, jumping and screaming for something that’s probably not even as good as the ice cream in their fridge at home, but you run faster toward them anyway. You run and you run and you’re getting closer to them, and the closer the get the faster you run. The wind is whipping past your ears now, and the music is even louder. A smile breaks on your face. And you cough up a laugh. In fact you can’t stop laughing. Even as you skip up to Katie you can’t stop the laughing.
And now you’re running back to your house with Katie, the marshmallow eyeball melting on your tongue. Katie’s dripping her ice cream all over her hand, the blue running over the red running over the white. You might have scolded her, or you might have suggested that you walk. To savor the flavor of the ice cream.
You lift up your strawberry-chocolate fist and slurp up the bits of ice cream melting across your hot skin. You take it all in.
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