My Life as a Book Read online

  Next to the keyboard, there’s a flat pad that Michael tells me to draw on. As if by magic, what I draw on the pad appears on the screen. Then Michael manipulates the lines on my drawing until they start to move.

  “You’re turning my illustration into a real cartoon—that’s amazing!”

  By the time Mom comes back from yoga class, Michael and I have animated several of my vocabulary words. At the beginning of the summer, I learned how to picture a story as if it’s a movie in my head. Now, thanks to Michael, that movie isn’t in my head anymore. It’s like my flip-o-rama book just jumped onto the computer screen for all to see.

  Both my mother and Michael’s love what we’ve done and agree that Michael and I can get together again as soon as we come back from the Vineyard. When Mom and I leave, Pedro jumps into my arms to say good-bye.

  The entire ride home, I ask Mom if we can be a foster home for a capuchin like Pedro. Mom finds a million new ways to say no. She tells Dad about the work Michael and I did on his computer and Dad gets excited. He says he’s been avoiding that kind of animation software for his work, but I’ve inspired him to investigate some programs after we get back.

  As I pack my markers and sketchbook in my roller suitcase, I almost feel like I helped Dad with something important. Maybe he can return the favor by helping me talk Mom into getting a monkey.

  Grandma

  My mother wears an eye mask for most of the flight to Boston; she gets nervous on planes and usually just wants the journey to be over. At least she’s not worried about Bodi—she was one of the vets hired by the airline to come up with a plan to make it comfortable for pets to fly. Because of that, Bodi always travels for free.

  My father and I play cards and watch a movie. After that, I roam up and down the aisles until a flight attendant suggests I take my seat. When I ask if I can go below to visit Bodi, she tells me passengers aren’t allowed in the cargo area. Then she gets all sappy and asks if I miss Bodi, if he’s “boy’s best friend” and all this other mushy stuff. I ask her for a little can of pineapple juice and go back to my seat.

  It takes a while before Bodi’s crate comes off the plane. He relieves himself the second we get outside. We rent a car that smells much newer than ours back home and drive to Grandma’s.

  Grandma still lives in the same house my mother grew up in, but now all Mom’s horse ribbons and Beatles posters are in the basement and her old bedroom is an exercise room. Whenever we visit, I sleep on a blow-up mattress next to the treadmill.

  “Where is he? Where’s my boy?” Grandma hurries down the driveway and starts to hug me before I’m even out of the car.

  Mom and Dad smile at each other; I guess grandparent love is a different thing than parent love. My parents seem glad to let someone else make a fuss over me for a while.

  Grandma squeezes me like she hasn’t seen me in a century, even though it’s been only a year. When I spot a chocolate cake with shredded coconut waiting on the kitchen counter, I hug her back even harder.

  Grandma has her hearing aids in today so we don’t have to scream like we usually do. She plays us a DVD of her bowling team’s highlights and shows us the “killer roll” that helped bring her team to the finals. When my mother asks if she wants to come with us to the Vineyard, Grandma says she’d love to but can’t disappoint her teammates. She lets me play with my uncle’s old crutches and tells stories of how my mother used to try to heal all the sick animals in the neighborhood. We smile and laugh when she takes out pictures of Mom and her brother when they were kids, even though we’ve seen them dozens of times before.

  Unlike our house, where everyone takes care of themselves, here Grandma waits on us like we’re special company and I guess we are. She treats me the same way she did when I was little, offering to rub my feet. I let her, happy to be a little kid again, even if it’s just for a short time.

  As I’m sitting on her lap—spilling out of the chair because I’m as tall as she is—I get an idea. “Grandma, will you read me a story?”

  “I’d LOVE to,” she answers.

  I run to my bag and get the summer reading book that was part of the deal to come here.

  “Oh no,” Mom says. “You’re reading that one on your own.”

  “No, I want to!” Grandma moves to the couch and puts on her reading glasses. “This looks like a good story.”

  My parents’ glares can’t dim the huge grin on my face as I snuggle with my grandmother. Mom tries to get us to play Pictionary instead, but I ask Grandma to keep reading. Mom and Dad finally give up and go for a walk around the neighborhood with Bodi.

  When Grandma winks at me, I’m not sure if it’s because she’s glad we’re visiting or because she knows she’s bailing me out of my work. As she reads, I use Margot’s technique and visualize the character. Is he feeling guilty? Nervous? I imagine the house he’s sitting in, with its blue rug and large clock on the wall. By the time my parents come back, Grandma and I have finished two chapters.

  Our bodies are still on West Coast time, so my parents and I stay up after Grandma goes to bed and watch a movie.

  With any luck, I can get Grandma to help write my report too.

  Martha’s Vineyard

  We spend several days with Grandma, watching her bowl, meeting her friends, and eating more desserts than even I thought was humanly possible. Matt almost succeeded in talking his parents into meeting us at Grandma’s for an afternoon before they fly to L.A., but his father had to get back for a meeting. Matt and I talk on the phone and can’t believe we’re both in Massachusetts but have to wait till we’re back home to hang out again.

  When we leave, Grandma hugs me so hard I’m afraid my spine will break in half. Mom tries again to talk her into coming with us, but Grandma is committed to her tournament and says she’ll be out to see us for Thanksgiving. As we drive to the ferry, I can tell Mom already misses her.

  My father is excited the ferry has wireless Internet, so he settles into a booth with a cup of coffee and his laptop. Mom and I stroll the deck with Bodi, who stops to sniff the butt of every other dog heading to Vineyard Haven. We check out passengers as they walk by—a six-foot-tall guy in a Patriots jersey who’s carrying his wife’s floral suitcase, a woman feeding fried clams to a toddler wearing a Cape Cod T-shirt. When the guy next to us makes a loud business call on his cell, Mom makes a gun with her index finger and thumb and pretends to shoot it out of his hand. I love it when Mom’s in vacation mode.

  Her mood changes, however, when we drive off the ferry. We’re behind a large SUV loaded with four bikes and two kayaks, and I realize people come here for reasons other than exploring their past. Mom must be thinking the same thing; she and Dad haven’t been to the Vineyard since that fateful trip ten years ago. She seems less animated and fun when she gives my father directions to the pet-friendly bed-and-breakfast she found online.

  I eye the four-poster bed, but my parents shoot me looks that say, Don’t even think about jumping on that. I beg them to open up the pullout couch so I can see where I’m going to sleep, but Mom wants to explore the island and Dad wants to get some lunch. We leave Bodi in the room with a rawhide bone and walk to town.

  The three of us browse through bookstores, my parents’ favorite thing to do on vacation. I go to the back of the store and hide behind one of the shelves. I know I’m too old for picture books—OBVIOUSLY!—but I can’t help paging through them. When my mother heads toward me, I toss the book back and grab the nearest chapter book.

  “Would you like that one?” Her voice is filled with so much hope, I almost say yes.

  I answer no but tell her there’s a fudge shop next door. I’m finally rewarded for my patience with a marshmallow-crispy-rice-almond-coconut fudge square.

  We go back to the bed-and-breakfast to get Bodi before we go exploring. As we drive from one town to the next, I don’t feel as if we’re on an island. It’s more like rolling farms, old stone walls, and lots of scrubby trees. Nothing here reminds me of Califor
nia. The public beach is lined with cars with license plates from all over the country, but my mother knows a secret beach, so we wave good-bye to the crowds and head farther south.

  When I see a large barn with the sign CHILMARK ARTISTS, I realize this is where Lauren Hutchins sells her jewelry.

  “STOP!” I scream.

  My father skids to a halt and tells me I almost gave him a heart attack. I point to the wooden sign. “I thought it said HOMEMADE ICE CREAM.”

  Dad shakes his head sadly. “I’m not sure Learning Camp has even dented your reading issues.”

  “Might as well take a look while we’re here.” Mom grabs her purse and crosses the street.

  As excited as I am, I’m also anxious. Suppose Lauren Hutchins isn’t here today? Even worse, suppose she is here, recognizes me as the kid who killed her best friend, and becomes a raging lunatic? Worse than that, suppose nothing happens and I’ve spent my summer obsessed with something that doesn’t have any meaning at all.

  As we walk toward the large barn, I wish I were doing anything else—even reading. I slip the leash on Bodi and bring him along for good luck.

  Tongue-tied

  As Dad checks out leatherbound notebooks, Mom tries on handmade fleece jackets. I quietly make my way from booth to booth until I see Hutchins Designs. I pull Bodi behind a tall CD rack made of twigs and check out Lauren Hutchins. Her long brown hair is in dreadlocks, tied back with a large woven scarf. She wears yoga pants and a tie-dyed hoodie. Her earrings are made with feathers and tiny silver beads; several variations of the same design fill the display case beside her. Before I can assess the situation, she spots Bodi.

  “Come here, fella. Come on.” She bends down and gestures to Bodi, who immediately goes to her. When I stop hating girls and start wanting to date them—twenty or thirty years from now—I’m definitely taking lessons from Bodi. My dog makes out with more pretty girls than any hunky doctor on TV.

  “What’s his name?” Lauren asks.

  “Bodi.”

  She continues to scratch his head and eventually looks up at me. “You here to buy a present for your girlfriend?”

  Her ridiculous comment makes me even more nervous than I already am. I tell her no and pretend to look at the jewelry. I pick up a leather necklace with shells and a few feathers.

  “Feathers are good luck, did you know that? Birds were considered messengers from the gods.”

  For the life of me, I can’t spit out one word that makes sense. When she points to my T-shirt and asks if I skateboard, all I can do is nod yes. To make matters worse, my father strolls over, quietly checking out Lauren’s work as if he’s some kind of jewelry expert. Please go, I want to say. This is hard enough without you here. To complicate things, my mother comes by too.

  “Did you and Bodi find a new friend?” My mother smiles at Lauren as she checks out her wares.

  I want to cover myself in one of the woven blankets in the next stall and hide until our vacation is over. Lauren looks at each of us with an expression of friendly confusion, as if she’s trying to figure out who we are and why we’re there. I read your guestbook entry, I want to say. We were both there when Susan James died. My scheme to tie up this summer mystery now seems like a giant mistake. When my parents move to the pottery display down the aisle, I follow along behind them. I glance over to see Lauren Hutchins one more time, but she’s helping an elderly woman try on a bracelet and doesn’t look up.

  Back in the car, my father makes my mother feel the soft leather cover of the new sketchbooks he bought for both of us. I sit in the backseat and fume about how I just blew my big chance with Lauren. I gather all the strength I have and tell my parents a straight-out lie.

  “I left my book inside,” I say.

  “You took it in with you?” my mother asks.

  “Yes, and I left it on one of the tables. I’ll be right back.” I jump out of the car and hope for one last chance at hearing Lauren’s story firsthand.

  The Truth Is Never What You Think

  When I race back to Lauren’s stall, she’s sitting on a stool, reading. I take a deep breath and dive in.

  “I saw your entry on Susan James’s Web site,” I begin.

  She tilts her head. “What? You knew Susan?”

  I stand there for several moments waiting for words to emerge. “I was with her at the beach when she died,” I finally say.

  She puts down her book and gets off the stool. “How old are you?” She touches my hair as if I’m an alien life-form.

  “Twelve,” I say.

  “That would be about right.” She looks into my eyes as if she’s trying to conjure up that boy from a decade ago. “That remains the worst day of my life. Susan was my best friend.”

  Lauren suddenly makes the connection. “What did you do—track me down online?”

  I tell her I just found the newspaper article about the drowning this year, that my mother told me what she knew but I wanted to know more.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything if it’s too painful,” I add. Just because I want to hear more, it might be hard for Lauren—probably as difficult as I’ve made this for Mom all summer. Thinking of Mom makes me realize I only have a few minutes before they come looking for me. Lauren, hurry!

  Lauren plays with the tips of her hair as she talks. “You have to remember that Susan was a teenager, only a few years older than you are now. She had a crush on this guy—Tim Jensen. He didn’t even know she existed, but she used to talk about him all the time. She wanted me to meet her at the beach where she knew he was going to be. When I got there, I couldn’t believe she had a kid with her!”

  I point to myself and Lauren nods.

  “She never mentioned anything about babysitting, and that part of the beach isn’t good for little kids, especially after a storm. But when Tim and his friends came by, Susan wasn’t watching you, believe me.” Lauren gets up to help a man look for a hair clip for his wife. The anticipation of my parents walking in almost makes my head explode.

  “I was playing in the sand with you,” Lauren finally continues. “You were one fearless little boy.” Lauren’s eyes darken, and she sits back down on the stool. “When I turned around, Susan was in the water with Tim and his friends. I mean, she just left you there.”

  Just as I think I’m going to burst if I don’t hear the rest of the story, someone behind me coughs. My parents and Bodi are now standing in the booth.

  Before they can ask why I lied about losing the book, I introduce them to Lauren Hutchins. “She was Susan’s best friend,” I say. “She was with her the day of the accident.”

  My mother looks like she’s just been shot out of a cannon. I know when we leave I’m in for the biggest portion of MomMad ever.

  “You and I looked for shells on the beach while Susan and Tim went for a walk,” Lauren continues. “After he left, Susan was just so happy. She and I tried to make a sand castle with you, but all you wanted to do was run around.”

  Sounds familiar.

  “Even though the waves were huge, Susan insisted on going for a swim. She loved the water, always did. We were way over on the right, past where the lifeguards sit. She wasn’t in the water for a minute before the undertow got a hold of her. I’m not a strong swimmer, so I ran to get help.”

  My mother seems almost as shocked and tongue-tied as I am. “Susan wasn’t trying to save Derek?”

  Lauren shook her head. “The only time he was near the water was after the ambulance came. It was so busy, no one saw him wander in.” She reaches over and tousles my hair again. “Lucky for you, your dog grabbed your diaper and pulled you back to shore.”

  I can’t remember one time when my family has ever said anything in unison, but we do now. “Bodi?!”

  When everyone in the barn looks over to Lauren’s stall, she bursts out laughing, then bends down to Bodi and kisses him all over again. “He must’ve been only a few years old, but he was fearless too.”

  My mother looks like she’s goi
ng to pass out. “The woman from the service said Susan was trying to save Derek. Susan’s mother said that too.”

  “Watching your best friend die is one of the worst things you can possibly experience,” Lauren says. “But having to lie about it after made it so much worse.”

  My mother asks her to explain.

  “When I couldn’t see Susan in the water, I started screaming, picked up Derek, and ran to get help. Two guys dove into the water while I went to the parking lot to call Susan’s mother—this was before cell phones. Mrs. James got here right away. She was absolutely hysterical. When the ambulance arrived and the police asked what happened, she took over and said Susan was trying to save the child she was babysitting.”

  Lauren inhaled deeply and started to cry. “I’m still not sure if she misunderstood me or just assumed that Susan was being heroic, but she was so crazy with fear, I went along with her. I wanted to tell the police the truth, but I was young and Mrs. James was so upset. When the police questioned me later, it just seemed easier to stick with Mrs. James’s story.”

  A giant wave of relief washes over my mother. She didn’t do anything wrong by hiring a new babysitter, her son didn’t cause someone’s death, there was nothing to ask forgiveness for. As for me, I still felt bad that Susan died but in a different, less responsible way.

  “I tried a few times over the years to tell other people what really happened,” Lauren adds, “but I couldn’t. It makes me sad Susan’s mother rushed to an assumption and insisted on some ideal version of Susan that never existed. Everyone on the island still thinks Susan died a hero.”