was warm and cozy. The paper was barely pink and dotted with tiny impressionistic butterflies—each one just a few swipes of ink and a couple blobs of watercolor. They were the pale greens, blues, pinks, and tans of birds’ eggs.
This wallpaper was in one of my earliest memories. I don’tknow how old I was—young enough that I was put to bed before the sun had fully set. I was also young enough that I couldn’t yet read myself to sleep. So instead I tried to follow the pattern in the wallpaper. I found the gray-blue butterfly that seemed to be dancing with the coral one, then I searched for the spot where the pair repeated. I pointed at the blue and coral butterflies over and over, working my way around the room, until my eyes became the butterfly wings and fluttered shut.
Now, at three a.m., searching out my favorite butterflies with a flashlight felt more like a hunting expedition than a relaxing way to drift off to sleep. So I groped for the nightstand and grabbed the first thing I found there.
I squinted at the book through half-closed eyes. Oh. Coconut Dreams.
Stella wanted to know what I thought of it. So did Josh. At least it had seemed that way.
So, even though I was already pretty sure what I would think of Coconut Dreams , I smiled as I cracked it open and started reading.
The best thing I could say about the story of Nicole’s exile on the Island of Bad Similes was that it put me to sleep within three pages. The last thing I thought as my flashlight slipped out of my fingers and I fell back asleep was, This is better than a sleeping pill. I wonder if I could stretch Coconut Dreams out to last two and a half months.
With all the what ifs I had to think about—not to mention the what nows —I had a feeling I was going to need it.
M aybe it was because my dad was taking some time off work. Maybe it was because my mom was a fourth-grade teacher who thought every moment of every day should be educational.
Whatever the reason, our first weeks in Bluepointe became all about family outings.
Normally my sisters and I would have protested. Our time in Bluepointe was supposed to be lazy, so lazy that moving from the couch to the kitchen required serious consideration. So lazy that you could spend two hours in the lake, just bobbing around and counting clouds. So lazy that you’d subsist on chips and salsa for lunch and dinner if it would get you out of having to think about or help prepare a real meal.
But this summer, of course, was different. None of us wanted to be in the cottage much, especially me. Being home made me ache for Granly. It also gave me time to talk myself in circles about Josh. One moment, I felt certain that he liked me, and I would make definite (okay, definite-ish) plans to put on my cutest vintage sundress and head to Dog Ear.
The next minute, I would talk myself out of it. I wondered if I’d misread what he’d said. I pictured myself showing up at Dog Ear, clutching my long to-read list like a total dork, only to have Josh be all casual and brush-offy.
Or maybe, I thought, I’d show up and he wouldn’t even be there. Then I’d have to go back . It might take multiple attempts to pin him down. The next thing you know, I’m a stalker.
The idea that it could all go well—that was the scenario I couldn’t quite envision. I knew that kind of thing happened all the time. It had been the easiest thing in the world for Emma and Ethan. But it had never happened to me, and I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that it ever would.
If I just put off going to Dog Ear, I told myself, I could delay the inevitable disappointment.
So that was how I ended up joining my family for an endless series of day trips. We went wild mushroom hunting in the Michigan woods. My parents had read about it in some foodie magazine, and they would not be deterred by the fact that choosing the wrong mushrooms could kill us all. (Somehow we survived. And the mushrooms actually weren’t bad, if you
This wallpaper was in one of my earliest memories. I don’tknow how old I was—young enough that I was put to bed before the sun had fully set. I was also young enough that I couldn’t yet read myself to sleep. So instead I tried to follow the pattern in the wallpaper. I found the gray-blue butterfly that seemed to be dancing with the coral one, then I searched for the spot where the pair repeated. I pointed at the blue and coral butterflies over and over, working my way around the room, until my eyes became the butterfly wings and fluttered shut.
Now, at three a.m., searching out my favorite butterflies with a flashlight felt more like a hunting expedition than a relaxing way to drift off to sleep. So I groped for the nightstand and grabbed the first thing I found there.
I squinted at the book through half-closed eyes. Oh. Coconut Dreams.
Stella wanted to know what I thought of it. So did Josh. At least it had seemed that way.
So, even though I was already pretty sure what I would think of Coconut Dreams , I smiled as I cracked it open and started reading.
The best thing I could say about the story of Nicole’s exile on the Island of Bad Similes was that it put me to sleep within three pages. The last thing I thought as my flashlight slipped out of my fingers and I fell back asleep was, This is better than a sleeping pill. I wonder if I could stretch Coconut Dreams out to last two and a half months.
With all the what ifs I had to think about—not to mention the what nows —I had a feeling I was going to need it.
M aybe it was because my dad was taking some time off work. Maybe it was because my mom was a fourth-grade teacher who thought every moment of every day should be educational.
Whatever the reason, our first weeks in Bluepointe became all about family outings.
Normally my sisters and I would have protested. Our time in Bluepointe was supposed to be lazy, so lazy that moving from the couch to the kitchen required serious consideration. So lazy that you could spend two hours in the lake, just bobbing around and counting clouds. So lazy that you’d subsist on chips and salsa for lunch and dinner if it would get you out of having to think about or help prepare a real meal.
But this summer, of course, was different. None of us wanted to be in the cottage much, especially me. Being home made me ache for Granly. It also gave me time to talk myself in circles about Josh. One moment, I felt certain that he liked me, and I would make definite (okay, definite-ish) plans to put on my cutest vintage sundress and head to Dog Ear.
The next minute, I would talk myself out of it. I wondered if I’d misread what he’d said. I pictured myself showing up at Dog Ear, clutching my long to-read list like a total dork, only to have Josh be all casual and brush-offy.
Or maybe, I thought, I’d show up and he wouldn’t even be there. Then I’d have to go back . It might take multiple attempts to pin him down. The next thing you know, I’m a stalker.
The idea that it could all go well—that was the scenario I couldn’t quite envision. I knew that kind of thing happened all the time. It had been the easiest thing in the world for Emma and Ethan. But it had never happened to me, and I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that it ever would.
If I just put off going to Dog Ear, I told myself, I could delay the inevitable disappointment.
So that was how I ended up joining my family for an endless series of day trips. We went wild mushroom hunting in the Michigan woods. My parents had read about it in some foodie magazine, and they would not be deterred by the fact that choosing the wrong mushrooms could kill us all. (Somehow we survived. And the mushrooms actually weren’t bad, if you
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