My Diary from the Edge of the World by Jodi Lynn Anderson Page A

have to take this winding, crumbling road that makes Millie carsick. Even now, sitting on the bench near the back windows, she looks a shade of green, which I find pretty satisfying.
    No sign of the Cloud again today, though I suppose if it were following us we wouldn’t see it anyway, since the road is so curvy. I’ve decided I’m going to tap three times on my silver suitcase for luck every morning, to keep it away.
    In the past hour I’ve been noticing that lots of the billboards along our way have been ripped down or torn to shreds. I’ve seen some lying on the side of the road, crisscrossed with gashes that could only come from large and vicious animals. I keep looking at Oliver to see if this worries him. He looks calm, but I’ve also noticed he has a habit of rubbing his ears when he’s nervous, and that’s what he’s doing now.
    Sam has found his new idol, and he likes to wait beside Oliver’s bunk in the morning for him to get up. He’s even started squeezing his hair to try to get it to stand straight up like Oliver’s. He then walks around raising his eyebrows at us. It seems he thinks raising the eyebrows heightens the effect. Little kids are so indecipherable.

October 17th
    Dusk is falling and we’ve crossed the border into West Virginia. (“Welcome to Wild, Witchy West Virginia”—I learned from the sign posted at the border—is the state motto.) I just had the most surprising conversation, which I’ll try to record faithfully here.
    Oliver and I were sitting together at the kitchen table. He’s been teaching me bridge, which he says his mom taught him. Every time I think I have the hang of it, I miss some big rule and he has to patiently explain things to me again.
    â€œNo, spades are ranked higher than hearts,” he said apologetically.
    â€œThat’s stupid.” I sighed and laid my cards, mostly hearts, face down on the table.
    â€œI’m sorry, Gracie. We don’t have to play.”
    His politeness made me feel embarrassed about my bad temper. He’s very good at bridge, which annoys me. Actually, he’s good at everything, because he’s patient—patiently going through the rules with me, patiently helping Sam tie his shoes, patiently cleaning around the camper even when it’s not him who’s made the mess. He’s managed to keep his little area of the Trinidad neat and inviting, while my bunk is permanently disheveled. I’ve noticed he also has a great attention span for reading. I get bored so quickly and end up flinging books over the side of my bed, while Oliver lies perfectly still and can read for hours. He’s already finished Little Women and moved on to The Giant’s Lament . He says he read To Kill a Mockingbird last year, while I’ve only gotten to the part where Scout dresses up as a ham for Halloween.
    Also, he’s been trying to find things for me to do to pass the time. Yesterday he showed me how to make paper boxes out of loose-leaf. He puts little gifts in them—like a single goldfish cracker or a penny—and leaves them on my bed. Millie just raises her eyebrows at me like she can’t believe someone would like me enough to give me presents. I don’t thinkit’s that Oliver likes me especially, but just that he’s extremely thoughtful (almost too thoughtful) and maybe extremely lonely.
    Anyway, back to our card game. When I’d had enough, Oliver began collecting all the cards and shuffling them. “Don’t worry, Gracie, you’ll get it next time.” I sat back and stared at the table, feeling grumpy.
    He opened the cabinet above the couch to put the cards away, and I noticed a photo lying on top of his things. He saw me looking at it and pulled it down to show me.
    â€œIt’s my parents,” he said. I stared at the photo: In it was a younger Oliver, scarless, looking happy and bright. His dad looked sporty, like