Summer of the Gypsy Moths by Sara Pennypacker Page A

“Something big, anyway.”
    I looked down at the ground. The three of us standing there threw three early-afternoon shadows that arrowed directly toward the house, as if sending a blaring sign to George. He didn’t notice, though. I looked out over the marsh, ordering myself to breathe in, breathe out.
    â€œPumpkins,” Angel said firmly, and started digging again. “We’re planting a row of pumpkins. The really big kind. Giant.”
    That girl. It was terrible to lie, of course. But Angel was so good at it, I couldn’t help admiring her.
    â€œKinda late for pumpkins,” George said thoughtfully. “Shoulda gone in Memorial Day. Still, I guess if the frost holds off this fall…” He poked around at the beans, their bright-green tendrils curling around the section of lattice Louise had leaned up there. “Louise has a green thumb, I’ll give her that. Tomatoes look good.”
    â€œWell, we have to get back to work,” Angel said. She stabbed the earth, dumping a shovelful right next to George’s work boot.
    George wasn’t too good at taking a hint, though. And he wasn’t in any hurry to leave. He leaned back against a fence post, then dug around in his pocket for a pipe andsome tobacco. I turned my face away, suddenly certain that Your friend Louise is dead in the den! might as well have been written on my forehead. I heard the tiny pop of the match catching, heard the wet rattle of the pipe stem as he drew in to light it. I smelled the tobacco. Breathe in, breathe out. We were just two girls planting pumpkins.
    â€œPumpkins go in mounds, not rows,” he said. “She should know that.”
    â€œYep, she said that,” Angel said. “I just forgot.”
    â€œPumpkins have big appetites. You got fertilizer?”
    I shot Angel a look, but it was no good, of course. Not with that girl.
    â€œOh, yeah,” Angel said. “We’ve got a lot of fertilizer.”
    â€œGood. Well then, you want a thick layer of mulch to keep the weeds down. Seaweed’s the best. You tell her she can use my truck if she wants to go down to the beach and pick up a load right now. I’m going to be here awhile, mow the lawn and wash the decks. Never mind, I’ll tell her myself. You girls—”
    â€œNo!” Angel and I yelled at the same time.
    George looked between us, eyes narrowed. “She still sick?”
    â€œYes,” I said at the same time as Angel’s “No!”
    â€œI mean, yes,” Angel said. “She’s still sick, but now she broke her foot.”
    I whipped around to stare at her.
    â€œYeah, she was so sick, she lost her balance and fell off the back steps. Actually, I think she might have been…you know…” Angel tipped back her head and cocked her thumb to her lips, pretending to glug from a bottle.
    I had to turn away then. George looked as stunned as I was.
    â€œWhat a night,” Angel went on. “She had to go to the emergency room, got a cast and crutches and everything.”
    â€œDrinking, Louise…” George shook his head as if the picture wouldn’t come into focus. He took a thoughtful pull on his pipe. “Well, that’s a lotta woman to have to haul around on crutches. I’d better go see what I can do—”
    Angel actually sprang in front of him, blocking his way. “No,” she said. “She’s asleep. She was up all night—you know, in the emergency room. She’ll be mad if anyone wakes her…mad at us!”
    George turned back to the house. “Something’s fishy here, girls,” he muttered. “I’ll go talk to her.” He clamped down on his pipe and started over to the house.
    â€œHey, that’s a great idea about the seaweed,” I said. “Let’s go now and get some.”
    I climbed over the fence and headed for George’s pickup next door before he could answer. Angel was right