The Great Good Summer by Liz Garton Scanlon

sometimes. She truly does.)
    Anyway, here’s kind-of-cute Paul Dobbs, a little twitch in his smile, sitting on the cellar steps, just the way I found him when I skipped out of service a few weeks back.
    â€œOh, hey, Ivy,” says Paul, standing up. “You came. Good. Okay, well, here’s the deal. We can take a Greyhound bus to Florida and be there in a day. Eighteen hours, to be exact, if we go from, like, Houston to Tallahassee. And let’s face it, it’s gonna be easier to find your mom’s church once we’re actually there in Florida, right? People are gonna have heard of it. So if we leave, like, maybe tomorrow . . .”
    Paul is waving a spiral notebook as he talks. He’s got bus schedules and the names of towns written down, andit suddenly occurs to me that he might be 100 percent totally serious, not kidding at all about this whole thing.
    â€œWhoa, whoa! Hang on, Paul.” My voice shakes a little, and I don’t know if it’s ’cause I’m excited or ’cause I’m scared. What in heaven’s name would Mama or Daddy or the good Lord have to say about this idea?
    â€œSeriously,” I say. “Hang on a minute. I have a lot of questions.”
    â€œGood. Questions are good,” says Paul. “They’re my specialty.” And he laughs as if this whole thing is a joke, only it isn’t.
    â€œPaul Dobbs,” I say, “you better hope that answers are your specialty, if you think I’m getting on a Greyhound bus and going anywhere with you. I don’t care whose mama we’re looking for.”
    Paul’s face falls, and his eyes are instantly a little less shiny. I actually feel kind of bad for snapping at him, because it looks like I’ve hurt his feelings and I’m pretty sure he’s only trying to help.
    â€œSorry,” I say. “That was rude of me. But this is all a little crazy, you have to admit.” I slide onto the steps next to Paul, and we both sit down.
    â€œYeah, it’s crazy. But in a good way. Look, you’ve got to have a bunch of babysitting money, don’t you? And I’mgonna sell some of my planes and stuff. I’ve already figured that out. So we should be good for the bus tickets,” says Paul.
    â€œYour planes? You’re going to sell your planes?” I can’t believe it. “You love your planes!” It’s then I notice the big tote bag leaning against the railing behind Paul, full to bursting with flying machines. He really is 100 percent serious, not at all kidding, isn’t he?
    And I don’t know if I should be glad about that or not. I may be full of ideas, but that’s about it. I don’t do the things I dream up. I go to school. I babysit. I ask Mama and Daddy for a dog, over and over and over again. I don’t aim to be an astronaut or an airplane pilot or anything wild at all, and I surely don’t intend to be a runaway.
    â€œY’know what? I did love ’em, but they’re just toys,” says Paul. I start to interrupt, but he stops me. “And, Ivy, you don’t have to pretend that they’re not, just to make me feel better. Plus, the airspace is closed. And it’s not like I can pretend like I’m working toward something real, with the shuttle program shutting down. It’s time to kiss space good-bye and start thinking about something more realistic, like being a doctor or something. My dad’s been telling me that since the day I was born anyway, so, big surprise. He’s right.”
    Paul doesn’t sound like a guy who thinks his dad is right. He sounds like a guy who’s sad. But I can’t think of a single thing that might fix that.
    â€œSorry,” I say, kind of softly, but I know that’s not enough.
    â€œC’mon,” he says. “Let’s make a plan.”
    Like it’s been decided.

    So we do. We sit on the steps of Second Baptist that are so