The Great Good Summer by Liz Garton Scanlon Page A

hot, they almost burn the backs of my legs, and we open up Paul’s notebook, and we start to figure things out, like how much money we need and what we’ll tell our parents and what we’ll do when we arrive in the panhandle of Florida. ( If we arrive in the panhandle of Florida.)
    I tell Paul that’s another not-good thing about The Great Good Bible Church of Panhandle Florida: “It should be called The Great Good Bible Church of THE Panhandle OF Florida. Shouldn’t it? It’s THE Panhandle! That’s the sort of mistake that would drive Mrs. Murray half-crazy—”
    And then I interrupt myself. “Oh, gosh. Wait a minute,” I say. “What about the Murrays? Mrs. Murray’s expecting me, every day but Tuesdays. She needs me,and I’ll be letting her down if I’m suddenly not there.”
    â€œNow, that’s kind of funny,” says Paul.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThat you’re more worried about Mrs. Murray than you are about your own dad.”
    And Paul’s right. I’m not really thinking too much about Daddy, because if I think about Daddy, I think about getting caught—as a runaway, for goodness’ sake—and that gives me the chill-bumps. Plus, it doesn’t seem to me that Daddy (or God, for that matter) has done such a great job of looking after Mama lately, which is why it’s been left completely up to me. Well, me and Science Boy here, if that’s not the strangest thing.
    â€œOkay, fine,” I say. “Mrs. Murray will be fine. She’s resourceful.” Which was another one of our vocab words this year, by the way. Plus, she is. “Now, here’s what I think, Paul Dobbs . . .”
    And this idea comes out of my mouth before it’s even really solid in my head. “If we’re going all the way to Florida,” I say, “I think we better go see the space shuttle too. I mean, that’s where they keep it, right? Or where they keep them , since there are a few of them, like you told me? If you’re gonna kiss space good-bye after all these years of loving it so much you wanted to marry it, then itseems like you oughta break up in person. Right?”
    I turn to look at Paul, sitting so close to me that we’re practically stuck together. I want to see what he thinks of my half-cocked idea. And wow. I promise you that right that very minute? His eyes start to shine again. Like stars.

Chapter Eight
    B efore leaving for the Murrays’ in the morning, I pack my school backpack with a few pairs of underwear; my toothbrush, hairbrush, and some hairbands; two hundred and sixty dollars in babysitting money; and a box of granola bars Daddy brought home with the shopping yesterday.
    When we said good-bye outside the church last night, Paul told me to be ready to go at a moment’s notice, “So that as soon as I get the money I need, we can take off.”
    I was about to tell him to stop being pushy, but then I thought I probably wouldn’t step one foot outside of Loomer, Texas, without Paul being a little pushy, so I said okay. And here I am, packing. I shiver when I zip up my bag, and my brain says, No, no! but then I interrupt myself and think, Yes.
    I look around my room to distract myself—the room Mama let me decorate in third grade—and lordamercy, I have grown so deathly ill of this pink. It’s like bubble gum stuck in Hello Kitty’s fur, and when I get back home with Mama, I’m gonna ask if we can do something about it.
    â€œWhen I get back home,” is what I said to myself, which means it’s not just Paul who’s 100 percent serious anymore. Who cares if the farthest I’ve ever been is Galveston? I’m going to find my mama in Florida. I just am. Yes, yes, no matter what, yes.
    I run downstairs into the kitchen and grab Mama’s medicines off the counter. And there, behind the bag, quietly plugged in next to the toaster, is her