hill. They turned and saw a boy flying toward them on a skateboard, his arms outstretched. Almost immediately he was upon them and then passing by, at such a speed Jane felt her curls lift. She thought he would keep going, but no, he executed a sharp turn that should have ended in disaster, slid to a dramatic halt, and dismounted with careless grace.
My goodness, thought Jane, staring. He was magnificent, with sunglasses, lots of hair, and the self-confidence of a movie star, or even a prince. Jane cast about in her mind for possible European princes whocould be traveling incognito in Maine, but her knowledge of present-day royalty was limited to William and Harry of England, and this boy was certainly neither of them. She would have to hear him speak for a clue—a foreign language or at least an accent—and, look, he
was
about to say something. Jane held her breath.
He said, casually, “My sister might crash into you.”
The accent was disappointingly pure American. But what an interesting thing to say, thought Jane, full of possible hidden meanings. Like the opening of a spy conversation, in which one spy said
Looks like fog
and the other spy answered
Or mist
, and then they both knew that it was safe to discuss state secrets. What would be a good response to
My sister might crash into you
?
Jane never got to decide, because other, cooler heads—that is, Skye and Jeffrey—prevailed, pushing Jane out of the path of a bicycle that was wobbling dangerously down the hill. Riding it was a wispy, awkward-looking girl who could barely reach the pedals.
“I don’t know how to stop,” she called.
“Use the brakes!” shouted Skye and Jeffrey together.
But apparently the girl’s cycling lessons had not included brakes, because instead of using them, she decided to launch herself off the bike. She went one way—into the grass beside the road—and the bikewent the other, crashing and sliding with lots of wheel spinning. Jane and Skye dropped their groceries and rushed to the girl’s aid, but she easily scrambled to her feet, unhurt and not at all embarrassed by her clumsy entry. Meanwhile, Jeffrey picked up her bicycle and set it back upright—and she looked at him as though he were a god.
“I’m Mercedes Orne,” she said.
“Jeffrey Tifton.” He shook her hand, then straightened her helmet.
In all this activity, the one person who hadn’t budged was the boy in the sunglasses. Jane looked at him curiously. Did he care so little about his sister crashing her bicycle? Or maybe he was simply being generous about letting the others be heroes. Yes, it was probably generosity.
Skye, however, seemed to have come to a different conclusion. She was glaring at the boy and was clearly about to scold him. Jane jumped in.
“I’m Jane Penderwick, and this is my sister Skye,” she said brightly. “We’re staying in Birches, that tiny house at the end of Ocean Boulevard.”
“Dominic and I live at Mouette Inn during the summer,” said Mercedes. “Our grandparents own it.”
So his name was Dominic—Jane thought it a strong name—and he was staying right down the street from them. Maybe they would all get to know each other—that is, if Skye didn’t scare Dominic off.At least she’d stopped glaring, but now she’d turned her back on him and was picking up her groceries, ready to go. Jane sighed. This was not a good beginning. If only Dominic would say something intelligent, maybe Skye could be brought around.
And then he spoke. “Which one of you is the oldest sister?”
“Why?” asked Skye in a tone that offered no hope of brought-aroundness.
He shrugged and did a little move with his skateboard.
“I’m seven, and Dominic’s twelve,” said Mercedes. “Are you twelve, too, Jeffrey?”
“I will be in August,” he said.
Dominic looked sideways at Jeffrey, then back down to his skateboard. “I’m twelve and a half, actually.”
“Well, we should go,” said Skye.
Which made it clear to
My goodness, thought Jane, staring. He was magnificent, with sunglasses, lots of hair, and the self-confidence of a movie star, or even a prince. Jane cast about in her mind for possible European princes whocould be traveling incognito in Maine, but her knowledge of present-day royalty was limited to William and Harry of England, and this boy was certainly neither of them. She would have to hear him speak for a clue—a foreign language or at least an accent—and, look, he
was
about to say something. Jane held her breath.
He said, casually, “My sister might crash into you.”
The accent was disappointingly pure American. But what an interesting thing to say, thought Jane, full of possible hidden meanings. Like the opening of a spy conversation, in which one spy said
Looks like fog
and the other spy answered
Or mist
, and then they both knew that it was safe to discuss state secrets. What would be a good response to
My sister might crash into you
?
Jane never got to decide, because other, cooler heads—that is, Skye and Jeffrey—prevailed, pushing Jane out of the path of a bicycle that was wobbling dangerously down the hill. Riding it was a wispy, awkward-looking girl who could barely reach the pedals.
“I don’t know how to stop,” she called.
“Use the brakes!” shouted Skye and Jeffrey together.
But apparently the girl’s cycling lessons had not included brakes, because instead of using them, she decided to launch herself off the bike. She went one way—into the grass beside the road—and the bikewent the other, crashing and sliding with lots of wheel spinning. Jane and Skye dropped their groceries and rushed to the girl’s aid, but she easily scrambled to her feet, unhurt and not at all embarrassed by her clumsy entry. Meanwhile, Jeffrey picked up her bicycle and set it back upright—and she looked at him as though he were a god.
“I’m Mercedes Orne,” she said.
“Jeffrey Tifton.” He shook her hand, then straightened her helmet.
In all this activity, the one person who hadn’t budged was the boy in the sunglasses. Jane looked at him curiously. Did he care so little about his sister crashing her bicycle? Or maybe he was simply being generous about letting the others be heroes. Yes, it was probably generosity.
Skye, however, seemed to have come to a different conclusion. She was glaring at the boy and was clearly about to scold him. Jane jumped in.
“I’m Jane Penderwick, and this is my sister Skye,” she said brightly. “We’re staying in Birches, that tiny house at the end of Ocean Boulevard.”
“Dominic and I live at Mouette Inn during the summer,” said Mercedes. “Our grandparents own it.”
So his name was Dominic—Jane thought it a strong name—and he was staying right down the street from them. Maybe they would all get to know each other—that is, if Skye didn’t scare Dominic off.At least she’d stopped glaring, but now she’d turned her back on him and was picking up her groceries, ready to go. Jane sighed. This was not a good beginning. If only Dominic would say something intelligent, maybe Skye could be brought around.
And then he spoke. “Which one of you is the oldest sister?”
“Why?” asked Skye in a tone that offered no hope of brought-aroundness.
He shrugged and did a little move with his skateboard.
“I’m seven, and Dominic’s twelve,” said Mercedes. “Are you twelve, too, Jeffrey?”
“I will be in August,” he said.
Dominic looked sideways at Jeffrey, then back down to his skateboard. “I’m twelve and a half, actually.”
“Well, we should go,” said Skye.
Which made it clear to
Similar Books
