By Dana Reinhardt
Drew's just a little a loner. She has a puppy rat, her useless dad's booklet of Lists, an encyclopedic wisdom of cheese from operating at her mom's cheese store, and a overwhelm on Nick, the surf bum who works at the back of the counter. it is the summer time earlier than 8th grade and Drew's days look like enterprise as ordinary, till one evening after ultimate time, whilst she meets an odd boy within the alley named Emmett Crane. Who he's, why he is there, the place the lower on his cheek got here from, and his bottomless wisdom of rats are all mysteries Drew will untangle as they're drawn nearer jointly, and Drew enters into the 1st precise friendship, and event, of her life.
From the Hardcover edition.
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Additional info for The Summer I Learned to Fly
We didn’t have much money, only what we got from Dad’s life insurance policy, and what we did have had all gone into the Cheese Shop. That’s what it was called. The Cheese Shop. No stroke of brilliance in the creativity department, but the name said what it needed to say: Come inside and you’ll find cheese. Any sort you can imagine. On the day we opened, Mrs. Mutchnick, who owned the fabric store across the street, a grandmotherly type with her hair barely holding on to its ever-present bun, brought over a gift.
I began to build a tower out of the coffee creamers. Mom sat back and closed her eyes to the sun. We’d scored one of Bartholomew’s primo tables out on the deck. She was a burner, and she’d burn herself to peeling. She loved the sun with unwavering devotion. ” I asked. ” “The time sheet at the shop. ” She opened her eyes. Puzzled. ” “Okay. I’ll put your name on the sheet. ” In the ten months or so we’d been in business I’d come to the shop most days after school, and a fair amount of Saturdays too.
It was a small house, as Georgia McNulty had so kindly told everyone, so it didn’t take long. No Hum. This presented a terrible problem. If he wasn’t here, he was in the shop. And Mom was in the shop, working late. I couldn’t very well call her up and ask her to look around for my rat. I would have called Swoozie, but she had left when I did. She’d offered me a ride in her beat-up old Porsche, a car that might have given her some edge except that the tiny back was so filled up with her crap there wasn’t even room for my bike.
The Summer I Learned to Fly by Dana Reinhardt