All Alone in the Universe by Lynne Rae Perkins Read Free Book Online Page A

Clemente?”
    “Yes, I did,” said my mother. “The one where he practically climbed the wall and reached way up with one hand?”

     
    “That‧s the one,” said Bobby. “Amazing.”
    Glancing out of the car window, I saw that we were getting close to home. My thoughts rose from the depths of my mother‧s relationships with Bobby and unknown hitchhikers up to the shallows of what was inside all the shopping bags that surrounded me on the backseat I poked through a few of them, looking for my new hair holder. It was the kind Wilma Flintstone might use. I found it at the bottom of a bag, wrapped in tissue. I pulled my hair back to try it out and accidentally glanced out of the car window.

     
    “Isn‧t that Maureen?” asked my mom. “Uh-huh,” I said.
    “I thought she was on vacation,” said my mom.
    “She must be back now,” I said.
    “Do you want me to let you off here?” asked Mom.
    “No, that‧s okay,” I said. “I‧m kind of tired. I‧ll just go home.”
    “Was that Glenna Flaiber with her?” asked my mom. “Yeah,” I said.
    “She‧s starting to look so much like her mother,” said my mom.
    “Yeah, she is,” I said.
    On the fifth or sixth afternoon in a row that I had walked next door to sit with Fran in her carport and suck on lime Popsicles, she asked out of the blue, what I was waiting for.

     
    “Hmm?” I said.
    “What are you waiting for?” she repeated.
    I tried to think whether something was supposed to happen that day, but I didn‧t think so. “I‧m not waiting for anything,” I said. “Why?”
    Fran nipped a little chunk from her Popsicle and held it in her mouth as it melted. She folded her arms and looked at me. “You‧ve been over here every day this week,” she said. “Now, you know I love you dearly, and I‧m always glad to see you, but this is not like you. You‧re young. It‧s summertime. You‧re supposed to be out running around with your friends. What‧s going on?”
    Oh, I thought. That.
    I didn‧t want to talk about it. I looked out at the street where a couple of Prbyczka kids were drifting by like tumbleweeds. Some drops of rain sent them skittering off toward home, then the clanging of the Goodie-Bar truck brought them closer again, digging in their pockets for nickels and dimes.
    “It‧s starting to rain,” I said. Brown, wet circles the size of pennies were appearing on the concrete beyond the carport. A few, then dozens, then hundreds, and then the raindrops searched in vain for a dry place to moisten. They just had to fall anonymously into the wetness. It was a summer rain, as warm as bathwater. We sat there watching it come down, listening to the drumming on the roof and the dripping from the gutter.
    “You know,” said Fran, “your life isn‧t going to start when this thing happens or when that person calls. Your life is happening right now. Don‧t wait for someone else to make it happen. You have to make it happen.”
    “I know,” I said, even though I didn‧t know that. I didn‧t know it at all, and I didn‧t want to know it either.
    So I just said, “I know.”
    And then I said, “I will.”
    “There are plenty of fish in the sea,” said Fran.
    “I know,” I said again.

     
    Maureen didn‧t call. Day after day she didn‧t call. I ran out of good excuses for her not to call, and other kinds of reasons started seeping into my head and filling it with sludge. I could have called her. I kept thinking I would, in a day or two. I mean, what difference did it make, really, who called who?
    One day I told my mom I was going bike riding with someone from school. I told her that we were taking lunches and riding out to River‧s Knob. She seemed happy that I was doing something with someone. But I wasn‧t doing something with someone. I was going by myself; I started out just gliding along as if I didn‧t have a plan. But I think I knew all along that I was going to George‧s garden.
    When I realized that I was going