All-Season Edie by Annabel Lyon Read Free Book Online

donkey’s head. I skipped the poetry when I first read it; it’s the pictures—one specific picture—I remember. And here it is: three hideous crones crooked over an enormous black cauldron. One of them is holding a frog, and in the soup they’re making floats an eyeball.
    â€œThis book is GROSS,” I tell Dusty informatively, and then I start to read.
    â€œâ€˜Double, double, toil and trouble,’” I announce at breakfast the next morning.
    â€œâ€˜Fire burn and cauldron bubble,’” Mom responds, smiling and pouring milk onto bowls of sliced bananas and granola. I gape.
    â€œWhat ever ,” Dexter says.
    At school, before class starts, I ask my teacher, Mr. Chen, if I can borrow the big dictionary that stands on his desk.
    â€œSure, Edie,” he says, setting it down for me with a satisfying chunk . “What are you looking up?”
    â€œNewt,” I say, frowning over the tissue-thin pages.
    â€œEdie is a newt!” yells Timmy Digby, who is in my class—why? why?—for the third year in a row. “Edie-Snow-Peadie!”
    â€œSettle down, class,” Mr. Chen says. “Time for French.”
    Reluctantly, I go to my seat. Then I pull out my French/English dictionary. Newt: triton . “ Triton ,” I whisper. “ Oeil de triton .” The rest of the class recites the alphabet.
    Already school seems to go on forever, and it’s only the second week of September.
    At lunch, I eat my sandwich and carrots with my friend Sam. When we’re bigger, we decide, we’ll go to Africa to see the wildlife. We’ll rent a car and drive alongside the zebras and the antelope. We’ll take a cooler of food. I’ve decided not to mention witchcraft to any of my friends just yet, but it’s hard to concentrate on other subjects. After lunch, Mr. Chen makes us line up so we can walk neatly down the hall to the library. I squirm with impatience. MY GRANDPA IS LOSING HIS MIND, I think. BUT THERE MIGHT BE A WAY I CAN HELP. My thoughts feel as bright as fluorescent lights. I wonder if eventually they’ll start glowing through my forehead, searing the words and sentences for everyone to see.
    My classmates arrange themselves on chairs. I jiggle. Ms. Conklin, the librarian, who has red hair and a red face and speckled reddish skin on her arms, tells us today we’re going to start Projects. The class groans. We’ll have to find our own books, make notes on index cards, include maps or drawings or something with colors and create a title page and a bibliography. Today is for Brainstorming: we each have to come up with a subject. At the end of the hour, we’ll tell our teacher our topics.
    I run right over to Mr. Chen. I’m first. “Yes, Edie,” he says.
    â€œWitchcraft,” I say.
    â€œYou have an hour to think about it,” Mr. Chen says.
    â€œWitchcraft,” I say.
    â€œEdie Snow,” Mr. Chen says, shrugging and making a note in his folder. “Witchcraft.”
    â€œYES!” I say.
    Everybody frowns and tells me to shush.
    â€œI must go to the public library,” I announce to Mom when I get home from school.
    â€œ Must you?” she asks. “Well, maybe this evening. I can’t drive you right now because I have to take Dex to the mall for shoes. Coming?”
    â€œNo!” I say, shuddering.
    â€œDon’t answer the phone and don’t answer the door.”
    â€œI know,” I say.
    â€œI know you know, but it makes me feel better to say it anyway,” Mom says, giving me a hug.
    The big difference between me and girls in books is that they’re allowed to go outside. Those girls live in small towns surrounded by hills and babbling brooks and red-gold deciduous woods. Coquitlam, the suburb of Vancouver where I live, is paved as far as the eye can see, and the trees are huge, lone, unclimbable firs and cedars dripping rain. Those girls live in towns that have