Forget Me Not by Coleen Paratore Read Free Book Online Page A

what’s the plan, ma’am?” Sam says to my mother with a smile.
    “A bike ride on the Rail Trail?” Mom suggests, consulting a paper that is probably her summer “to do” list of family activities.
    “Sounds good,” Sam says, patting his stomach. “I could use some exercise. Couldn’t resist a second helping of the filet mignon last night. Okay with you, Willa?”
    “Sure,” I say, “but just not all day. There are some things I need to do later.”
    Sam and Mom look at each other and smile.
    “Teenagers,” my mother whispers, shaking her head.
    I roll my eyes to myself. Lately, I’m starting to feel like a bit of an outsider. Mom and Sam are united, a team—“Let me talk with your father first,” or “Let me just run this by your mother.” We’re all on the same field. But they’re on one team, and I’m on the other.
    The Cape Cod Rail Trail is a network of paved bike trails that run through some of the nicest nature you’ve ever seen. After the railroads stopped running on the Cape years ago, someone had the excellent idea to pull up the tracks and pave over them. The Rail Trail starts in Dennis and weaves through forests and fields, along marshes and cranberry bogs, past harbors and ponds (that’s what we call lakes), through towns and villages, past country stores and ice cream places, all the way out to Wellfleet.
    Sam puts our bikes on the rack of his car and we drive to a Rail Trail parking lot.
    As we get on our bikes, I see Sam wink at my mother and my mother smile back at him. They are so in love. I can’t help but think about the baby they lost. It would have been nice to have a little brother or sister. I’vebeen an only child my whole life. Maybe Aunt Ruthie and Spruce will have kids. Then I’ll have cousins or saplings or something.
    “I’ll race you,” Stella shouts, and we’re off.
    I love this family.

CHAPTER 9
Beach Rights
Mine, and yours;
    Mine, not yours.
    Earth endures;
    Stars abide—
    Shine down in the old sea.
    —Ralph Waldo Emerson
    When we get home, hot and sweaty from biking, Mom suggests we go to the beach. I’m about to decline, when I see the look on her face. She seems so happy and relaxed. This family time stuff is important to her, and anyway, I’m sure Tina will be at the beach, stalking lifeguards, and I need to talk with her.
    Mom and I head upstairs to change. Sam says he’ll pack sandwiches.
    When we get to the beach, we pause at the top of the stairs. Out on the Spit, there’s a red light swirling on the harbormaster’s boat and a large group of people all huddled together.
    “Let’s see what’s going on,” Mom says.
    At the bottom of the stairs, I spot Tina and Ruby. They are standing at the base of a lifeguard chair, staring up at a greased Greek god of a guy. Ruby says something and the god leans down to answer. Tina smiles, nodding her head, then writes something on a clipboard like she’s taking notes. I wonder what that’s all about.
    Mom and Sam and I walk out on the Spit.
    As we approach the crowd, we hear shouting. I notice someone has ripped down the ropes and stakes from the piping plover and tern nesting area.
    “Look at that,” Sam says.
    There is black paint smeared over the new Audubon Society warning sign.
    “Who’s gonna make me?” a big-bellied man with a very red face is shouting.
    “It’s just for a few weeks, maybe a month,” says a young, college-age-looking woman wearing a brown uniform shirt with the official Audubon seal on the pocket.
    “This is our beach,” a lady shouts. It’s Ruby Sivler’s mother, perched on the hull of their yacht, all tanned in a shiny pink bikini. “We already have people sneaking onto this beach who don’t belong here, taking up space. Sometimes we can’t even find a place to sit.”
    “That’s right!” someone shouts.
    “But what about the birds?” a boy says.
    “I don’t give a flying—”
    “But these aren’t just any old birds,” the Audubon lady says. “The