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

least and common terns and the piping plovers are on the endangered species list.”
    An adult plover is hovering in the air by the shoreline, screeching. It circles around and soars in toward us, swiping close to Mrs. Sivler’s bright red hair.
    “Get away, get away,” Mrs. Sivler screams, flapping her arms hysterically. “These birds are dangerous! They don’t belong here!”
    “They won’t attack you,” the Audubon worker explains. “It’s just a mother trying to scare you away from her chicks, that’s all.”
    “We have a right to enjoy our beach,” Mrs. Sivler says, picking up her fluffy white poodle, Pookie, and hugging him to her chest. People…and their pets…come before birds. ”
    “That’s right,” a man with a sunburned face shouts, “people count more than plovers.”
    I wonder if he’s the one who put the flyer on our Bramble Board? Or, wait, what if it was Mrs. Sivler?
    “We all have a right to this beach,” a college kid says, putting his arm around his girlfriend.
    “Excuse me,” Ruby Sivler’s father says, standing up on his boat, cocking his captain’s hat to the side, andspeaking with great authority, “but that’s not true. Only those property owners between Sea Bluff and Windy Road, and Shore Drive and Oak Path have actual, legally deeded rights to this beach.”
    “That’s right!” a lady shouts. “I had to tell some boy to leave the other day. He was building a fire, all set to cook a fish, and his dog was running loose. I told him this was private property.”
    “Good for you,” Mr. Sivler says. “We need to protect our investment from trespassers. It’s high time we institute an identification system so we know who belongs here and who doesn’t.”
    “Hear, hear,” some man shouts. A few people clap.
    I spot Mariel in the crowd. She steps forward, hands on her hips. “With all due respect, sir, if anybody owns this beach, it’s the Wampanoag Indians you stole it from. They were here before the Pilgrims landed. Centuries before any of you.”
    Yay, Mariel. You tell him. I start to walk toward her and then stop and turn at the sound of barking.
    There’s a huge, golden-brown shaggy dog sniffing around dangerously close to one of the silver cages the Audubon workers put over the eggs and newly hatched chicks.
    “Get that dog on a leash!” someone shouts.
    The dog nudges the cage as if he’s trying to flip it over.
    The guy with the red face claps. “That’s right! Show those birds who’s top dog around here.”
    “Is that your dog, sir?” Sam asks the man in a calm voice.
    “Not mine,” the guy says.
    The dog runs over to where Sam and Mom and I are standing. It shakes its coat and water sprays on my legs. Then the dog hunches down and poops right in front of us.
    “That’s disgusting,” Mom says, looking around at the faces. “Who owns this dog? Dogs aren’t allowed on this beach without a leash. It’s against the law.”
    The dog looks at me. Our eyes lock for a second. It doesn’t have a collar. Then, I know this sounds silly, but I swear the dog smiles at me, a big goofy clownish smile like that carnival booth at the Barnstable Fair where you throw three balls into the clown’s mouth to win a stuffed animal prize.
    The dog turns and runs up over the dune and is gone.
    We stop at Bobby Byrne’s restaurant in Mashpee Commons for dinner. I like how they have quotes from famous writers on the walls here. I order a cup of clam chowder—we call it “chowda”—and the Shakespeare chicken sandwich. Yumm.
    Next, I do some undercover sleuthing at Ghelfi’s candy store. They’ve added on and remodeled. They’re even serving ice cream now. I get the vanilla frozen yogurt with Heath bar chunks, my favorite.
    I take a long time making my saltwater taffy selections, making mental notes on all their new flavors. No way can Nana compete with their variety. We’ll need to think of a different angle.
    Back home, I run up to my room and close the door.