My Diary from the Edge of the World by Jodi Lynn Anderson Read Free Book Online

level.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œI’m not sure. We’re going to my grandma’s.” I hesitated, then went on. “But I think my dad really wants to try to get to the Extraordinary World.” I don’t know why, but talking to Oliver made me feel like it was okay to be honest.
    The silence stretched on and on. Most people don’t like long silences, but Oliver seemed completely content to let the empty seconds stretch between us. “When are you leaving?” he finally asked politely.
    â€œWednesday afternoon, I guess.” I was still hoping, counting on, a miracle that would let us stay.
    â€œI’m sorry you have to go,” he said.
    â€œThanks,” I said, and looked at the ground.
    â€œYou can’t tell anyone you saw me,” Oliver went on. “They’ll try to bring me back to my foster parents.”
    I promised, but I wasn’t sure it was the right thing.
    Before I left, Oliver looked at my cast, pulled out a marker from his backpack, and wrote on it, on the underside where I couldn’t see.
    *  *  *
    My mom says that one of the reasons she loves paintings and poetry and things like that (which I mostly findextremely boring) is that they focus not only on what is but what could be . She says that it’s very important to accept what is but also to never stop dreaming about what could be. Sometimes we play this imagination game where we come up with ideas of what life would be like if there were no sun but only a moon, or if we spoke in music instead of words. . . .
    Anyway, walking home I tried to imagine the world without sasquatches and Dark Clouds—how Oliver’s parents would still be alive, and how Sam would be safe and we’d get to stay in Cliffden. It cheered me up for a few minutes.
    I debated whether to tell my parents about Oliver, and I couldn’t decide. So far I’m only writing it down here. Now I’m on the couch, and Mom has lit a fire in the fireplace and closed all the curtains that look out on the backyard. Everything is cozy and warm, and seeing Oliver feels like something I only imagined. Except that, just before I started writing this entry, I remembered to look in the mirror to see what he’d written on my cast. It said I was never here.

October 7th
    It’s hard to write because my hands are shaking. We’re all packed. The Winnebago is stuffed to the gills. The Cloud is hovering above the back deck this morning, just a couple of feet from the door, as if waiting to be let in. We’re leaving and I’m writing as fast as I can.
    Yesterday Arin Roland surprised me by showing up at my door with her mom to give me a big hug and also a present. It’s a tiny silver suitcase with the words Home Again engraved on one side. It’s sort of a dumb little knickknack, but I’ve decided to make it into a lucky object that’ll bring us back here someday.
    I want to record the curve of our driveway and the missing tiles of our gingerbread roof. I want to keep in my mind forever the paint smudges along the trim ofmy bedroom window and the tree stump I tripped over once while we were playing ghost in the graveyard, the church stone just peeking out over the top of the hill and the blinking eye of my house. I’ve picked up several rocks from the yard to take with me. I smelled each and every flower left in my mom’s garden. I touched the grass in several spots and buried all my pennies, and then I took my favorite glass prism from my room and buried that, too. I’ve also resolved to bury this diary. It seems like I should leave it here as a reminder of me. Sam is curled on my mom’s lap on the front stairs, crying into her chest, and Millie is already in the Winnebago waiting, but I just want these seconds to last forever. Good-bye to the—
    *  *  *
    I’m writing from my seat in the camper. Something big has happened.
    A few minutes ago Mom got