Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers by Gretchen Kelley Read Free Book Online Page A

sideways in our driveway, the two front wheels dangerously close to my mom’s flower garden. I smile and take the porch steps two at a time.
    â€œPickles!” I shout.
    Pickles isn’t like most grandmas. She likes cigars and spends a lot of time at comic book conventions. After my grandpa died, she decided Boston was too far away from us and moved to Salem, where she opened the biggest toy store on the North Shore. From potato guns to penny candy to three-hundred-piece Lego sets, you can find it all at Pickles’s Place. Everything great is in that store.
    The last time I went was the Sunday before school started. Pickles had just gotten back from a toy convention in Baltimore and had asked my sisters and me to spend the day with her. Stella had cheerleading camp, but my mom said Lucy and I could go as long as we wore our seat belts, and Pickles promised to have us home before dark.
    She picked us up in the Volkswagen, and we headed down Route 128, sharing her bubble gum stash from the glove compartment and singing old show tunes from South Pacific . When we got to her store, she flung her arms wide and announced, “Go crazy, kiddos!” then disappeared into her back office. The next two hours were ours.
    I started where I always did: the candy wall. Rows of large glass jars held everything from lemon drops to mini chocolate bars. I tried every single flavor of jelly bean until I couldn’t stomach anymore. After a while, I plugged a few dimes into the player piano, and we sang along to “The Yellow Rose of Texas” while Lucy redesigned the train track running across the floor and I test-drove the pogo sticks that had just been delivered. We sang at the tip-top of our lungs, because no one was there to say we couldn’t.
    At twelve o’clock sharp Pickles reappeared, ready for lunch at the diner next door.
    Two hours later my belly was full of ham on rye, Lucy was stuffed with egg salad, and both of our arms were full of loot. Pickles had to drive over the speed limit most of the way, but she got us home by dusk. My dad came out to help us carry in our packages, but my mom stayed in the doorway.
    â€œYou’re spoiling those kids, Pickles,” she warned, but she smiled a little while she said it.
    â€œIt’s my job,” Pickles replied, pointing her unlit cigar out the window. “I’m the grandma.”
    My dad laughed. “Don’t be a stranger,” he told her.
    â€œThere are no strangers here—only friends you haven’t yet met,” she said, which is how she always responds. Then she winked. “That’s a quote by Yeats, kiddos. Look him up.”
    And with that, she was gone.
    But that was all before middle school started, and I haven’t seen her until now.
    *   *   *
    I find her in the kitchen with my dad. They stop talking as soon as I walk in.
    â€œWell, well.” She grins. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
    She sets down the onion she was slicing and walks over to me. I notice that her long white hair has strands of purple running through it. Last time I saw her, they were orange.
    Stella thinks Pickles moved to Salem because she’s a witch. My mom says that’s ridiculous, but sometimes I like to pretend it’s true.
    â€œCharlie,” she says, putting both hands on my cheeks, rubbing them as if to make sure I’m real. “You are a pleasant sight for this old woman’s eyes.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I ask her.
    She pretends to look hurt. “Now, what kind of a question is that for your grandmother?”
    â€œIt’s just—well, it’s a weeknight. You usually come on Sundays.”
    â€œYour father called and said he was making eggplant parmesan. He knows it’s one of my favorites.” She grins. “Plus,” she says, crossing her arms, “my only grandson just started middle school last week. Those are both good reasons for a