The Great Good Summer by Liz Garton Scanlon Read Free Book Online Page B

about both Lucy and Paul being soft and nice to me that makes everything feel even sadder, and two heavy streams of tears wash down my face. When I look up at Paul and then out across the park, at the hill and the playgrounds and the little kid learning to ride his bike, it all blurs and stings, and even though I want to, I don’t quite know how to stop.
    So I talk straight through the tears. “Well, she’s not missing exactly, but we don’t have the foggiest idea where she is.” And then I cry some more.
    â€œIvy have mom?” asks Lucy.
    â€œIvy does have a mom,” says Paul, “and we should go find her.”
    That’s really what he says. “We should go find her.”
    Which makes my tears just up and stop, pretty suddenly. I look back at Paul and see him, truly, clear as day.
    We should go find Mama? I’ve been waiting for Daddy to go find her, ever since she left, but me? Me and Paul?That’s something that never, not even once, occurred to me. So much for me being an idea girl.
    I wipe my eyes, swallow the feeling-sorry-for-myself stuff, and say, “Um, what? Paul? Seriously?”
    â€œYeah,” he says. “Seriously.” And then he smiles.

    I agree to meet Paul at the church steps in a couple of hours, on my way home from the Murrays’. Which is kind of embarrassing, because once you set a time and a place, it could technically be considered a date. I figure someone will see us and the word will spread, and we all know what Abby’s gonna have to say about that.
    There’s no such thing as a secret in Loomer. Pastor Lou even put that on the marquee outside of church once, and then he gave a sermon about it, about how we’re all naked in God’s eyes.
    â€œAmen, brother,” everyone said. “Aaa-men.” Like it was a good thing. But as I roll into the parking lot of Second Baptist on my bike, I think, Why on earth would we all be okay with God seeing us naked? Especially when Pastor Lou also preaches that we’re supposed to be modest and everything.
    I swear, religion makes less sense every day. It’s no wonder Mama’s taken to acting so funny, when you thinkof all the messages she’s gotten over the years, from Pastor Lou and Hallelujah Dave and her very own daddy. She’s spent her whole life long listening to bossy, confusing religious folks tell her what to do.
    I lock my bike to the side fence and walk past the marquee on my way to find Paul. Today it reads, THE ONLY BUSINESS WE OUGHT TO PAY ATTENTION TO IS OUR OWN.
    Which I take to mean that maybe some secrets aren’t so bad after all.

    Paul actually looks better than he looked a while ago at the park, like his cold just cleared right up. And don’t take my word for it, because it’s a matter of opinion, I’m sure, but there is something kind of cute about Paul Dobbs. Or maybe I’ve just been seeing so much of him, he’s grown on me. But whatever. Here’s the thing:
    He doesn’t look like a science guy or a jock or a God-head or a skater. He doesn’t wear glasses. His hair isn’t supershort, but it isn’t really long either. He’s not all muscley or superscrawny, and his T-shirts don’t say anything to give him away. He’s just Paul, which either makes him sort of plain or makes him a genuine mystery—I’m not sure which. But I kind of like it.
    And, this is interesting. His hair is the exact color of mine, but I wouldn’t call his mousy, even though that’s always what I’ve called mine. It’s prettier than mousy, if you can call a boy’s hair pretty—more like caramel, which makes me hate my own hair less.
    Mama would say, “My mercy, Ivy Green, you fixate on the littlest things when we’ve got God’s great big world to pay attention to. Head out of the clouds, little missy. Head out of the clouds.” (Even though Mama fixates on her own hair