Turtle in Paradise by Jennifer L. Holm Read Free Book Online Page A

He’s thirsty. He needs to use the outhouse. Now he’s hungry.
    “I’m so hungry I can’t think!” Buddy whines.
    “You can’t think ’cause you ain’t got no brains, Buddy,” Beans says.
    “I got a headache ’cause I ain’t got no food in my belly!” Buddy whines.
    “Come on, let’s go to my house,” Pork Chop says.
    “Mrs. Soldano makes the best
bollos
on Ashe Street,” Kermit tells me. He pronounces it “BOY-ohs.”
    “You better not let Mami hear you say that,” Pork Chop says. “She thinks she makes the best bollos in all of Key West.”
    A sign that says SOLDANO’S announces the little lunch counter that’s set under the porch in front of a house. There’s a man eating a sandwich on a stool.
    “You must be Turtle!” a round-cheeked woman bustling behind the counter says with a warm smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
    “All bad,” Pork Chop says.
    “I hope you children are hungry, because I need someone to try my latest batch of bollos,” Mrs. Soldano says.
    “I’m starving!” Buddy cries.
    Mrs. Soldano places a plate of fried balls of dough in front of us and the boys grab them as fast as they can. I pick one up and take a bite. It’s tasty, all garlicky and spicy.
    “What’s in them?” I ask.
    “Black-eyed peas, garlic, pepper, and a few other secret things,” Mrs. Soldano says.
    “These sure are swell, Mrs. Soldano,” Buddy says, licking his fingers. “But I think I might need to try some more to see if I like them better than the last bunch you made.”
    “You say that every time, Buddy,” she laughs.
    “Say, you win last week, Mrs. Soldano?” Kermit asks.
    “I’ll win this week. I picked good numbers,” she says.
    “Win what?” I ask.
    “The
bolita,”
Mrs. Soldano says.
    “Cuban lottery,” Pork Chop tells me.
    “You’ll still make us bollos when you’re rich, won’t you, Mrs. Soldano?” Buddy asks.
    “Of course, Buddy,” she says.
    Mrs. Soldano makes us lunch—toasted ham and pickle sandwiches on Cuban bread and something called
flan
for dessert. The flan is delicious and creamy.
    When we’re done, she hands a bowl of flan to Pork Chop.
    “Take this over to Nana Philly,” she says.
    “Mami,” he complains, but she just orders, “Go,” and turns to a new customer.
    We walk down Francis Street, stopping in front of a house that looks abandoned. The windows have shutters that have been nailed down with boards.
    “What are we doing here?” I ask.
    “Bringing Nana Philly her lunch,” Pork Chop says. “You think we’d come here for any other reason?”
    I look at the house. “Someone lives in there?”
    “You mean the shutters?” Kermit asks. “They’ve been up for years. She put them up for a hurricane and won’t let anyone take them down. There’re probably a million scorpions living behind them by now anyway.”
    Beans parks the wagon with the sleeping Pudding in the shade of a tree. Then the boys start to walk inside.
    “You just gonna leave him?” I ask. “What if somebody takes him?”
    Beans scoffs. “Who’d want him?”
    “I’m not going in there,” Buddy announces. “You can’t make me!”
    “Oh, Buddy,” Beans says. “She can’t hurt you now.”
    “I don’t care,” he insists, his chin jutting out. “I ain’t going in!”
    “Suit yourself,” Beans replies, and walks in thefront door, not bothering to knock. He calls out, “Miss Bea? You here?”
    No one answers back.
    I follow the boys into a dark parlor. It’s surprisingly cool, with little bits of light filtering in through the shuttered windows. Most of the parlor is taken up by a hulking piano that looks like it’s crumbling in places.
    “Termites,” Kermit says, catching my look. “That piano is crawling with them. I swear this house is going to just collapse around her one of these days.”
    “You can hope,” Pork Chop says.
    “Why doesn’t she just get rid of the piano?” I ask.
    “Her daddy was a wrecker and he saved it from a