YA The Boy on Cinnamon Street by Phoebe Stone Read Free Book Online

go out, they always drink French wine and they go on and on about the woody barrel flavors and the overtones of boring fruity peelings. Meanwhile they’re both getting red in the face and rowdy in a senior kind of way.
    Grandpa wants to make reservations at the sushi restaurant, but before he does, he wants to know what the restaurant looks like. He wants to check it out in person. It’s a new place that just opened up in, you guessed it, North Pottsboro.
    Because I have no conflicting appointments (how unusual), I accept their invitation to go along. As we walk in the mall entrance, Grandma and Grandpa are holding hands again and I’m pretending to whistle and look at the floor. Being small and short, I usually see a lot of the floor anyway. I’m always the first to spot knotholes, nicked nails, and stuck bubble gum. A valuable asset. Ha ha.
    Then suddenly we pass by my dream store. It’s called My Princess Prom and this store was created just for me. Whoever made this store knew me and knew I would die and go to heaven every time I walk in there. If Reni and I were billionaires, we would buy every single dress they have.
    But the problem is not the dress. The problem is the guy. Which brings me back to the letter and the pink chalk heart on my doorstep. I mean, I have to admit I do have a tingly hopeful feeling because of this. I wouldn’t describe it as happy because, since last year and what happened, that word is not part of my daily vocab. I guess the best word to describe all this is confused .
    “Louise,” goes my grandma. She smiles and spins around as we stop in front of My Princess Prom. “Louise, wouldn’t it be fun to go in there? You could try on some dresses. We could buy you one. What do you say, Grandpa?” Sometimes when my grandma talks to my grandpa, her voice goes up a notch higher than usual and she tries to look all cute and helpless around him. And my dumb grandpa falls for the act every time.
    I smile at the store and nod at my grandma and grandpa in a very approving way. So we walk in the door of My Princess Prom. Then my cell phone rings. I look at my grandma and she shrugs her shoulders, so I answer it. “Hey ho, Reni,” I say.
    And Reni goes, “You are never gonna believe this. I was in the school library earlier and guess who I saw?”
    “Who?” I say.
    “Who do you think? Benny McCartney! He was sitting there so sweetly filling out a form, and guess which hand he was writing with?”
    “His left hand?” I say.
    “No, his right hand,” says Reni. “Benny’s a righty! He’s a righty.”
    “Oh no, I can’t believe this,” I say. “I have to sit down. I feel dizzy. I’m at My Princess Prom with my grandparents. They’re gonna buy me a dress.”
    “Perfect,” says Reni. “Couldn’t be better. You’re going to need that dress. Buy it for Benny. He’s going to love it.”
    “Fine,” I say. “Okay. I think.”
    When we get off the phone I look up and the dresses seem to swirl around me, ribbons and lace and silky flowers. My mom used to like to wear pretty fluffy dresses. Blue was her favorite color. Not a dark blue but a pale blue. An eggshell blue, faint and breakable like a morning sky.
    I believe I have already mentioned that I am, uh, immature-looking for my age? I am thirteen, but I usually have to look in the children’s department for clothes. Kids who are big want to be small, and kids who are small want to be big. Trust me. I know. I’m small and I hate it. Because teachers think I’m in fourth grade and guys look right over my head, thinking I’m somebody’s twerp little sister. The fact that Reni is very big and I am very small causes her dad to call us Abbott and Costello, these two stupid not-funny comedians from a hundred years ago. Ha ha.
    I guess I should have stayed on the gymnastics team because there my small size is what my grandma calls “an asset.” She goes, “Oh, we all have to learn to use our ‘assets.’ The fact that I’m