A Summer of Sundays Read online

  EGMONT

  We bring stories to life

  First published by Egmont USA, 2013

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © Lindsay Eland, 2013

  All rights reserved

  www.egmontusa.com

  www.lindsayeland.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Eland, Lindsay.

  A summer of Sundays / Lindsay Eland.

  pages cm

  Summary: Always lost in the shuffle of her large family, an eleven-year-old girl decides that this summer she’ll make sure she stands out, and a discovery in the library basement may help.

  eISBN: 978-1-60684-413-7

  [1. Family life—Fiction. 2. Self-acceptance—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.E355Su 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012045141

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  v3.1

  To Mom and Dad, Suzanne and Alisa. You four have been there from the very beginning, all the times in the middle, and I will love you until the very end.

  To my Grandma and Grandpa, MomMom and PopPop, Muzzy and PapaGil, and Betsy and Rubble. Not only do your names and your stories grace these pages, but you have also graced my life and filled it to overflowing.

  And finally: to anyone who has ever felt left behind, forgotten, or stuck in the middle—this is for you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgments

  I LIKE the middle of brownies, and the center of a chocolate chip cookie. The gooey middle of a just-out-of-the-oven cinnamon roll is as close to heaven as you can get.

  But being the middle child is no gooey-cinnamon-roll center, that’s for sure. And if someone tells you anything different, well, he’s either a grown-up who wants to make cooked broccoli sound oh-so-delicious or he’s a grown-up and he was an only child. And an only child has no idea what it’s like to be third in line for the bathroom.

  But I do.

  Being the third kid of six, stuffed in the middle, well, you get awful lost, especially when you’re a cookie-cutter cutout of all your siblings. Same muddy-water hair. Same brown eyes. Same little notch in my left ear. Just like all my brothers and sisters.

  I’ve been called the “third of six,” the “third Fowler child,” and the “third girl.” I’ve also been called “May” (the oldest), “Emma” (the second oldest), and even “Butters” (our dog). Then there’s the common, “You’re CJ’s sister,” or “Are you related to Bo?” or “Oh, you look just like your brother Henry.” I’ve been called all those names way more than Sunday Annika Fowler, which is the name my parents gave me almost twelve years ago.

  But really, I answer to whatever. It’s much easier than waiting around until they figure out which one I am.

  Yep, being the middle child is definitely not gooey delicious like cookies or brownies or cinnamon rolls. Being the middle is half in and half out, too young and too old.

  Being the middle is being forgotten.

  But this summer, all that was going to end.

  ALL nine of us—six kids, two adults, and one droopy-eared dog—stood by our big blue van, waiting for Dad to close up the packed trailer and start the car so we could begin the four-hour journey to the barely-there town of Alma.

  Dad had been working there all summer long remodeling the library. Work had been pretty scarce for him, so he had to take whatever he could get, even if that meant moving away from us for a few months. He called every night and sent us pictures of the library as he put in new floors, windows, and trim. We sent him pictures of us right back. But seeing his face on a screen wasn’t the same. His empty seat at the dinner table and the lonely spot in the driveway where his truck was always parked felt like a big gray cloud hanging over us.

  After a month and a half, he called Mom and told her that he couldn’t stand being away from us for one more second. Personally I found that hard to believe. But he didn’t have to sleep in the same room with Emma or hear CJ talking about poop all day or listen to May whine about driving or watch over Henry, so maybe it was true.

  “We’ll spend the end of summer together,” he’d said over the speakerphone. “And you can all help me get ready for the reopening of the library.”

  May and Emma had whined and cried and pleaded to stay behind, then whined and cried and pleaded some more.

  It hadn’t worked.

  Me? I couldn’t wait to go to Alma and work on the library.

  There wasn’t a place I could think of that was more magical than a building bursting with books and stories and words. A place where the quiet was so thick and warm it felt like a blanket. And who knew, maybe in a small town like Alma I’d stick out a little more.

  CJ, Bo, and Henry were just as excited as me, except for a different reason: building a new fort. On the day we were leaving, I watched CJ stow away in his backpack: his walkie-talkies, a length of rope, a small shovel, duct tape, and the beginners carpenter set he’d bought at a garage sale the first week of summer. He’d built a too-small doghouse and an unfinished fence with it, changed the locks on the house, nailed a few windows shut, and now all the closet doorknobs fall off. I had watched as he put his backpack—lumpy and obviously heavy—inside the trailer. From the looks of the laundry on his bedroom floor, he wasn’t planning on changing his underwear or socks very often.…

  May trudged down to the car and gave one last try. “It’s summer vacation, and Mom is supposed to help me learn to drive. I’ll die if I don’t get my license this summer. It’s so not fair.”

  “Well, as far as I can remember, May,” Dad said, tossing a pillow into the backseat, “they do have roads in Alma. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard of ‘death by lack of license’ before. I think you’ll survive.”

  “If you’re going to force me to go against my will, then I refuse to leave without this,” Emma said, setting her precious sewing machine and a box of supplies by the growing stack of suitcases. “But it looks like there’s hardly any room left.

  Dad smiled and picked it up, slipping it in between the seats and giving the white plastic cover a quick pat. “Looks like it fits. Now tell your mom we’ll be ready to leave in an hour.”

  Anxious to get on the road, I dragged one of the suitcases to the trailer, and Bo picked up a smaller one, lugging it after me. “Here you go, Dad,” I said.

  He turned and smiled, taking the suitcases. “Wow, Bo, you sure are strong. Thanks for the help.”

  “I helped, too,” I said, seeing as the suitcase I carried was twice as big and th
ree times as heavy.

  He tugged my ponytail. “I know, Sunday. But Bo’s a lot younger than you and he’s—” Dad glanced over at CJ, who was trying to secret something away in the car. “Oh no you don’t, CJ. You are not bringing that saw. Besides, I have all my tools there. I can cut a board for you.”

  Mom walked up then, catching the end of the conversation. “Cut what? What saw? Do I even want to know?”

  CJ sulked back to the house with the saw, and Dad waved off the incident. I wondered if he had gotten his fill of us already and was rethinking the whole plan.

  But after stuffing suitcases, pillows, our dinner triangle, one dog, six kids, Mom, and anything else my siblings and I managed to cram into the trailer, Dad started up the van and we were off, chugging along down the highway.

  Dad pulled off the interstate two hours later and stopped in front of a gas station. “All right, everyone, I need to check the trailer and fill up on gas. Be back to the car in five minutes. I’d like to get to Alma by mid afternoon.”

  As my brothers and sisters filed into the convenience store to grab candy bars or gum or chips or drinks, I went to the single dirty bathroom outside of the gas station and waited in line. As I finally clicked the lock to the restroom door, I heard my brothers and sisters talking, laughing, and arguing on their way back to the car, and I hoped that someone remembered that I liked Reese’s Pieces the best.

  Then I heard the van doors slide shut and the engine rev up.

  My heart raced.

  Surely they knew I was here, still in the bathroom. CJ would know he had more elbow room than normal. Someone would notice that I wasn’t there to help Henry if he got carsick again. And Bo, well, he’d never forget me. I washed my hands real quick and didn’t even bother to dry them before I opened the creaky door and burst outside. I stared at the spot where the car had been. But looking down the highway, all I saw was the hot, wavy sun bubbling off the surface of the pavement.

  Gulping on gas-fume air, I glanced around the now-empty station trying to convince myself that they’d parked in a different spot.

  No.

  I’d dealt with a lot as the middle child. Cold showers, my name forgotten or mixed up, and last Christmas I’d gone to the bathroom and missed our family picture (I was added in later), but at least I’d never been left behind.

  Until now.

  The realization sank like a rock to the bottom of my stomach.

  I looked back at the highway. Maybe Mom’s cell phone had service now. I fished in my pockets for two quarters, my hands trembling. But all I pulled out was an old, worn tissue and a single penny.

  My heart thunk, thunk, thunked inside my chest. This couldn’t really be happening. It was a dream, just like when I woke up on the first day of fifth grade and thought I’d grown a mustache.

  I’d wake up any minute and find myself asleep in the van.

  Wake up, Sunday. Wake up. Wake up!

  I pinched my arm and winced.

  The hot sun beating down on the blacktop was real, so was the smell of gasoline.

  This wasn’t a dream.

  A lump formed in my throat, and tears stung my eyes.

  Think, Sunday. Think.

  Glancing through the window at the cashier, I thought about asking if I could use the phone. Surely the old lady squinting down at her magazine would let me.

  But I couldn’t. She would ask why I needed to make a call, and then I’d have to tell her, and then maybe she’d call the police or something. Besides, any minute my family would realize what happened and they’d come back. Any minute. Any minute.

  But a few minutes turned into fifteen.

  They’ll come. They’ll come. They’ll come.

  I sat down on a small orange bench outside the gas station, between a wad of slick pink gum and the initials RM + CL = Love. At first I clenched my fists, my fingernails biting into my skin. I imagined what would happen when my family came back full of guilt. My mom would cry and wrap me in a big hug. Maybe my parents would buy me a new book so I didn’t have to borrow one from my sisters. Or maybe they’d let me have two ice cream sandwiches after dinner instead of one, or let me sleep in my own room for a night.

  But as the seconds ticktocked past, the anger dissolved into fear. What if they never came back? Why didn’t they realize I was gone? And what if they were glad I was gone? CJ always complained about not having enough room. Emma would have a spot to prop up her feet now that my head wasn’t in the way.

  My eyes never left the horizon.

  One after another, cars sped down the highway. I held my breath as each one emerged out of the wavy sun, hoping that maybe the next one would be my family. But as each car or truck or van flew past, I struggled to keep tears from sliding down my cheeks.

  A whole two hours later our blue van pulled back into the gas station. I tried to hold back my sob of relief. See, Sunday. They came back. And now they feel awful.

  The door opened and May got out, rushing past me without a glance. I watched her back until it disappeared behind the scuffed bathroom door. I turned and walked to the van, bracing myself for the apologies and tears.

  “I can’t believe we just drove an hour in the wrong direction, Adam,” Mom said. “We’ll barely be able to unpack before it starts getting dark.”

  I stared, shocked. Not a single “We are so sorry, Sunday!” Not even a “We rushed back here as fast as we could.”

  My dad ran his hands through his hair. It wasn’t the first time that he’d driven in the wrong direction. It was hard to pay attention to road signs when he and Mom were breaking up fights between my brothers or negotiating with my sisters. “I guess we got turned around. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

  Mom sighed and leaned her head back.

  My heart dropped in my chest. I tried to think of a way to bring up how they’d left me behind and completely forgotten me. Nothing came.

  I climbed into the van and took my seat on the worn fabric. CJ knocked me with his elbow. “Move over, Sunday. You’re taking up all the room.”

  I pushed him back and scowled. Bo blinked his eyes open, yawned, then lay his head on my shoulder, sinking back into sleep. I looked out the window, the sharp reflection of the sun off the parked cars stinging my eyes. Even Bo had forgotten me?

  “Is May still in the bathroom?” Mom asked, her gaze flickering to me in the mirror.

  I stared back. “Yeah.”

  May dashed back, the smell of watermelon lip gloss following her. Then the door slid shut, my dad shifted the van into first, and we were off.

  No one had noticed that I wasn’t there.

  For two hours I was completely forgotten. It was as if I didn’t exist. As if I’d become one of the extras in the background of a movie … a nobody.

  I didn’t say anything to my parents. I knew they’d feel bad. My mom would probably cry and maybe they would buy me a book or something like that. But I didn’t want a book or an ice cream sandwich or anything else to make it all better. I just wanted to be sure that I’d never be forgotten again. Ever.

  No more mixed-up name. No more being left behind. No more “one-of-the-six.” I needed to do something so that my family would never forget me.

  I looked out the window, blurry green fields rushing past.

  Maybe moving to Alma for the summer would be my chance to do something to stand out.

  Yes.

  After this summer, people would say, “Oh, that’s Sunday Fowler. She’s the one who—” And then they’d say the spectacular thing that I was going to do. Of course, I didn’t exactly know what that was yet, since there wasn’t anything I was spectacular at, but I’d figure it out.

  Maybe I’d deliver newspapers while riding around balanced on top of a unicycle: SUNDAY FOWLER: UNICYCLE NEWSPAPER GIRL.

  There was supposed to be a lake near the town. I could swim across it all by myself: ALMOST-TWELVE-YEAR-OLD FIRST TO SWIM ACROSS GIANT LAKE.

  But whatever I did, the town of Alma would never fo
rget Sunday Fowler.

  And neither would my family.

  “WAKE up, everyone,” Mom called.

  Dad rolled down his window and stuck his arm outside as a warm breeze filtered through the van. “We’re almost there.” In the rearview mirror, I watched his eyes squint into a smile.

  Bo, who had been leaning on my shoulder for the last hour, woke up and rubbed his eyes. Though my arm had fallen asleep a while ago, I didn’t have the heart to nudge him awake. He looked up at me and smiled, his eyes still sleepy and a red line creased across his face where he had pressed his cheek against my shirt.

  “We’re here,” I told him softly.

  Bo was six years younger than me, and ever since he could walk he’d been like my miniature shadow.

  “Sunday,” he’d say, climbing up the ladder to my bed every single night. “Will you read me a book?”

  I never minded.

  I followed his gaze as Dad made a turn onto Main Street. He drove real slow, and for once we were all quiet as we took in our home for the rest of the summer.

  “The library is near a park, and our house is right next to it,” Dad said.

  The street was lined with small stores, most reminding me of my grandparents—wrinkled and droopy with age but still beautiful in their own ways. The biggest dog I’d ever seen bounded down the sidewalk right in front of a thrift store. His massive feet flipped over a big silver bowl and flung water all over the small old lady who clung to his leash as if her life depended on it. Actually it looked like her life did depend on it. He galloped by a few clothing shops, a five-and-dime, a real estate office, and a small restaurant called the Crepe Café. A pretty lady with flowers in her hair flipped over the CLOSED sign on the café and started out onto the sidewalk. She passed by a couple walking hand in hand and a group of kids gobbling down ice cream cones.

  It was the most perfect town I’d ever seen.

  Not like something from Little Women or Anne of Green Gables, but it was just small enough for a middle-of-the-middle child to be noticed.

  Now I just had to figure out how.

  Dad made another turn and drove down a street lined with houses on the left and a wide green park on the right. A man sat on top of a lawn mower, driving through the tall grass like he was on a highway. I didn’t know a lawn mower could move that fast. His stripes zigged and zagged all over the place. He slowed down long enough to tip his hat at our car before he was off again.