And that’s when I saw it: the tattered blue book on the couch. Well, so much for counting on her for anything. Risa was supposed to be taking care of these boys. Who was Andrew? The baby? And where was their mother? She must be working. “She took Andrew and went,” said the one who had talked before.
One of the little boys mumbled, “Who’re you?” Two pairs of sky-blue eyes stared back at me from the couch. I knocked again, harder, then I turned the handle and peeked in. I could hear the TV, but no one answered.
I stalked across the hall and knocked on Risa’s door. Would she say that when she found out her book was missing? She might think I had taken it. I ignored that, because an idea was rising in me. I’m sure the two of you are going to be great friends.” And my eyes? Were they green like the sea? I could hardly believe that Risa, who read with her lips, came up with those words that sounded like a poem. My hair, well, it is the color people like to call “dirty blond.” But if you were being really nice, you could say it’s the color of pulled taffy. Green eyes, a misty green like the sea.”įor a moment I sat there, dumbfounded. The next thing I knew, Miss Benson was saying, “Risa tells me you have freckles, and hair the color of pulled taffy. While I read a few poems, a weight gathered in my stomach.
But there was nothing to do, so I picked out a collection of poems. Only the book wasn’t in the wastebasket or on the shelf. I hurried off to the bedroom to get Stories That Never Grow Old. “I’ll get a book,” I said, after we each ate a cookie. This time the blue plate on the table held sugar cookies, creamy white, just beginning to brown at the edges. My good deed was done for the day.Ī few days later, I visited Miss Benson again. When I got to the bookshelf, I found myself wondering: What if Risa comes back on her own? Maybe she’ll read to Miss Benson, and she’ll want this book with easy words. “Well,” I said, standing up, “I’ll come again on Monday.” By myself, I wanted to add, but I said instead, “I’ll put your book away before I go.” “I have to get home to help my mom with dinner.” She hurried out like her feet were on fire. I’d given up reading with my lips in first grade.Īs soon as I’d finished, I knew I was right, because Miss Benson said, “Risa, why don’t you read the next one?” I figured she must not be a very good reader. Risa leaned across the table and started silently shaping the words with her mouth as I read, like she was tasting each one. Miss Benson asked, “What book did you get?” When I told her, she clapped her hands and said, “Perfect!” So I shot Risa a look and started to read. It was a lot of old-timey stories like “The Little Engine That Could.” When I came back with the book, Risa said under her breath, “That one’s for little kids.” I shrugged, but she was right. I found a tall, frayed blue book called Stories That Never Grow Old. I offered to read, so Miss Benson sent me to her bedroom to check out her bookshelf. I could tell by how Risa looked at me that she’d never been near a place like Disney World and that she hated me for saying I’d been there. I told Miss Benson how my parents and I had gone to Disney World over spring break. Risa didn’t like her mom’s job because the boss wouldn’t let her take calls from her children. She told about her three little brothers-there was a baby I hadn’t seen-and how her mom had moved here for a better job. Before I could open my mouth, Risa was off and running. “Tell me about yourselves, girls,” Miss Benson said, pouring lemonade and pushing the plate of cookies toward us. On the table sat a pitcher of lemonade and a big blue plate heaped with oatmeal-raisin cookies. I didn’t know whether to be annoyed at her for being so pushy or relieved that I didn’t have to go in alone. Their hair wasn’t combed either, and their noses were snotty. It would have sounded dumb to say, “I’m a Girl Scout, and she’s my good deed for the summer.” So I said, “To read to her.”īehind the girl, from inside her apartment, a whole lot of noise was going on. “Why are you visiting her?” she wanted to know. “I’m visiting Miss Benson,” I told her, which was perfectly obvious. So the next day I called Miss Benson, and then I set out to meet her.Īs I stood in front of her apartment door, pausing before I knocked, this girl stuck her head out of the door across the hall. “I’ll bet she’d just love it if you’d read to her.” “She’s a retired teacher,” our scout leader said. But I couldn’t let Melody and Anne get more badges than me. The thought of talking to Miss Benson scared me. Muhlenberg, who has four children and always seems overwhelmed. Stengle, the oldest resident of the River Nursing Home. Every girl in my scout troop was assigned someone. M iss Benson was my good deed for the summer.
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