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A new boy named Dylan and his parents just moved in. They have a
pet dog and a hamster, too. Mom baked some brownies and gave them to
me to deliver to our new neighbors. Dylan lives in what used to be Ms.
Wellsgood’s house. He is about my age, has regular boy’s hair, and is a
bookworm. Or at least so I was told by Mrs. Herman, who is Dylan’s
mother. When I knocked on the door, the door was answered by Mrs.
Herman, followed by Dylan, who had his long pointed nose in a book. I
could just barely see the title—Daring Expeditions of Christopher Columbus.
Mrs. Herman was unlike any of the other women who lived on Westgate
High with us. Instead of wearing regular jeans and a shirt, possibly with a
sweater, she wore a short, almost knee-length dress that was bright yellow
with red strawberries dotted all over it. It was actually quite a few inches
above her knees, so that I could see most of her bare legs and her bare
feet. I said hello and the other necessary greetings. Blah blah blah. I came
inside, but Dylan still didn’t put down his book. Instead he plopped down
onto a black leather sofa. Mr. Herman was in the study, printing
something (directions I think) out. He was a very tall man, with long
wrinkles on the side of his chin and around on his cheeks. His hair was
thinning, and it was bald at the very top. He wore a white shirt with the
sleeves rolled up and a very dark blue tie with stripes across it, as well as
dark blue pants which matched the tie (excluding the stripes.) Dylan
looked like both parents. His eyes were brown, his nose was pointed (as I
have said before) and his face was the same shape as his parents’. I didn’t
want to say anything, and Dylan’s eyes were glued to the pages of his
book, so it was sort of boring for a few minutes. Then he finally looked
up and was like, “D’ya want to see our backyard?”
THE JOY OF WRITING
66
“Uhhh…sure,” I said, following him out the back door onto their
gigantic patio. Their deck made a big shadow on the patio so it was really
cool under there. And I mean cool both ways. There was a small
whitewashed table with gaps in between the white planks and matching
chairs. It wasn’t there when Mrs. Wellsgood lived there, so I assumed
Dylan’s family purchased it. There were stairs which led up to the really,
really, really sunny deck. But the ABSOLUTE BEST part was the swing.
It was nothing like those normal plastic swings with plastic seats and
chains holding them up in the park. It was old-fashioned, with a rope tied
to their enormous maple tree holding the swing plank up. It was a real
wooden plank as a swing, with real rope holding it up. Dylan had a dog
named Capricorn and a tom cat named Dipper. They didn’t even have
collars!!!! Capricorn was a bloodhound and Dip was a tom cat. Didn’t I
say that before?? Oh yeah. So anyways, Dylan just hoisted himself onto
the swing and started swinging. Unlike me, he could start the swing by
himself. I stared at him.
“Can I come over to your house?” he asked. Without my reply, he
unlatched his yard gate and ran out.
“Wait! Shouldn’t you tell your parents?” I asked, breathless as I caught
up with him. Dylan shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter much,” he said. “Do your parents care? They must
be fusspots like my aunt Louisa.”
“Don’t call them fusspots!” Hot rage over took me. Where in the
world did I learn to write so dramatically? Never mind. Mom always said
that I had the blood of Shakespeare in me.
“Well, if you have to tell them every single time you leave the yard,
they are fully qualified as fusspots,” he said, shrugging again. I gritted my
teeth. I was not going to get anywhere with this obstinate boy.
“Fine!” I ran after him, my temples pounding. WHERE AM I
GETTING THESE WORDS?????!!!!!! I was in hot pursuit of him,
despite my sweat and my torn jeans. Just one more step—and I’d have
him. Except—well, Dylan was nowhere in sight.
Journal of a Pre-teen
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