That was my plan, anyway. I was going to do something. Finish something. Prove to my mother—andJoethe rest of the island—that I was a competent adult.
“How do I do that?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted cheerfully.
Her laugh floated over the sink like a soap bubble.
“In the meantime,I’mglad you’re here,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Right. More child labor.”
“Well, sure,” I said. “And we’re kindred spirits.”
“What?”
I tried again. “Bosom friends?”
“Ew.”
“Like Anne Shirley and Diana Barry.”
“You do know I have no idea what you’re talking about, right?”
“Anne of Green Gables?”
“Was that on Netflix?”
“It was. But before that it was a book. A whole series of books.”
“Okay, teacher.”
“And now that we’re going to be friends—bosom friends—” I grinned.
“Again, ew.”
“I can loan them to you.”
“I can hardly wait,” she said. But she was smiling.
I felt a familiar swell of excitement. This was what I did best, putting the right book in the right hands. Every child needed a story to fall into, a soft place to land.
Maybe I did, too.
11
Anne
I could not, after all,let my copy ofAnne of Green Gablesout of my hands. My father gave it to me. What if Hailey didn’t return it? It would be like Mom throwing away his slippers, like losing another piece of my dad. But I found the first Anne book at the island bookstore, and Hailey borrowed the second from the library.
“You love them!” I crowed when I caught her reading during a break. “I knew you would!”
“Let’s not go crazy.” She shoved the book into her apron pocket.
“But…” I nudged.
An almost smile. “They’re all right.”
Her admission hugged my heart. The best part of teaching—better than snow days or the funny things kids said—was that click, that buzz, when my students responded to a new book or idea.
