Free Birds of Summer by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

mentioned it in any way, and after a while she stopped watching to see if he was going to treat her any differently. If anything had changed at all, it was just that she thought she noticed more times when he did his “private message” bit with her, catching her eye when something was significant or funny—like the time he asked if anyone had read “The Highway Man,” and Brownwood said he’d read the first few chapters.
    Summer turned sixteen on the last day of the month, and that was a change for the better. It seemed like growing up had been taking forever, and she’d been anxious to get on with it for as long as she could remember. There was another small change for the better, too, during that last month of school. Sparrow finally quit begging to go to the Fishers’. At first when Oriole started going there every day, Sparrow wanted to go along, but after a while she had given up. The fierce dog and Jerry’s bad mood and even Angelo and Bart hadn’t discouraged her, but what did make a difference was the fact that Oriole, who was now in a position to know, said that Marina had not come home—and Sparrow believed her.
    Summer was glad she no longer had to watch Sparrow to keep her from sneaking off up the hill; but at the same time it worried her a little that, at the age of seven, Sparrow still believed everything Oriole said. At seven Summer had already known better for quite a while.

6
R OSE EARLY AND OFF down the road to catch the early coach. The weather, which has been unseasonably cold, has turned fine, and I greatly enjoyed the brief communion with nature that the walk provided. Having arrived at my place of employment, I set about my customary duties and the day progressed normally until, during my noontime repast, when my employer …”
    “O KAY! OKAY CERBE! COME find me.”
    Cerbe, who had been sitting obediently at the foot of the trailer steps with his head cocked and his ears twitching, leaped to his feet and dashed around the corner. A moment later there was a sharp bark, a delighted squeal and Sparrow appeared, skipping happily with Cerbe gamboling beside her. “He found me. He found me, Summer. I was hiding behind the watertank, and he just sniffed right across the yard and found me, as quick as anything.” She threw her arms around the dog’s neck and hugged him so enthusiastically she tipped them both over. On his back, with his big feet waving in the air, Cerbe growled with mock ferocity, grabbed Sparrow’s skinny little arm in his huge jaws and held it very gently while she squealed with excitement.
    “Look, Summer. Cerbe’s biting me. Don’t you want to see how Cerbe’s biting me?”
    Summer sighed. “Do I have a choice?” she said. Closing her binder and putting her pen behind her ear, she leaned back against the trailer’s screen door and turned her full attention to the dusty battle at her feet. “You’re getting filthy,” she said mildly.
    “I know.” Sparrow got to her feet and made an ineffectual attempt to dust off her jeans. “Hide-and-go seek is a filthy game. What are you writing, Summer?”
    “Nothing. I’m not writing anything. I gave up. It’s hard to write at a wrestling match.” Actually, she hadn’t stopped just because of the noisy game. If she were really into writing, it took more than Sparrow’s chatter to spoil her concentration. Part of it was probably the weather. “What is so rare as a day in June,” Pardell had recited last week on the first day of June; and today was another rare one—soft and green and golden, and so alive with growth you could almost hear it. Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes and let her mind drift. The writing could wait. She wasn’t going to turn it in anyway.
    Pardell had given the assignment, an extra credit one for people who needed to improve their grade, in connection with a project on journal writers. He’d started by reading excerpts from the writings of people like Franklin and Pepys and