Free The Old Willis Place by Mary Downing Hahn

hadn't quite solved.
    Lissa and I remained at the picnic table, but MacDuff climbed the steps and pawed at the screen door. Mr. Morrison let him in. A few moments later, the computer keys began their soft clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
    Lissa looked at me. "You haven't drunk your lemonade."
    I pushed the glass away. "I told you I wasn't thirsty. In fact, I don't even like lemonade."
    "You should have told Dad. He would've brought you a soda instead."
    "I'm really not thirsty," I repeated. I knew I should say something more, but what? I'd forgotten how to put words together in a clever way, to be funny, to be interesting. Worse yet, I had so many secrets. What if I said something that gave me away?
    Fortunately Lissa was very talkative. In fact, the less I talked, the more she said. She told me about all the places she'd lived before coming to the old Willis place. Clearwater, Florida, had been her favorite—she'd swum every day and walked on the beach and collected seashells and pretty stones almost as clear as glass.
    "Why do you move so much?" I asked her.
    Her face suddenly serious, Lissa fidgeted with a splinter of wood jutting up from the table. "After Mom died," she said slowly, "Dad quit his job and sold our house. He takes part-time jobs so he can write. We stay in a place just long enough for me to get used to it, and then he's off again."
    Lissa sighed and rested her chin in her hands. "I wish we could live in a nice little house somewhere. I'd love to go to school like other kids. Make friends. Live a normal, ordinary life."
    "Me, too." I spoke with more feeling than I'd meant to—or should have.
    Lissa raised her head and looked at me sharply. "Why do you say that? You're not stuck on the farm like me. Even if you're homeschooled, you must have friends in your neighborhood."
    Instead of answering, I ran my finger around the initials I'd carved long ago on the picnic table. "D.A.E."—Diana Alice Eldridge, right next to Georgie's initials. Being stuck on the farm—my brother and I knew a lot more about that than Lissa did.
    "I'm not allowed to be seen with other kids," I told Lissa, rather pleased with the way I'd worded my answer. "I'm breaking the rules just sitting here with you."
    Lissa stared at me, clearly shocked. "Your parents don't let you have friends?"
    I lowered my head and went back to tracing my initials on the tabletop. Lissa must have thought I was very strange. A girl whose parents didn't allow her to have friends—how peculiar, how bizarre, how weird.
    Before I had time to think of an explanation, Lissa leaned toward me, her face solemn. "Do you belong to one of those weird religions? A cult? Is that why you can't associate with other kids? Or go to public school? Or wear ordinary clothes?"
    Even though I wasn't sure what she meant, I nodded. Let her think what she liked about my parents—and their weird religion. As long as it stopped her from asking questions, I didn't care.
    "I bet they don't let you watch TV or go to the movies." Lissa leaned across the table, smiling sympathetically. "They probably don't allow you to wear jeans, either. Or drink sugary stuff like lemonade."
    "The rules are very strict," I said. "You and I will have to be secret friends—"
    Lissa grabbed my hands and squeezed them tight. "Secret friends forever," she whispered solemnly. "Your parents will never see me, never know about me. I promise."
    I let my hands stay in hers till she let them go. It was like being with Jane again, holding hands and sharing things. I wished I could tell Lissa everything about me. But I didn't dare begin. How could I explain things I didn't understand?
    For a while neither of us spoke. That was nice, too, the quiet between us, disturbed only by birds singing. Overhead, the autumn breeze tugged more leaves from the trees and sent them spiraling slowly down around us, yellow and red, as quick as little fish gathering in pools.
    After a while, Lissa smiled at me, cheerful again. "What's