Free A Summer of Sundays by Lindsay Eland

who wrote it.
    That would be big news in town.
    News big enough to announce at the party. Big enough for the
Alma Gazette
.
    Big enough for my name to be printed in bold black ink and my picture to be on the front page.
    “All right,” Jude said, interrupting my thoughts. “Let’s start writing the letters. We should send them soon.”
    “Right.” I pulled out a clean sheet of paper. “Dear J. K. Rowling …”

JUDE and I walked along the sidewalks toward town the next morning. He said that on our way to the post office we had to stop and try a crepe at the Crepe Café.
    “They’re the best.”
    “And your mom lets you eat them?”
    He shrugged. “Ms. Bodnar uses organic milk and eggs, so Mom doesn’t mind.”
    “Hmm.” A big, flat French pancake didn’t sound that appealing, but we needed to send off the letters, and I was itching to walk around downtown for the first time.
    But not so itchy that I was going to let May drive Jude and me the few blocks to Main Street.
    “She can’t be all that bad,” Jude said, huffing beside me.
    Just then the van came jerking down the street, heaving forward and back like a wild stallion. It passed us, then stalled. May’s muffled wail erupted behind the windows and I picked up my pace. “I guess that just depends on your definition of ‘bad.’ ”
    Jude wiped the beads of sweat that had collected above his lip and we turned right onto Main Street.
    I gulped down the little town. I’d been at the library for the past week, so I hadn’t had a chance to walk along the streets or glance into any of the shops. The sidewalks were swept clean, handprints and initials stuck forever in some of the cement squares. Flowers hung in pots from light posts, bursting in shades of purple, blue, red, and pink, and swayed gently back and forth. The air was warm but not heavy like it was in the city. It smelled like flowers, grass, and something baking in the oven. The giant dog I had spotted from my seat in the van when we first arrived dashed down the sidewalk, an old man half running, half sprinting after him. It looked like if he dug his heels in the sidewalk and held on, the dog would pull him along and he’d be waterskiing. I could hear him breathing from across the road. “Mr. Castor!” he yelled. “Heel! Heel!”
    “That’s Papa Gil.” Jude said. “He’s married to Muzzy. Their dog is the worst dog I’ve ever seen.”
    “I think I remember him and his wife coming to the library the other day. They brought over a pie. I didn’t get to meet them because Mom and Dad sent me to take down the zip line that CJ had rigged up from the upstairs bathroom before he sent Henry down. Muzzy and Papa Gil? Are those their real names?”
    “No, but that’s what everyone calls them. They own the thrift store over there. My mom said they never were able to have kids, so all the kids in town are sort of like their grandchildren.” He leaned in closer. “And they always have candy.”
    I smiled toward the thrift store window, where clothes hung a little crooked on the cardboard mannequins. When my grandpa was alive, he would always come over to visit on Sunday afternoon. “It’s my favorite day of the week,” he’d say to me, scooping me up in his arms. “ ’Cause you’re my Sunday.” I remember how he smelled like peanut butter and had a deep, rough voice. It would be nice to have a grandpa and grandma nearby, at least for the summer.
    “Here it is,” Jude said.
    We walked into the small café I had spied when we first drove through town. That’s where all the good smells were coming from. It looked like a picture of France I had seen in a calendar once.
    So did the woman behind the counter.
    She wore flowers in her reddish hair and flashed Jude and me a smile as she slid a crepe into a to-go box and handed it to a bulky man whose roly-poly stomach showed just how much he enjoyed her cooking. “Have a good day, Mr. Ryans,” she said, her voice slightly