Free Love, Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli

it appears above the horizon a little later each week. December 21 is the day I’m aiming for: Winter Solstice. It’s the shortest day of the year, the day the sun turns from its northward path and begins to move south. It’s the official beginning of winter, but in a sense it’s also the true beginning of summer, because from December 21 on, each day will be a little longer than the one before.
    But ancient people were never sure that was going to happen from year to year. They were afraid the light might keep getting less and less and finally disappear. That’s why they had Solstice celebrations, to persuade the sun to turn around and come back.
    I’m going to have a Winter Solstice celebration. I’m going to invite people. Maybe the suspense is gone, but the wonder in Dootsie’s eyes—that’s what I want to share.
             
    July 6
    Three days in a row over 90—it’s officially a heat wave. And it’s worse than Arizona heat. No wonder you moved from Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania heat is not only hot, it’s soggy. It’s like walking around in hot oatmeal. It’s like sitting on a steaming teakettle. It’s…oh, never mind, I can see I’m not getting any sympathy from you.
    So I was cooling off in the library today, sitting at the end of a table, reading poems by Mary Oliver, when I caught a tiny flying movement out of the corner of my eye. And a tiny sound:
plit.
From where I sat I could look up the aisle to where the book stacks ended. It seemed to have come from between two of the stacks. And there it was again, about fifteen feet away, flying out from between the stacks—it looked like a seed—
plit
against the library window. I didn’t need three guesses.
That boy,
I thought.
Perry.
    When the third
plit
came a minute later, I’d had enough. I slammed my book down and stomped up the aisle. There he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor between the stacks, blocking the way, reading a book, sucking on a lemon. I stood there, glaring down at him. At first I thought he was simply ignoring me. As the seconds went by, I became less sure. He seemed totally swallowed up in the book. A sucked-out rind of a half lemon lay on the floor. The other half was moving around in his mouth.
    Frankly, I was surprised he wasn’t reading a comic. It was a real book. Of course, it wasn’t much of a book. It was thin. I couldn’t see the title. This was frustrating to me, because whenever I see somebody reading a book I
have
to see the title. Sometimes when this happens on a train or in a waiting room, I can get downright rude as I try to get into position to see the cover. But first things first. “I know you know I’m standing here,” I said.
    His head jerked up, his blue eyes wide—a perfect imitation of a surprised person. “You win the Oscar,” I said.
    “Huh?” he said, still putting on the surprised act.
    “Never mind. You’re spitting seeds again. It’s one thing outside. This—”
    He spat another one:
pthoo.
    “—is a
library.
” I kicked his foot.
    He kicked me back. I was shocked. It hurt. I snatched the book from his hands. It was called
Ondine.
A play by a French writer.
    He snatched it back. I tried to give him my most wicked stare, which made me feel kind of silly since I haven’t had much practice at that kind of thing. And my stare was wasted anyway, since his nose was back into the book and he resumed his portrayal of the Reader Who Doesn’t Know There’s a Person Standing in Front of Him.
    It occurred to me that there wasn’t a thing left for me to do but walk away. So I did. And came right back and pointed at him and said, “And stay away from Dootsie.”
    He never looked up.
             
    July 7
    I have to say,
Ondine
is just about the last thing I would expect that kid to be reading. It’s a play about a girl who is not just a girl, she’s something like a mermaid. We might call her magical or fantastic, but I think more than anything else she is simply human.