Free The One-in-a-Million Boy by Monica Wood Page B

she skipped over with a shudder—but most of them weren’t. “This Wong fellow mows his own lawn. He could be a problem.”
    The boy said, “Maybe we can think up a record to hold your place till you get older.”
    â€œYou mean in case I don’t make it.”
    His eyes flew open. “No! That’s not what I meant!”
    She believed him.
    â€œOldest sky diver is taken. Plus oldest pilot. Plus oldest showgirl.” He frowned. “But the record holders are way younger than you. Are you interested in breaking a record that has already been set?”
    â€œNot without a bone transplant.”
    He ticked off a preposterous list of possibilities—wing walking, pogo-sticking—and at the end Ona could think of no plausible record for herself except Oldest Woman to Have Sat Around Wasting What Turned Out to Be Seventeen Years After Louise Died.
    â€œYou’re thirty-six days older than when I first met you,” the boy said, setting up the recorder.
    â€œDitto.”
    He peered out the window. “Can you hear those?”
    â€œNo,” she said ruefully. She could see them—goldfinches quarreling—but their music was beyond her hearing.
    His face filled with sympathy. Then he said, “I need six more birds for my badge.”
    â€œSpring is nigh. You wait.” She smiled at him, lightheaded with sudden affection. He was so young, and for that alone she liked him.
    â€œIs that your car out there?” he asked.
    â€œOf course that’s my car.” Randall’s old Reliant. “Who else’s would it be?”
    His eyes moved to her, pinning her in place. He had something.
    â€œDoes it work?”
    â€œIt most certainly does. I have it inspected and registered once a year. A man from the Knights of Columbus takes it to the service station for me, since I was unable to renew my license last time I tried and I can’t sashay into a car-inspection establishment with an expired license in my wallet.”
    â€œOh,” he said. “Darn.”
    â€œThat’s not the word I used.”
    â€œI thought you might be a driver. A car driver.”
    â€œI didn’t say I wasn’t a driver. I said I didn’t have a license.” She leaned in. “Because of my age I was required to take a road test, and the sixteen-year-old tester flunked me.”
    â€œMaybe he made a mistake.”
    â€œI told the church ladies I passed.” She hoped he wouldn’t mind. “I told a fib.”
    â€œI told a fib, too,” he said. “I told my dad I like music. But I don’t. There’s too many chords, and it’s hard to keep your fingers in the right place.”
    â€œNow listen,” she said. She straightened up and sang a few bars of “Beautiful Dreamer.”
    â€œThat was excellent, Miss Vitkus.”
    â€œSee there, you do like music. It’s musical instruction you dislike, and I can’t say I blame you.” She tapped his ghostly hands. “In any case, I drive my car one and a half miles to the supermarket and back once a week, same route every time.”
    â€œThat sounds very safe.” His sweet mouth softened.
    â€œTell it to the nosey parker down the street. You know what a Realtor is?”
    â€œA Realtor is a person who sells houses.”
    â€œWell, this Realtor is a person who
snatches
houses. You see her picture on lawn signs all over town. Lime-green blazer, high red hair. She’s dying to sell this place out from under my creaky old feet and watches my every move like a cat watching a mouse.”
    â€œDoes she have a pink face?”
    â€œThat’s the one.”
    â€œDon’t let her sell your house out from under your creaky old feet.”
    â€œDon’t you worry.”
    The color of his eyes did its odd shifting, gray to blue-gray; it was one of the first things she’d noticed about him. “Mr. Fred Hale, age one hundred eight,