Free The Hidden Summer by Gin Phillips

The grass is thicker and nicer than most of the course—no weeds, just tall, soft green blades. It makes me wish all grass was like the grass on the putt-putt course, that it didn’t grow at all. Then we’d be standing on a carpet-grassed green like on television, and we could lie down and take a nap on it.
    Needing a break, we sit down even though the spot isn’t quite as nice as carpet. We flatten out a patch by making grass angels, then we lie back and catch our breaths. That’s when we notice that you have a perfect view of the airplanes landing and taking off at the airport, which is maybe ten miles away. When we’re flat on our backs, we can see the white underbellies of the planes as they go over us. The Southwest planes look like orange and purple birds gliding through the sky, and when they get close you see their red bellies. They’re by far the most colorful ones. It’s like we’ve found some hidden island where giant, prehistoric birds still live, and we can observe them secretly. I smile at that idea: This white bird-plane is going off to find food for its nest. The next bird-plane is coming home to rest for the night. That last one is going so high and so straight that it just enjoys the feel of flying.
    We shake the grass out of our hair and walk until we come to Hole Six, which is another steep climb. We’re curious if we can see the planes better from here, but instead we’re looking into downtown Birmingham. Just below us, we see the Western Supermarket and the stoplight on 22nd Street. Then lots of flat gray roofs. But past that, the view of the city is breathtaking. I look away from the lights and peer downhill—there’s something about steep hills that makes me want to roll down them. So I do. I lie down and push off, and soon I’m tumbling so fast that everything is a green and blue blur. I keep picking up speed—if I were a boulder on a mountain, I’d be starting an avalanche. If I were an airplane on a runway, I’d be lifting into the air. I shriek and I taste grass in my mouth. Then I’m at the bottom, breathless, my head spinning. It’s like the end of a roller coaster: First of all, I’m possibly ready to throw up. Second of all, I’m thinking I need to do it all over again.
    As I’m sitting up, I hear a thumping sound and a squeal. Lydia is coming down the hill, too. She lands a few feet from me.
    “That was amazing!” she says, still lying sprawled across the ground, her eyes squeezed shut. “Let’s do it again!”
    So we do. And before we know it, the sky has turned orange and pink, and we have to start jogging home. We don’t want to make our moms suspicious on our first day.
    As we head away from Hole Six, we see movement off to our left, close to one of the ponds we haven’t explored. At first I think it’s just a tree in the wind, but then I see a shadow. Not a tree shadow. A person shadow.
    “Lydia,” I whisper.
    She stops and turns back to me. “What?”
    “Over there.”
    “I don’t see anything.”
    She starts walking, but I’m slower to move. I decide Lydia’s talk about some Coke-drinking boogeyman has made me paranoid. We pick up the pace and barely make it back into our own yards before the sun completely sets.

CHAPTER 8
    THE CHEWY CENTER

    As we climb over the crape myrtle and drop down to the golf course on our second day at Lodema, we make a plan. So far we’ve stayed close to the edges of the golf course. If Lodema were a piece of Valentine’s candy, then we’ve only nibbled around the chewy center. It could be caramel or coconut or that disgusting orange crème—we don’t know. So that’s the goal for the day—check out the chewy center and find out what’s in there.
    First we need to visit the putt-putt course and drop off our second batch of supplies. Today I filled my backpack mostly with snacks. Next to my inflatable float/couch, I stack up the food I’ve brought—peanut butter, bread, crackers, dried apples. A big can of peanuts