Free Sun & Spoon by Kevin Henkes Page B

mainland and the island.
    â€œAlice?”
    The sensation passed as quickly as it had come. “Beautiful,” Alice finally said, relieved. “I wonder who’ll see the first dolphin this year.”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Alice’s father, “but there’s the first pelican.” He pointed. To the left of the car and not much higher glided a big, drab, knobby bird.
    â€œThey look prehistoric to me,” said Alice’s mother.
    Alice concentrated entirely on the pelican. The bird was so odd and silly looking, a mysterious, mesmerizing wonder. Alice reached out, pressing her palms flat against the half-opened window. She’d seen pelicans before, every year that she had been here, but when you see something only once a year it’s always new, as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Everything is new here, she thought. New and exciting.
    The pelican plunged out of sight, and Alice’s mind drifted back to the feeling she’d had. She was somewhat superstitious and wondered if the feeling meant that something bad was going to happen. She tried to shake the thought out of her head. She was hoping that this would be the best trip she’d ever had. They would be celebrating her birthday on this trip. In a few days. This, alone, wasn’t unusual—her birthday always came during their annual vacation—but what made this year special was that this would be her most important birthday yet. Ten. Double digits.
    â€œHeron to the right,” her mother announced.
    â€œIbis!” said her father. “Straightaway.”
    â€œSeagull!” said Alice, sinking into a warm, cozy happiness. “Over there. And over there and over there and over there . . .” Her voice was bubbling with laughter.
    Minutes later, they were on land, the island. This was Alice’s tenth trip to Sanibel Island in Florida. Her family always came in February when it was cold and dreary back home in Wisconsin. Just this morning they’d left behind three inches of new-fallen snow, icy winds, and a leaden sky.
    Alice was thinking that the sky in Florida—so blue and transparent—was better than the sky in Wisconsin. “Blue, bluer, bluest,” Alice whispered.
    The palm trees, the lacy pines, the bright unfamiliar flowers, and then the town unrolled before her. Everything seemed illuminated, and glazed or made of glass.
    Alice was an only child, as were her parents. All four of her grandparents were dead. Her family was small, but in Florida she pretended that her family was big. She pretended that the people who stayed in the neighboring cottages on the beach, the people who returned at the same time each year as she and her parents did, were part of her family.
    The Wishmeiers and their grandchildren; Helen Blair; ancient Mr. Barden; and Alice’s mother’s college friend, Kate. They were Alice’s big family. They didn’t exactly look like they all belonged together the way some families did, but Alice didn’t mind.
    Alice had a pale, watchful face. She had straight brown hair and brown eyes and a brown spot the size and shape of an apple seed near the corner of her mouth. The spot was a mole, but Alice hated the word mole and referred to it as a speck. She hated the speck, too, and had decided she’d have it removed when she was old enough to make decisions like that without her parents’ permission. Her parents repeatedly told her that it was called a beauty mark and that it made her extra pretty, and that one of her great-grandmothers had paid to have fake beauty marks, which she’d kept in a little tin box on her dresser and wore when she wanted to be fancy.
    Neither of Alice’s parents had moles on their faces, but they did have straight brown hair. Her father was an architect and his name was Tom. Her mother worked in an art gallery and her name was Pam. Alice thought her parents’ names suited them. Tom,