Free Dreamsleeves by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

Mike.
    â€œSure, Dad.” I try to sound happy. “That’d be great.”
    â€œAll right then,” he says. “Get that laundry done today, will you?”
    I take my class on a field trip walk up behind the outhouse, near the swing set. I teach them the names of the flowers, just like my mom taught me — white Queen Anne’s lace, blue cornflowers, yellow buttercups, purple thistles — it’s a good way to teach Dooley and Eddie their colors, too. I point out wild strawberries almost ready to pick and some other round, shiny red berries. “Don’t ever, ever touch these. They are poisonous.”
    Back in our classroom, we do art, coloring pictures of the flowers we saw. I tape their pictures up so they dangle down from the hubcaps. “You are Picassos and Michelangelos,” I say, “Monets and Degases.”
    Beck and Callie giggle at the sounds of these foreign names. Eddie peels the wrapper from a purple crayon. “No, Eddie,” Dooley says, taking it away from him.
    When I walk down to the mailbox that afternoon, Eddie in my arms and Dooley nearly tripping me when he bends to retrieve one of his Matchbox race cars, there is something spectacular in the mailbox.
    A letter for me?
    No. Something better.
    An invitation!
    Sue-Ellen Dandridge is having a thirteenth birthday party. Oh, why does it have to be her? A pool party at her parent’s club, the Valleyview Country Club, on Saturday, July 24, from two until five P.M . “Hot Dogs and Hamburgers will be served. And cake and ice cream, of course! Wear a suit and bring a towel. RSVP by July 18 to Mrs. Rodney Dandridge III at ASH-4745.”
    My heart is pounding. Oh, how I’d love to go to a pool party. But Snoop-Melon? Ugh … Why does it have to be that girl? Not that my father will let me go anyway. Eddie tries to pull the invitation from my hand.
    â€œNo!” I shout too loudly. His lips pucker, about to cry.
    â€œSorry, E,” I say, kissing his fat cheek. “It’s mine.”
    The telephone’s ringing upstairs.
    â€œGo, go, go,” Dooley shouts, and sends his favorite red Matchbox car zooming down the sloped concrete walkway that runs along the side of our house.
    â€œCome on, Dooley,” I say, reaching for his hand. “The phone.”
    â€œWait,” he says, watching his car race away, his face all lit up excited.
    The little red car grows smaller and smaller as it races down the hill then vaults off the top step of the staircase that leads to the sidewalk and road below and is gone. The phone keeps ringing. D pulls my hand. “Come on, A. Let’s get it!”
    â€œNo, D, the phone.” It might be Mike or Maizey . “I’ll get your car later. Come on!” I take his hand and yank him along, him crying and protesting.
    I rush up the steps, across the porch, and into the house, plunk Eddie into his crib, and then pick up the receiver. D and E are both crying now.
    â€œA! It’s me.”
    Maizey . Finally. Maybe she’s coming over.
    â€œGuess what?” she says.
    â€œWhat?” I say, panting and sweating, trying to catch my breath.
    â€œSue-Ellen’s parents are inviting our whole class to a boy-girl birthday party , at their country club, which is absolutely beautiful, let me tell you. Isn’t that something?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “I just got my invitation.” B and C are giggling in the living room, still side by side on the couch, watching the TV show I turned on for them before I went down to get the mail.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Maizey says. “We’ll make up something.”
    The “we” makes me feel good. Maizey means we will have to think up a story so that my dad will let me go to the party. If he hears that boys are invited, he won’t let me go. My heart is pounding. Maybe Mike will be there. I have to go! But I don’t have a decent bathing suit. And what if my