Free My Life as a Book by Janet Tashjian

ICE CREAM .”
    Dad shakes his head sadly. “I’m not sure Learning Camp has even dented your reading issues.”
    â€œMight as well take a look while we’re here.” Mom grabs her purse and crosses the street.

    As excited as I am, I’m also anxious. Suppose Lauren Hutchins isn’t here today? Even worse, suppose she is here, recognizes me as the kid who killed her best friend, and becomes a raging lunatic? Worse than that , suppose nothing happens and I’ve spent my summer obsessed with something that doesn’t have any meaning at all.
    As we walk toward the large barn, I wish I were doing anything else—even reading. I slip the leash on Bodi and bring him along for good luck.

Tongue-tied
    As Dad checks out leatherbound notebooks, Mom tries on handmade fleece jackets. I quietly make my way from booth to booth until I see Hutchins Designs. I pull Bodi behind a tall CD rack made of twigs and check out Lauren Hutchins. Her long brown hair is in dreadlocks, tied back with a large woven scarf. She wears yoga pants and a tie-dyed hoodie. Her earrings are made with feathers and tiny silver beads; several variations of the same design fill the display case beside her. Before I can assess the situation, she spots Bodi.

    â€œCome here, fella. Come on.” She bends down and gestures to Bodi, who immediately goes to her. When I stop hating girls and start wanting to date them—twenty or thirty years from now—I’m definitely taking lessons from Bodi. My dog makes out with more pretty girls than any hunky doctor on TV.
    â€œWhat’s his name?” Lauren asks.
    â€œBodi.”
    She continues to scratch his head and eventually looks up at me. “You here to buy a present for your girlfriend?”
    Her ridiculous comment makes me even more nervous than I already am. I tell her no and pretend to look at the jewelry. I pick up a leather necklace with shells and a few feathers.
    â€œFeathers are good luck, did you know that? Birds were considered messengers from the gods.”

    For the life of me, I can’t spit out one word that makes sense. When she points to my T-shirt and asks if I skateboard, all I can do is nod yes. To make matters worse, my father strolls over, quietly checking out Lauren’s work as if he’s some kind of jewelry expert. Please go, I want to say. This is hard enough without you here . To complicate things, my mother comes by too.

    â€œDid you and Bodi find a new friend?” My mother smiles at Lauren as she checks out her wares.
    I want to cover myself in one of the woven blankets in the next stall and hide until our vacation is over. Lauren looks at each of us with an expression of friendly confusion, as if she’s trying to figure out who we are and why we’re there. I read your guestbook entry, I want to say. We were both there when Susan James died. My scheme to tie up this summer mystery now seems like a giant mistake. When my parents move to the pottery display down the aisle, I follow along behind them. I glance over to see Lauren Hutchins one more time, but she’s helping an elderly woman try on a bracelet and doesn’t look up.
    Back in the car, my father makes my mother feel the soft leather cover of the new sketchbooks he bought for both of us. I sit in the backseat and fume about how I just blew my big chance with Lauren. I gather all the strength I have and tell my parents a straight-out lie.
    â€œI left my book inside,” I say.
    â€œYou took it in with you?” my mother asks.
    â€œYes, and I left it on one of the tables. I’ll be right back.” I jump out of the car and hope for one last chance at hearing Lauren’s story firsthand.

The Truth Is Never What You Think
    When I race back to Lauren’s stall, she’s sitting on a stool, reading. I take a deep breath and dive in.
    â€œI saw your entry on Susan James’s Web site,” I begin.
    She tilts her head.