Free The Junction of Sunshine and Lucky by Holly Schindler Page A

hankie with her initial or a pretty pocket mirror I bought with my allowance. Just something to let her know I’ve been thinking about her.
    â€œI thought you weren’t doing that anymore,” he says quietly.
    â€œWriting to Mom?” I say. “Of course I am. What would she think when she keeps sending me presents, and I don’t write to her at all?”
    He shakes his head. “It’s just been a while since you’ve given me one of your letters. That’s all,” he says, sliding it out of my hand. “I’ll be sure to send it for you.”

• • • 22 • • •
    A couple of days later, I’m standing in the middle of the street eyeballing our work when Ms. Dillbeck pops out of nowhere to block the sun with her eggplant body.
    â€œI had to come get a closer look,” Ms. Dillbeck says. “You and Gus sure have been working up a storm.”
    I nod, staring at the shutters that are all a different color and the rainbow that swirls around the porch railing. “I’m not exactly the best artist in the world,” I tell her. “In art class, colored pencils and paintbrushes always feel about as natural to me as chopsticks. But I figured I could paint up the front of my house.
That
shouldn’t really take any special talent. Still,” I say as I look up into Ms. Dillbeck’s face, “something’s missing.”
    Behind Ms. Dillbeck’s shoulder, the venetian blinds are parted in Mrs. Shoemacker’s house. Mrs. Shoemacker’s fingers hold the slats open, and her face is pressed into the space between them. When she realizes I’m looking right at her, she lets go of the blinds in a quick snap that makes me flinch.
    â€œI really like your flower boxes,” Ms. Dillbeck says, drawing my attention away from Mrs. Shoemacker’s house as she points to the metal iris and marigolds and long strands of grass that Gus and I made from all the objects in Burton’s boxes.
    I shake my head. “I’m having people over soon, and the house needs to be—
more
.” My stomach falls down between my knees as I stare. “I wanted to fix the place up,” I admit, “but I also wanted the house to say something. About me and Gus.”
    â€œLike what?”
    I sigh. “First, it was that I wanted to show we’re not shabby. Now, though—‘not shabby’ doesn’t seem right. I mean, me and Gus—we’re a lot more than that. Right?”
    â€œSo you don’t just want to patch up a few rotten spots in boards,” Ms. Dillbeck says. “You want to talk with your renovations. Tell a story.”
    I nod, eagerly, because somehow, Ms. Dillbeck seems to know exactly what’s in my heart. “A story about who Gus and I are,” I say, spilling over with excitement. Talking about it makes it all clear:
I want the outside of the house to say something about who we are.
    â€œGet your wagon,” Ms. Dillbeck announces. “I’ve got something for you.”
    Okay, so I’ve lived in Serendipity Place my entire life. But it’s not like I’ve spent a hundred hours inside every one of these houses. If somebody blindfolded me, shoved me into Ms. Dillbeck’s living room, and yanked the blindfold off, I’d have no idea where I was standing. So I don’t know what to expect as I grab the handle of my wagon and follow after her.
    When I step inside her front hall, I’m surrounded by drawings, every single one of them framed.
    â€œYou must have a lot of kids,” I say, pointing at the pictures.
    â€œMy nephew sent those,” Ms. Dillbeck says.
    â€œHe must draw an awful lot,” I say. “What grade is he in?”
    â€œHe’s grown now.”
    â€œAnd he still draws like that?” I ask. Because the pictures on her wall don’t look like anything an adult has done. They look more like something that