Free Julian's Glorious Summer by Ann Cameron

Why I Tell Stories
    I am a nice person. I practically almost always tell the truth. I really don’t like making up stories. I only do it when absolutely necessary. That’s the way it was at the beginning of the summer.
    It was the first morning after school got out. I was sitting in our swing, making circles in the sand with my tennis shoe and watching some ants go by. Every last one was in a hurry.
    â€œTake your time!” I said to them. “This is vacation!”
    But they went on running as fast as theycould. They acted like they were all late.
    â€œWhere are you going so fast?” I asked.
    I wasn’t in a hurry. I was happy. My little brother, Huey, was with my dad at his car repair shop. My mother was at her job. I was waiting for my best friend, Gloria. I was thinking how much fun Gloria and I (and Huey, when I let him play with us) would have all summer.
    I was thinking so much, I hardly looked at the street. I almost didn’t see a girl on a blue bicycle going by fast—and when I did, I thought, “That can’t be Gloria!” because Gloria doesn’t have a bicycle.

    The girl on the blue bicycle didn’t stop. She didn’t even look at me.
    That was a relief. It couldn’t be Gloria.
    And then the girl came by once more, a little slower. She had braids just like Gloria’s, flying flat out behind her in the breeze.
    Still she didn’t look at me or stop. So I thought to myself, “It
can’t
be Gloria.”
    But I was worried. I said to myself, “What if it
is
Gloria? What if it’s Gloria’s bike?”
    I decided to go into action.
    I got out of the swing. I stood with my feet as close together as possible, my hands rolled into fists, and my eyes shut tight.
    I kept my eyes shut for a long time, concentrating.
    On the blackness inside my eyelids, I pictured the blue bicycle.
    Then I made my wish, very slowly, out loud, three times.
    â€œLet it not be Gloria’s.
    â€œLet it NOT be Gloria’s.
    â€œLet it not be GLORIA’S,” I said.
    The air, the trees, and the sky were all stamped with my wish.
    I opened my eyes.
    A face was one inch from my face.
    It was Gloria’s.
    She said, “Did anybody call my name?”
    The world came into focus. Behind Gloria, on the grass, I saw a blue bicycle.
    I unrolled my fists.
    I moved my feet apart.
    â€œYour name?” I said to Gloria.
    â€œYes, Julian,” Gloria said. “My name. Also, I think I should tell you, about thirty thousand ants are crawling up the back of your pants.”
    I looked behind me. Sure enough, Gloria was right. I moved away from the ant trail and brushed the ants off my pants.
    â€œI thought I heard my name,” Gloria said again. “I thought I heard you say something really strange. I thought I heard you say ‘Let it not be Gloria’s.’ ”
    â€œOh,
that
,” I said. “I was making a wish.”
    â€œBut weren’t you saying my name?” Gloria persisted.
    I was embarrassed. “Of course not,” I said. “Of course I wasn’t saying your name.”
    â€œWhat were you saying, then, Julian?” Gloria asked.
    It was one of those times when I didn’t want to tell the truth. And just like magic, it came to me—what I could make up.

I Get Out of Trouble
    â€œIt didn’t have anything to do with you,” I said. “I was wishing for a glorious summer. I said, ‘Let it not be glorious.’ It was a reverse boomerang wish. You wish backwards. You say the opposite of what you want. Then what you really want will come sneaking up from behind you.”
    â€œÂ â€˜Let it not be glorious’?” Gloria said.
    â€œThat’s right,” I said. “That was my reverse wish.”
    â€œWell, I hope it works,” Gloria said. “I mean, I hope it comes out backwards, the way you want it to.
    â€œAnyhow,” she said, “it’s too bad you