Free Finding Grace by Becky Citra Page B

you-know-where. One of the tires keeps going flat and I have to go to the gas station every few hours to get it pumped up. And the chain falls off unless I pedal really fast.
    And there is no sign of Grace.
    I make a loop, up along the main road beside the lake as far as the beach and then back on some of the little side roads, which are quiet and away from the lake and the tourists. I do this twenty times in a row.
    The whole time, I’m thinking I might have made a big mistake about Grace. Maybe she and her great-aunt don’t live in Harrison Hot Springs at all. Maybe they just come here every year on her birthday and have her picture taken.
    There’s one way we could find out. We could ask Daphne. You can bet she knows everyone in this village.
    I suggest this over cheeseburgers at the Top Notch. Daphne is in the back talking to Fred and can’t hear me, but I whisper anyway.
    Mom says no. She doesn’t want Grace to find out that people have been asking about her. She says it might scare her. She says there’s a good chance Grace doesn’t even know she’s adopted.
    That brings us to the big question. “If we find her, are we going to tell her who we are?” I ask Mom.
    Mom doesn’t answer me for a long time. “I don’t know,” she says finally.

    â€¢ • • • •

    When I’m not riding around on the bike looking for Grace, I swim in the outdoor pool or read my Nancy Drew books in the lounge. We came on Sunday, and by Thursday I’ve read both my books over again and I’m desperate for something new.
    That’s why I screech the bike to a halt, spraying gravel, when I spot a sign in the window of a brown building on one of the back roads. I’ve been pedaling pretty fast so the chain won’t fall off, which is probably why I didn’t notice it before. It says Fraser Valley Regional Library .
    A bigger sign on the front of the building says Harrison Hot Springs Municipal Hall , which I think means that this is where the people who look after all the village’s business work.
    I lean my bike against a fence and go inside. There’s a room with some tables and chairs, and a rack full of different colored pamphlets. A typewriter is clacking away through an open doorway. There’s another door, closed, with a card tacked to it that says:

    LIBRARY
    Hrs. Mon-Thurs. 11:00 to 3:00

    It’s two o’clock on Thursday. I almost decided not to make that last loop on my bike because it’s hot today, a gazillion degrees, and I don’t want to miss the complimentary tea at the hotel. For once, luck is with me. If I hadn’t gone around one more time and found the library today, I would have had to wait until next week.
    I’ve never been to this kind of library before and I’m not sure if you’re supposed to knock, but in the end I just walk in.
    The library is all in one room. There are some metal shelves crammed with books and a table with magazines and newspapers on it. A man is sitting at a desk. He smiles at me and says his name is Mr. Trout and is there anything he can help me with.
    Of course I know that you’re supposed to have a card to borrow books and that librarians are strict about that and can be very mean if you forget your card. But Mr. Trout looks nice and not mean at all.
    I take a deep breath. “I’m staying at the hotel and I was wondering if I’d be allowed to borrow a book, just one, because I’m desperate and I promise to bring it back on Monday because I am a very, very fast reader.”
    Mr. Trout’s eyes twinkle and I’m right, he is nice. He says, “You look like an honest person. I don’t see why not. A weekend can be an eternity without anything to read. How about two books?”
    He shows me where all the kids’ books are at the back of the room. I always like to read the first three pages of a book before I decide to take it. Since I’m