Seventeen Against the Dealer by Cynthia Voigt

Author:Cynthia Voigt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers

CHAPTER 13

The alarm cut through the darkness like a spotlight suddenly turned on. Dicey was up and dressed, washed and fed, and out the door, with the day’s work outlined in her head, before anyone else stirred in the silent house. She rode her bike through filmy gray predawn light. Air sounds were all she could hear—the whirring of air through the tires of the bike, the rush of air by her ears.

She had figured out a way to work on all four of the rowboats at the same time. Maybe. If she moved the low wooden rack at the center of the floor over to the worktable—and she wasn’t using the worktable, so it didn’t matter whether the space around it was clear—if she spread out plastic sheeting to protect the cement—she should have room for all four of the rowboats on the floor of the shop. If she had all four spread out, she would waste less time waiting for a coat of paint to dry. If she painted the ones nearest the stove first, then the heat would make them dry faster. A good morning’s work, that was what she needed.

A good morning’s work was what she put in, band after band of paint streaking off her brush. When she finally straightened up—it was early afternoon, to judge by the messages her stomach was sending her—the insides of all four boats had been painted with their first coats. The two by the stove were still slightly tacky to her fingertips, and she decided she’d go home, have lunch, and then maybe bring the truck over after a couple of hours, so she could drive home when she was finished for the day. Maybe she’d bring Maybeth, too, to help her flip the boats; that would make more sense, having Maybeth to help turn them over and shift them around.

In the meantime she could write Jeff, a long letter, the kind of long letter that felt as if she was talking to him. Since she couldn’t actually talk to him she’d write—which cost a lot less, anyway. She hadn’t talked to Jeff since—it was only two weeks, she figured it out, but it felt much longer.

Gram was in the kitchen when Dicey got home, Gram sitting down for once, with a teapot, a mug, a jar of honey and a lemon, and a thick book. Dicey was too hungry even to toast the bread for her peanut butter sandwich. “What’re you reading?”

“Dickens. What are you doing home?”

“A coat of paint is drying. It’ll take another couple of hours. Is Maybeth here?”

“She went shopping, up to Salisbury, a gaggle of them—somebody’s having a sale and somebody else has some money. You know how girls are.”

Gram knew perfectly well Dicey didn’t know how girls were, and, furthermore, Gram knew Dicey knew she knew that. “How about you?” Dicey asked. “How are you feeling?”

“Not worse,” Gram said, “and that’s something these days. I think I’ve broken the back of this cough.”

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