The rain had dried up – every drip, every puddle – but Hillie couldn't go out while her room was a muddle. Mom had been clear, and her dad had agreed, "First, clean up this room!" ... [+]
The summers aren't so lonely on Plum Island. It's me, the plum trees, the plum birds, and the occasional plum song. Sometimes I miss my studio apartment in the city, my rainy bay windows, my boots with the hole in the heel, my mug that says You Are Awesome in big black letters like a newspaper clipping. But I don't get the newspaper on Plum Island. I just get a bit of plum sun, lay down on the plum sand, write in big plum letters You Are Awesome and watch the plum waves wash the words away.
