Chasing Jupiter - Brossura

Coker, Rachel

Brossura

ISBN 10: 0310743370 ISBN 13: 9780310743378

Casa editrice: Zondervan, 2013

Riassunto

Scarlett Blaine’s life in 1960s Georgia isn’t always easy, especially given her parents’ financial struggles and the fights surrounding her sister Juli’s hippie lifestyle. Then there’s Scarlett’s brother, Cliff. While she loves him more than anything, there’s no denying his unique behavior leaves Cliff misunderstood and left out. So when he wishes for a rocket to Jupiter, Scarlett agrees to make it happen, no matter how crazy the idea might be.

Raising the rocket money means baking pies, and the farmer’s son, Frank, agrees to provide the peaches if Scarlett will help him talk to Juli. The problem is, Scarlett really enjoys her time with Frank, and finds herself wondering if, someday, they could be more than friends. Just as she thinks everything might be going her way, Cliff suffers an accident that not only affects the rocket plans, but shakes Scarlett’s view of God. As the summer comes to an end, Scarlett must find a way to regain what she’s lost, but also fulfill a promise to launch her brother’s dream.

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Informazioni sull'autore

Rachel Coker is a homeschool student who lives in Virginia with her parents and two sisters. She has a passion for great books and has been surrounded by them all her life. In fact, as a young child, Rachel helped her parents in a family-run Christian book business. Her gift for writing became apparent at the age of eleven at which time her parents signed her up for a year of lessons with a professional writing coach. When she is not writing or playing the piano, Rachel enjoys spending time with her family and friends.

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Chasing Jupiter

By Rachel Coker

ZONDERVAN

Copyright © 2012 Rachel Coker
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-310-74337-8

CHAPTER 1

Every story has to start somewhere. Mine starts with a list writtenon a sheet of yellow construction paper, folded neatly intofourths, and pushed under my bedroom door so that I brushed itwith my foot when I got up that morning. I had buttoned my blouseand was reaching for the doorknob when I felt the edge of the paperprick my toe. I bent down and picked it up. Birthday List was writtenin the corner in smudged pencil.

Cliff. I slipped the paper into the front pocket of my blue jeans.Then I bounded down the steps, two at a time, my bare feet patteringagainst the wood. My brother was already sitting at the kitchentable eating a bowl of Cap'n Crunch. I reached over to ruffle his hair,but he ducked at my touch and scowled. Okay, so it's a nontouchingday. I pulled my hand back and dropped the list on the table.

"What's this?"

"Good morning, Scarlett." Cliff swallowed a mouthful of cereal."It's my birthday list."

Yeah, I kind of figured out that much. I opened the refrigeratorand searched for the carton of milk, but it wasn't inside. "Cliff, haveyou seen the ..." I looked up and saw it sitting on the counter. Oh."Never mind." The bottle of milk was warm under my fingertips.I frowned, twisted off the cap, and took a big whiff. Sour. Fightingback my gag reflex, I set the milk back on the counter and shut therefrigerator. "Who left the milk out overnight?"

Cliff continued to chew. I wondered if he'd had the good senseto eat his cereal dry. He folded his napkin into fourths and wipedhis mouth. Nah. My guess was he'd rather use the spoiled milk thandisturb his routine. I, meanwhile, would definitely be finding somethingelse to eat.

I walked over to the bottom of the staircase and shouted, "GrandpopBarley!"

No answer, which meant he was likely still asleep. I sighed andheaded back into the kitchen.

Cliff was finished with his breakfast by the time I came backin. He had laid his spoon out over his bowl and was staring at theplacemat in silence.

"Um, Cliff, why don't you look in the pantry for a can of tunafish? I have to get our lunches made and put in the paper bags."

"Okay." He shrugged and opened the pantry, pulling out a stackof cans. Then he proceeded to sit on the floor Indian-style and carefullyline up the cans in front of him. Within seconds, they werearranged in order of largest to smallest, with all the labels facingforward. Cliff grinned and glanced up at me, motioning to his lineof cans. I noticed his sandy hair stood straight up on his head, as ifhe'd ran a rake through it while it was still wet.

"Just a second." I grabbed two slices of bread and the jar ofcrunchy peanut butter out of the cabinet, looking longingly at thecreamy jar just to the right. Grandpop Barley's smoother stash wasstrictly off limits to the rest of us, and you did not mess with hisstash. As I slathered together my peanut-butter breakfast and laidout bread for the tuna fish sandwiches, I was even gladder there wereonly a few more days of school. Soon it would be summertime, withmore time to bake and put together proper, home-cooked food. Ican get through this.

Makeshift meal in hand, I grabbed the list off the table andsquatted on the floor next to Cliff. "You want to tell me about this?"

He didn't look at me. "I already told you." One of the cans apparentlywasn't quite straight enough for him, so he picked it up andcarefully turned it until it was aligned with the rest. "It's my birthdaylist."

"Cliff, your birthday is tomorrow." I took a big bite of my peanutbutter sandwich and leaned against the cabinets. The linoleumfloor felt solid and cool beneath my faded jeans. "Even Santa Clausdoesn't work on that short of notice."

He made a face. "I'm not asking for Santa Claus, Scarlett. Thisis June, not December. There's less of a need for gifts. It's all aboutsupply and demand. It shouldn't be a problem."

"We'll see about that," I said dryly, placing the paper on thetable. So he was all about lists lately. Better lists than Spanish dictionaries,I guess. I unfolded the paper and smoothed out the creases. "Solet's go over this."

"My Birthday List," I read out loud. "By Cliff Blaine. June 6,1969."

1. One monkey from Japan

2. Two red bicycles

3. Three friends to play hopscotch with

4. Four licorice sticks

5. Five books on how to speak Spanish

6. Six pieces of chalk

7. Seven songs that I know all the words to

8. Eight moons in the sky instead of one

9. Nine boxes of macaroni and cheese

10. Ten green baseball hats

11. Eleven birthdays in one year

12. Twelve pancakes

13. Thirteen subjects to rule

14. Fourteen stuffed elephants

15. Fifteen Spanish battles

When I finished, Cliff was staring at me with wide, unblinkingeyes. I folded the paper and handed it back to him. "It's quite thelist." I pressed my lips together, holding back a smile. "There aretwelve days of Christmas. I guess birthdays have fifteen days?"

He shrugged. "Well, I figured I'd change things up."

I stood and started on the dishes while Cliff continued to playwith the cans. I grabbed Mama's old apron off the hook behind thecabinet and flipped it inside out, wrapping it twice around my slimwaist and tying it in a double knot. The soapy dishwater stung atthe little cuts on my hands. Ow. I frowned at my dirty nails. It wasa little before six in the morning, and the school bus would be comingin less than an hour and a half. How do I have dirty nails already?There was a nick above my pinky from last Tuesday when I jumpedoff my bike too quickly and fell on the gravel. I was just glad thatMama hadn't seen the dents on my handlebars. All she needed wasone more example of my being a tomboy to set her over the edge.She was forgetting that it was 1969, not the 1940s.

I glanced over my shoulder to see Cliff still sitting cross-leggedon the floor, staring at his cans. "Whoa! You got those cans reallystraight." There were eleven cans of different sizes lined up in frontof the refrigerator. The largest soup cans were on the outside, followedby the vegetable cans, and then the little round tuna cans.

Cliff cupped his chin in his palm and stared at them, obliviousto my presence. "He stacked them in rows," he muttered under hisbreath.

I frowned and pulled off my apron, hanging it back on the rack."Don't talk about yourself like that. Mama doesn't like it."

Just then, Dad came whistling down the stairs and into thekitchen, tucking his shirt into his blue jeans. Even at six in the morning,he smelled like aftershave, peaches, and dirt, all at the same time."Good morning!" He looked around the bare kitchen and his face fella little. "Not baking anything this morning?"

I shook my head. "No milk either. But help yourself to a peanutbutter sandwich."

"I think I will." He grabbed the jar of crunchy peanut butter andglanced at Cliff. "Hey, nice stack of cans there, little buddy."

Cliff nodded. "A very nice row of cans. Eleven."

"You'll be a builder, right? Build rows of skyscrapers?" Dadlaughed and ruffled Cliff's hair.

Cliff ducked away, making a face. I guess Dad hadn't realizedthis was a nontouching day either. "No," Cliff said. "I believe I willbe a matador."

Dad frowned and glanced at me, unsure how to respond. I forceda smile. "Cliff is very interested in Spanish culture these days. Cliff,show Dad how much you know about the Spanish Civil War." Mylegs felt fidgety. "He can remember the name and date of everybattle," I added.

Cliff sighed and stood, walking out of the kitchen. "Perhapssome other time," he said over his shoulder.

Dad watched him disappear and groaned. "Why can't we fixhim?" He placed the peanut butter back in the cabinet and shut thedoor. "I'll eat later, Scarlett. I've got to get to work. Hopefully, todayI'll remember to wash up before I come home from the farms. Lordpreserve us if we don't look clean for supper, whether your Mama'shere or not." He shook his head. "I married white collar, and whitecollar it seems we will always be, no matter how many jobs we haveto work." He winked, then grabbed his hat and truck keys by theside door. I caught his gaze sliding toward Cliff as he pushed openthe screen door and strode out into the warm Georgia morning,whistling under his breath.

I didn't try to guess his thoughts—didn't want to. I knew whateveryone thought of Cliff, my parents included. But they werewrong.

"Hey, Cliff, do you know if Juli ever came home last night?"No answer. I guess that means she didn't. Or he's in one of his strangermoods.

"You know what?" I shouted, hoping Cliff could hear me fromthe living room. "I'm going to make you an early birthday pie." Iglanced at the clock. Ten past six. If I started now, it could be out ofthe oven and in our stomachs before the bus came at eight-fifteen.

He must have been able to hear me pretty well, because he wasback in the kitchen faster than I could blink. "I'm going to help."

"Um, okay. But you can't help too much. It's a labor of love, so itcounts as a gift. Sort of."

I found another apron for Cliff, although he seemed much moreinterested in the neatness of the fabric than he was in actually helpingme bake the pie. But still, he helped open the jars of peacheswe'd canned last year and drain them. "'It's a lot better with freshpeaches," I explained, arranging the pieces of crust in a neat lattice."But I don't think the peaches will start ripening for another fewweeks or so."

As soon as the pie was in the oven a half hour later, I whiskedCliff upstairs to get dressed for school while I tidied the kitchen andfixed our lunches, and I got ready myself while our creation wascooling on the counter. At seven forty five, we sat at the kitchentable to warm slices of pie, and I quizzed Cliff on the battles of theSpanish Civil War.

"Battle of Belchite," I said.

"Fought in 1937," Cliff fired back.

"Seige of Gandesa."

"Easy—1938."

"Well, that's the last one." I laid The Condensed History of theSpanish Civil War on the table and strummed my fingers on the backcover. "Cliff, why do you need to know all these dates? What are youplanning to do with all this information?"

He just shrugged and opened the book again, looking over allthe photos of guerrillas, matadors, and guns.

I sighed and studied my fingernails. Now flour was mixed inwith the dirt. Great. I pushed away from the table. "The bus will behere in about ten minutes, so we might as well go bring GrandpopBarley a piece of that pie."

We hiked up the back staircase to Grandpop Barley's bedroom.He slept in the what was basically the storage room upstairs, becausethe rest of us already had bedrooms by the time he came to live withus, and Juli refused to give up the one we both shared.

The door was shut. I nudged Cliff. "Open it," I whispered.

He shook his head slowly. "Grandpop was a great soldier in theBattle of Badajoz. He may cut off our heads with a machete."

I rolled my eyes. "What are you talking about? That was a Spanishbattle, Cliff. Grandpop Barley is from North Carolina."

He shrugged and knocked on the door.

Silence. We stood fidgeting, our hearts thumping, until ...

"Come in."

I pushed open the door and forced a large smile. "Hello, GrandpopBarley! We brought you some peach pie!"

Grandpop Barley was sitting in his faded blue armchair. A lopsidedred tie hung around his neck, knotted tightly. He frownedwhen we entered the room, squinting from the light in the hallway."What?"

"Peach pie." I held up the plate.

"Oh."

I walked forward, holding the pie out before me like a peaceoffering. "Would you like some milk to go with it?"

He smacked his lips and gave us a toothless smile. "What aboutsome peanut butter?"

My stomach lurched. "On peach pie?"

Cliff stepped forward. "That is the most ridiculous thing I haveever heard."

Grandpop Barley's eyes darted toward Cliff, and he stood andstarted toward the door. "Get that pesky child out of my room," hegrumbled. His gnarly fingers reached up to loosen the red tie.

I reached out and pulled his hands back down. "Cliff's just beingCliff. I'll get you some peanut butter." I dashed downstairs and rummagedaround in the pantry. Why on earth does one family need elevencans of black beans? We only have six family members.

I could hear Cliff shouting upstairs. Oh, great. I grabbed thepeanut butter and made a beeline for the back staircase. "Cliff!"

My brother came bolting down the steps. "I cannot toleratehim!" He looked over his shoulder and glared at the open door."That pesky Grandpop Barley!"

I rolled my eyes. "Just stay downstairs for now, okay?" I glancedat the clock above the front door. Almost eight ten. Agh! "Um, actually,go back upstairs and brush your hair, then go wait by the frontdoor, okay? Don't let the bus leave without me." I shooed him downthe stairs and ran back up to the attic, taking two steps at a time. Ipaused in the doorway, hesitant to enter. "Grandpop Barley?"

"Well? Did you bring the peanut butter?"

I stepped in the room. Grandpop Barley was sitting in his bluearmchair again, his red tie slung over his shoulder. He was lickingsome peachy glaze off his finger and humming to himself. His eyeslit up when he saw the jar of peanut butter. I pulled out a spoonfuland handed it to him. I could hear the bus honking outside. Pleasedon't leave without me, Cliff. "Um, I really have to go. You're good,right? You don't need anything else?"

"No, no, this is just spiffy." His long pink tongue stretched outand licked the peanut butter off the spoon. He smiled. "Oh, I dolove peanuts." He used his finger to shove the rest of the peanut butteronto the pie. "Yum."

Gross. I wrinkled my nose and left, shutting the door behindme. I could still hear him chuckling through the crack. Cliff wasstill standing at the front door, his arms folded across his chest andhis brow lowered. Another loud honk, this one long and hard. Igrimaced. Well, at least the school bus hadn't left yet.

CHAPTER 2

I have no idea how birthday dinners actually go in normal families,but I can guess. A fine home-cooked meal, presents, and a cakewith candles and icing. But I couldn't remember the last time Mamacooked anything. Normally, I just fixed something for me and Cliff.And sometimes Grandpop Barley. And it wasn't that I was a badcook or anything. I was actually really good. But really good doesn'texactly compare to Mom's home-fried chicken and rolls.

Needless to say, we didn't have anything close to a homemademeal for Cliff 's tenth birthday. Mama worked late at the localplantation-turned-bed-and-breakfast and asked Dad if he couldjust take us all out in his truck, Old Clunker. So we drove twentyminutes to the nearest diner for burgers and fries. Everyone exceptfor Grandpop Barley, who had insisted on staying home to eat somedisgusting peanut-butter creation, and Juli, whom no one had seensince she came home from school that afternoon. But at least shehad gone to school. With only three days until she graduated fromhigh school, it didn't seem like classes were her focus at the moment.

Old-fashioned music drifted from the old jukebox in the restaurantcorner from singers like Nat King Cole and Perry Como.

"I love this song." Mama took another bite of her cheeseburgerthen delicately brushed the crumbs off her face. "We bought thisalbum when you were a baby, Scarlett. Juli used to like it. But I guessshe doesn't listen to this kind of music anymore."

I shrugged. "Ziggy told her it was better not to 'feed at thetrough of entertainment prepackaged for the masses.'" The waitresshad given me a wiggly green straw for my soda. I took big slurps asthe icy sweetness trickled down my throat. Yum.

Mama wrinkled her little white nose and shot a glance at Dad."What kind of name is 'Ziggy'?"

"Um, I think it used to be 'Luke', but then he changed it." Ilicked the salt off my french fries and glanced around the restaurant.I couldn't remember Juli ever dating a guy with a normal name.Jimmy Twinkie might have been the worst. Plus Jimmy Twinkie hada beard, which was far from normal.

"Well, of all the ..."

Dad shook his head slowly, lifting a fry to his mouth. Mamalooked ruffled, but she quieted down and stared at her fork.

Cliff arranged the french fries on his plate in a long line. "Hey,look, they resemble spears. Uno, dos, tres ..."

"How did you learn Spanish?" Dad's eyes focused on Cliff's benthead.

Cliff shrugged. "Scarlett reads For Whom the Bell Tolls to me."

Mama shot me a glance. "In Spanish?"

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Chasing Jupiter by Rachel Coker. Copyright © 2012 Rachel Coker. Excerpted by permission of ZONDERVAN.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Dettagli dell'edizione

• Editore: Zondervan
• Data di pubblicazione: 2013
• Lingua: Inglese
• ISBN 10: 0310743370
• ISBN 13: 9780310743378
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 238
• Contatto del produttore: HarperCollins; https://europe.yamaha.com/index.html; ; Siemensstrasse 22-34; Rellingen; Schleswig-Holstein; 25462; Germania