Real by Carol Cujec (snow like ashes .txt) 📕

The Little Mermaid eight times, and I knew she did not ride a surfboard. Dad was goofy to think I could.

Goofy Dad did not give me time to panic. Once in the water, he laid me belly down on the board in front of him and paddled us out toward the waves. I clung tight with both hands and squinted my eyes almost closed. I tried to calm myself by imagining manta rays swimming below, the rubbery ocean bats we once pet at SeaWorld. Maybe they would scoop me up if I sank too deep. But after a few minutes of feeling the rhythm of the ocean, the lightness of floating up and down on the waves, I felt I was one of them—a manta ray, gliding through the water on my fishy wings.

Dad eyed the horizon and turned the surfboard to face the shore. “We’re gonna stand up on the count of three.” He said it calmly, as if we did this every day. Sure enough, in one . . . two . . . three . . . Dad pulled me up and held on to me as we rode the breaking wave all the way back to the beach. I giggled and grinned bigger than a spotted hyena.

Dad and I caught dozens more waves that day, and, with each one, my muscles slowly learned the pattern. Near sunset, he looked at his watch and realized Mom was probably going to kill us for being so late. “Don’t let anyone tell you what you can’t do, Cherry Girl,” he said to me as he tied his board onto the roof of the car. “Life’s an adventure. Dive in!”

…

“We’d better get in there.” Mom smoothed my hair for the tenth time that day and poofed out the skirt on my prissy princess dress.

Where is a fairy godmother when you need one?

Then she fastened my hand to hers like superglue to cross the street. She always worried I might dart into traffic.

She was right to worry. My body had done that before—darting into the street to the sound of screams and screeching tires.

We walked through a giant wooden doorway into the church entrance hall. As soon as people saw me, whispers buzzed in my ears. Everyone was probably wondering the same thing: Would Charity have one of her famous freak-outs?

I could make a prediction. An hour-long service . . . with a hundred people watching . . . including all my family . . . and all their friends.

Pressure: high. That is a bad start.

Page 30: The Madagascar chameleon can change its skin color to blend into its surroundings.

My dumb pink dress was doing the opposite for me.

Maybe Mason can help me.

My eyes scanned the room for my cousin’s grin, stained with grape Kool-Aid the last time I saw him. Would he grab me in a monkey hug like when we were five?

My nose drifted toward a smell. Lilac hand cream. The next second, I felt Grammy’s warm cheek on my ear.

“Pretty as a September peach. ’Bout time your mother bought you some nice clothes.”

She said that last part with a wink to Mom. Gram grew up a true Southern lady before she moved here with Pops. The wild water’s edge, she called it.

Next, I caught a whiff of black cherry, flavor of the week at Pops’ ice cream shop.

“There’s my chipmunk!” Pops offered his hand for a fist bump—I am good at those—then bent down for a whisper. “Bet you can’t wait to get out of that silly getup they put you in.”

I tried to nod and smile, but I think all I did was wiggle a little.

Pops was royally right. I just hoped I would not rip my dress off in the middle of the ceremony.

Mom turned me around. “Charity, you remember your cousin Mason?”

Thank goodness.

My eyes searched. Mom pointed to a boy in a navy blazer wearing gold, glossy sunglasses.

Could it be him? Who wears sunglasses inside?

This was not the monkey boy I used to splash in the kiddie pool. Now he looked like one of the surfer boys at Dad’s shop, the kind who say dude and gnarly.

His mom, my Aunt Kiki, pushed him in my direction. “Mason, sweetie, go hug your cousin.”

My heart wanted him to squeeze me like toothpaste. But he just stood there. The corners of my mouth melted down.

Mason tilted his head and scanned me over the top of his sunglasses. My lips puckered in a duck face. He took a step back.

“What the flip is wrong with her?” he whispered to his mom.

Aunt Kiki pretended not to hear as she shoved Mason into the church.

Just keep smiling and pretend everything is fine. That’s how my Aunt Kiki handles problems. I guess she never told Mason what a disaster I had become.

Chances of friendship: zero.

Page 197: Ocelots are territorial and solitary. Because of their small size, they often fall prey to large cats and snakes.

I swallowed hard.

The music started, and Mom pulled me to our seats. I sat between Mom and Dad, a worry-filled girl on a wooden bench, hoping against all probability that I could keep calm.

I am like Pinocchio sitting on the shelf. Will anyone ever know I have a real heart and can feel it break?

Charity Case

My eyes darted from wall to wall, noting all the details of the Chapel by the Sea. Light beamed through stained-glass windows, shining a kaleidoscope on the altar. Every color of dress and suit decorated the long oak benches. We sat near the back, in case we needed to make a speedy exit.

Mom was already sniffling at the idea of her little sister getting married. “I hope Elvi doesn’t start crying when she walks down the aisle.”

“Yeah,” Dad whispered, “she’s probably wearing a metric ton of mascara, so it wouldn’t look pretty.”

He barely escaped Mom’s elbow in his ribs, but I noted the corners of her mouth trying not to smile.

My sixth sense told me Aunt Elvi felt more pity than love toward me. And it was hard to tell who she pitied more,