Traveler, L.E. DeLano [book series for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

“Class! This is Finn!” He flushes, a little embarrassed at all the attention.

“You must forgive us, Finn,” she explains. “It is so rare that we have anyone new, you see. So we make the most of it when it happens.” She gestures him over to the empty desk next to mine, and then she moves to the whiteboard as he takes his seat.

“Today,” she begins, “we play a game! When I was a young girl, growing up in Côte d’Ivoire, the Ivory Coast, we played a game to pass the time. We would tell each other stories about our lives, but they would be fanciful, you know? Not true, but maybe more like wishes. Some good, some bad. And when a stranger came to town, it was delicious! We could make up such stories about them, you see, because we didn’t really know them. And because we didn’t really know them, the stories just might be true. So to honor our new friend Finn, we tell his story today, in five hundred words. And Finn, you tell us your own story, and we will compare. Your story, of course, can be anything! Real or fanciful, you choose.”

She puts the marker to the whiteboard and writes Finn’s Story.

“So,” she says. “Finn’s story. Begin!”

I look over at him conspiratorially, wondering just which Finn he’s going to pick to be. He gives me a sly look, and then he cups his hand around the corner of his paper so I can’t see what he’s doing. I shoot him a mean look in return, and I write.

His name was Finn, and he was known far and wide for his elegant cheese soufflé. He arrived in the small town bearing a whisk and an attitude, and no one knew quite what to make of him. He was as cool as a cucumber under pressure, which seemed at odds with the usual passionate temperament of the average egomaniacal chef. What no one knew was that under that calm exterior was a secret.

Finn was a double agent. Sent by spies from the most famous waffle chain in the south, Finn had a mission: Get that recipe for apple spice pancakes, or die trying.

Good God. That was awful. Let’s try that again.

The stranger found a home in the trunk of a giant oak tree. She didn’t notice him at first, which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone, since he was barely a foot in height. It wasn’t until she poked her toe at the strange mound of dirt covering the pot of gold behind the tree that she realized who she was dealing with, or rather, what.

“A leprechaun?” Finn hisses, apparently having poked his nosy nose over toward my paper. “You’re making me a leprechaun?”

“You have a problem with the Irish?” I ask, looking innocent.

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes at me simultaneously. “Write whatever you want,” he says in a low voice.

“Thank you,” I whisper sarcastically. “I’ll do that.”

“Just know that there will be repercussions … Emeline.”

I shoot him another dirty look. I thought the leprechaun thing was genius, personally. I’ve got a magical creature, the whole angle of the wishes to play on, and I was going to give him a cute little Irish accent, too.

My pen stops on the paper as a voice echoes in my memory. I do love a woman with gumption, he’d said, in that sexy Irish lilt.

My pen starts to move, and I lose myself in the telling of his story.

He was only sixteen the night his father died, leaving him alone with the ship. His mother had gone long before, never caring for a life on the water as her men did. He was born with the sea in his veins and the smell of the salt in his hair. There was no place to call home now but the ship that was his birthright, and the crew that followed him as easily as they’d followed the man who left it to him.

His status as a privateer opened doors for him around the globe, but the people he met were the real reason he made the trip. So many stories. So many far-off lands and delicious foods. So many blazing sunsets and glorious sunrises viewed from a rooftop, a garden, a mountain, or the deck of a dipping and cresting ship. His life was out there, and he reveled in it. Nothing could match the freedom of the open sea and the sun on his sails.

I look up a moment, with the top of my pen sliding back and forth across my lower lip as I think. I realize a startled second later that Finn is not only looking at me—or should I say, at my mouth—he’s glaring.

He starts writing, and I lean over to look.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “It’s a surprise.”

He shifts in his seat so he’s practically got his back to me, balances his notebook on his lap, and starts to write.

“Fine,” I whisper. “Be that way.”

“Fine,” he answers, over his shoulder.

“Fine,” I say again, just so I can have the last word.

And I wonder what he’s going to do to get back at me. I catch myself rubbing my pen against my lips again, and I blush before I put my pen back down on my paper and finish my story.

24

The Setup

“I thought I would have seen you last night,” I say to Mario, who has just entered the classroom and taken his seat at his desk.

“You needed the rest,” he said. “I sent you that great dream about the beach instead.”

“Thanks. So … how was my first job?”

“I’ll let you know,” Mario replies, smiling at me. “So far, so good.”

I have to know. “What’s so great about that book? It looked like a trashy romance novel or something.”

“Oh, it is,” Mario says matter-of-factly. “But if she reads it, she’ll relate to the main character, who has a sister who means the world to her. She’ll decide that she needs to call her sister,