The Luckiest Girl Read online

  “Is there enough light for you to write in my Argonaut?” Hartley asked when they had finished their orange juice.

  “Yes.” Shelley handed her yearbook to Hartley and picked up her pen. She turned the pages of his book, looking for a large empty space to write in, and when she found one she sat nibbling the end of her pen and thinking. Now that the time had come, she did not know what to write to Hartley. She could list all the good times they had had together (but not nearly enough), but why do that? She would not forget and neither would he. She could try to tell him how much he meant to her, but somehow she did not know the words to use. She could try to tell him how much she would miss him, but that would be painful to write. She glanced at Hartley, who was writing on the last page of her yearbook. He looked serious, as if what he was doing was not something to be taken lightly.

  Shelley knew then the words she wanted to use. She uncapped her pen and wrote quickly. “Dear Hartley,” she began. “It took me a while to find it out, but you are the boy I have always wanted to meet. I am sorry to say good-bye so soon. With love, Shelley.” She had not needed a large space after all. She blew gently on the words, because she did not have a blotter, and closed the book. She had written only a few words but Hartley would understand how much those words meant. That was the most wonderful thing about Hartley. He understood.

  Hartley returned her book to her and when she started to open it he said brusquely, “Read it later,” and started the car. Hartley drove slowly back to San Sebastian. It seemed a strange sort of date, driving out of town for a glass of orange juice and coming right home again; but somehow there seemed nothing else to do. Hartley turned into the Michies’ driveway, stopped the car, and turned off the lights. The moment Shelley had been dreading with that awful aching dread had arrived. They had to say good-bye.

  Hartley got out of the car, walked around, and opened the door for her. Hand in hand they walked across the lawn to the front door. The night was rich with the fragrance of lemon blossoms and honeysuckle. “Shelley,” Hartley said softly. “Let’s say good-bye quickly.”

  “Yes,” whispered Shelley, clinging to her Argonaut as her eyes searched the darkness for his face.

  Hartley brushed back her hair, put his hands on either side of her face, leaned over, and kissed her gently on the lips. “Good-bye, Shelley,” he whispered.

  “Good-bye.” Shelley’s voice was faint.

  And then Hartley was gone. Shelley went into the dark house and closed the door quietly behind her. It was all over. She tiptoed up the creaky stairs and into her room, where she turned on the light and sat numbly down on the bed. Her Argonaut, she discovered, was still in her hands. She opened it slowly and with awkward fingers turned to the page that carried Hartley’s words.

  His handwriting was firm and sure. “Dear Shelley,” he had written. “There is so much that I could say to you. I could begin with the day you walked into that classroom looking eager and a little frightened. I could write about the wonderful way you have of looking as if you thought something exciting was about to happen—but why write these things? It all means just one thing. I love you, Shelley. I really do. And now—good-bye. Hartley.”

  Shelley sat there on her bed with her yearbook on her lap, and her eyes were filled with tears. This was love, she knew. Not the love-for-keeps that would come later, but love that was real and true just the same. She heard Katie’s familiar knock at her door (the last time, perhaps) and blinked her eyes to try to force back the tears.

  Katie entered wearing her terry cloth bathrobe. “Shelley,” she began, and stopped. “Shelley—” Her voice was anxious. “Is something wrong?”

  Shelley shook her head. She could not speak.

  Understanding seemed to dawn on Katie’s face. “Are you—you’re not heartbroken, are you?”

  Shelley shook her head again and managed a shaky laugh.

  “Oh, Shelley.” Katie sat down on the bed. She looked both anxious and frightened.

  “It’s all right, Katie.” Shelley had to reassure her. “It was just sort of—hard to say good-bye.”

  “Then I never want to say good-bye to a boy,” said Katie flatly.

  “Oh, no, Katie.” Shelley was finding it easier to talk. “Please don’t feel that way. You’ll have to say good-bye sometime, you know. Everybody does.”

  “But if it makes you unhappy—” protested Katie.

  “Not really unhappy.” Shelley had to make Katie understand. “Just sorry because I have to say good-bye. It’s all right, Katie. Really it is.” She was silent a moment, thinking. “I guess that’s what growing up is. Saying good-bye to a lot of things. Sometimes it is easy and sometimes it isn’t. But it is all right.”

  “I am glad you don’t have a broken heart.” Katie looked relieved and a little puzzled. “Well, I guess I’d better go to bed or Dad will be yelling at me,” she said reluctantly.

  “Good night, Katie.” Shelley was smiling. She was going to miss Katie.

  When Katie had gone, Shelley sat on her bed turning over in her mind what she had just told her. Someday Katie would understand. Then, filled with restlessness, she crossed to the window and looked out into the night. She felt as if she had to do something to relieve her pent-up feelings. She slipped out of her room and down the stairs, avoiding the creakiest steps, and out of the house. She crossed the driveway, seized the rope that hung from the top of the eucalyptus tree, and climbed to the top of the child’s slide. She stood poised a moment before she grasped the ring and pushed off, swinging out through the night, past the trunks of the eucalyptus trees, out over the road with her hair blowing back from her face and her skirt flying behind her. The night air was soft on her skin and the stars seemed close enough to touch. Shelley was happy, happier than she had ever been in her life.

  Above her in the eucalyptus trees the cry of the doves was sad and sweet.

  About the Author

  Beverly Cleary is one of America’s most popular authors. Born in McMinnville, Oregon, she lived on a farm in Yamhill until she was six and then moved to Portland. After college, as the children’s librarian in Yakima, Washington, she was challenged to find stories for non-readers. She wrote her first book, HENRY HUGGINS, in response to a boy’s question, “Where are the books about kids like us?”

  Mrs. Cleary’s books have earned her many prestigious awards, including the American Library Association’s Laura Ingalls Wilder Award, presented in recognition of her lasting contribution to children’s literature. Her DEAR MR. HENSHAW was awarded the 1984 John Newbery Medal, and both RAMONA QUIMBY, AGE 8 and RAMONA AND HER FATHER have been named Newbery Honor Books. In addition, her books have won more than thirty-five statewide awards based on the votes of her young readers. Her characters, including Henry Huggins, Ellen Tebbits, Otis Spofford, and Beezus and Ramona Quimby, as well as Ribsy, Socks, and Ralph S. Mouse, have delighted children for generations. Mrs. Cleary lives in coastal California.

  Visit Beverly Cleary on the World Wide Web at www.beverlycleary.com

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  Enjoy all of Beverly Cleary’s books

  FIRST LOVE:

  Fifteen

  The Luckiest Girl

  Jean and Johnny

  Sister of the Bride

  FEATURING RAMONA QUIMBY:

  Beezus and Ramona

  Ramona the Pest

  Ramona the Brave

  Ramona and Her Father

  Ramona and Her Mother

  Ramona Quimby, Age 8

  Ramona Forever

  Ramona’s World

  FEATURING HENRY HUGGINS:

  Henry Huggins

  Henry and Beezus

  Henry and Ribsy

  Henry and the Paper Route

  Henry and the Clubhouse

  Ribsy

  FEATURING RALPH MOUSE:

  The Mouse and the Motorcycle

  Runaway Ralph

  Ralph S. Mouse
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  MORE GREAT FICTION BY BEVERLY CLEARY:

  Ellen Tebbits

  Otis Spofford

  Emily’s Runaway Imagination

  Mitch and Amy

  Socks

  Dear Mr. Henshaw

  Muggie Maggie

  Strider

  Two Times the Fun

  AND DON’T MISS BEVERLY CLEARY’S AUTOBIOGRAPHIES:

  A Girl from Yamhill

  My Own Two Feet

  Credits

  Cover art by Amy Ryan

  Cover design by Jennifer Heuer

  Copyright

  THE LUCKIEST GIRL. Copyright © 1958 by Beverly Cleary. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061972256

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