Small as an Elephant: Chapters 10–13

He ran away from the crowded sidewalks, past the gazebo on the village green, down sidewalkless, winding island streets for about twenty minutes, until he came to a dirt road.

Too bad dogs can’t climb ladders, he thought. He would have liked that old dog stretched out beside him. For a moment, he contemplated getting down from the loft and sleeping with the dog.

"S-sorry,” he stammered. “The tomato—it’s just—"

“When you get back, you can take this home with you,” she said, tossing the rest of the vegetables into a paper bag, which she set by the front porch. “Ask your mom to make you a harvest stew. Maybe it’ll inspire you to plant some tomatoes next year.”

I must stick out like a sore—Like my sore pinky, he thought, looking down at the mess of a bandage. It was tattered and covered with dirt from the garden, and so loose he could easily slip it off—which he did, tucking it in his pocket.

He smiled and nodded. “Are there—is there a computer I can use?”
She looked as if he’d just presented her with an insurmountable problem.

Jack followed the librarian down the stairs to a small room with more book stacks and three computers. “There isn’t room for all our books upstairs, but we can’t bear to part with them. We call this room our treasure trove,” she said.

He took a swig of water from the bottle he was carrying, hoping he wouldn’t get in trouble for drinking in the library.

Maybe it was better that his mom hadn’t written. Leaving a note would mean that she wasn’t spinning, but was rational and making decisions.

Nina: Is your mom with you now?
Jack: Affirmative
Nina: She isn't, is she?
Jack: Gotta run. TTYS

INTERESTING GREEN APPLES
INTERNATIONAL GRAPES AVAILABLE
ISLAND GROCERIES ALWAYS 
IRATE GRUMPY ASSOCIATES
INCREDIBLE GRAINS ADVERTISED
IMPERIAL GRAY ASPHALT

INTERESTING GREEN APPLES
INTERNATIONAL GRAPES AVAILABLE
ISLAND GROCERIES ALWAYS 
IRATE GRUMPY ASSOCIATES
INCREDIBLE GRAINS ADVERTISED
IMPERIAL GRAY ASPHALT

The smell of steamed lobster drew him toward the Trenton Bridge Lobster Pound. Outside were six wood-burning vats with steam rising from them. Oh, how he wished he could have a plate of steamed mussels or a lobster right now!

He wished he were a mangy dog right now that could crawl under one of the outdoor picnic tables and beg for scraps.

Maybe he should have kept the potatoes. He probably could have bartered for something.

He heard the cab open, the front seat snap as it lurched forward (presumably so they could put the lobsters in the back of the cab), and then the engine start up.

Slow down, he told himself. This is lobster. Taste it. Then he broke off one of the spindly legs from a lobster’s discarded body and sucked the juice from it.

And even if his mother had initiated the search, would she realize what she’d done? Would she realize how much trouble this would mean for the two of them?

After walking for forty-five minutes in the pelting rain, making sure to turn left at a fork, Jack ducked under the extended roofiine of a school.

After another twenty minutes of trudging through the rain, he arrived at the Lamoine General Store.

The man was about forty, Jack guessed, dressed in grungy, paint-splattered clothes.

“Just looking,” said Jack. He involuntarily shivered as he said this.

“Homeschooled,” Jack said, trying to muster up some authority in his voice.

But there were also several hand-painted signs with runny letters that reminded Jack of blood, signs that read: NO TRESPASSING: VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

The sign below the green metal roof read L.L. BEAN OUTLET. Framing the door were kayaks that reminded Jack of Life Savers candies, especially the orange-and-yellow-striped ones.