Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

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.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chasing Jupiter

ZONDERVAN

Chapter One

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 pattering against the wood. My brother was already sitting at the kitchen table 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 nontouching day. 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 refrigerator and searched for the carton of milk, but it wasn't inside. "Cliff, have you 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. Fighting back my gag reflex, I set the milk back on the counter and shut the refrigerator. "Who left the milk out overnight?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Makeshift meal in hand, I grabbed the list off the table and squatted 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 apparently wasn't quite straight enough for him, so he picked it up and carefully turned it until it was aligned with the rest. "It's my birthday list."

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

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

"We'll see about that," I said dryly, placing the paper on the table. So he was all about lists lately. Better lists than Spanish dictionaries, I guess. I unfolded the paper and smoothed out the creases. "So let'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, unblinking eyes. I folded the paper and handed it back to him. "It's quite the list." I pressed my lips together, holding back a smile. "There are twelve 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 play with the cans. I grabbed Mama's old apron off the hook behind the cabinet and flipped it inside out, wrapping it twice around my slim waist and tying it in a double knot. The soapy dishwater stung at the little cuts on my hands. Ow. I frowned at my dirty nails. It was a little before six in the morning, and the school bus would be coming in 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 jumped off my bike too quickly and fell on the gravel. I was just glad that Mama hadn't seen the dents on my handlebars. All she needed was one 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-legged on the floor, staring at his cans. "Whoa! You got those cans really straight." There were eleven cans of different sizes lined up in front of the refrigerator. The largest soup cans were on the outside, followed by the vegetable cans, and then the little round tuna cans.

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

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 the kitchen, 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 fell a little. "Not baking anything this morning?"

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

"I think I will." He grabbed the jar of crunchy peanut butter and glanced 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?" Dad laughed and ruffled Cliff's hair.

Cliff ducked away, making a face. I guess Dad hadn't realized this was a nontouching day either. "No," Cliff said. "I believe I will be a matador."

Dad frowned and glanced at me, unsure how to respond. I forced a smile. "Cliff is very interested in Spanish culture these days. Cliff, show Dad how much you...