Hello from Renn Lake - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Michele Weber Hurwitz is the author of four other middle-grade novels, which have been on many state award lists and received several honors. She has lived in the Midwest for her entire life and has always loved spending time at Wisconsin's lakes. Sometimes she even hears one. Find Michele online at micheleweberhurwitz.com.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One

Annalise 

“Jess! We have to get to the cabins. Come on!” As I open the screen door that leads to the porch, there’s a muffled reply from my sister, somewhere upstairs. I bend over and reach underneath the wicker armchair to grab my flip-flops, then slip them on and go down the steps. 

Jess is gesturing dramatically in front of her bedroom window. She pauses when she spots me, then opens it and yells down, “I’m in the middle of a scene, Annalise!” 

“Hurry up and finish. Mom and Dad need our help.” 

She crosses her arms and stomps her foot. I can’t quite see it, but I know. Always the right foot. With all the stomping Jess does, I don’t know how her right leg isn’t shorter than the left one by now. 

“Why do we have to get there so early!” she shouts. “It’s the first day of summer vacation!” 

I’m about to remind her how much there is to do with all the guests checking in when I hear her thundering down the stairs. Jess says acting is her thing, not helping out with our family’s rental cabins on the lake. But she’s never tried out for anything--not at school or the community theater. Jess lets the screen door slam behind her. “Okay, fine. Let’s go.” She’s wearing a gold-sequined tank top; a flouncy, satiny white skirt; and wedge sandals. She’s also drawn major cat eyes with black liner and painted her fingernails neon green. 

I tilt my head. “Why are you dressed like that?” 

She twirls, then almost falls as she jumps over the steps. “Because I’m going to walk the red carpet.” She skips around a puddle, then parades to the sidewalk while doing a little wave. I smile and catch up to her. So Jess. 

She looks exactly like Mom did when she was little, with feathery hair, so light it’s practically white, and skin that’s almost transparent. I’m short, generously curvy, and have hazel eyes and pounds of dark ringlets. I don’t look like anyone in my family. 

I step over a fallen branch. “Did you hear the storm last night?” 

“Uh-uh. I fell asleep with my headphones on.” 

“It was scary. I thought a window might break or something.” 

“Whoa. I’m glad I slept through it.” 

She stops and poses with a hand on her hip, one leg crossed in front of the other. “Oh, you’re too kind. Yes, I’m wearing a new designer. From Paris. Chloe Jeanette Le Grand.” 

“Is that really a designer?” 

She laughs. “No.” 

We turn onto Sage Street. I’ve always wondered who named the streets in Renn Lake. There’s Main, Church, and Park, but no other spice-related roads. Sage is a mystery. Like me. 

We take Sage all the way to RL Middle. When we pass the building, it looks lonely, like it misses the kids. I’ll be back there next year for seventh grade. Jess is going into fifth and has one more year at RL Elementary. 

She stops her red-carpet walk and nudges me. “What’s that boy doing?”

There’s a tall, skinny boy I don’t recognize standing in the center of the athletic field. He doesn’t have a soccer ball or a baseball or anything. He’s holding a book close up to his face.

“I don’t know,” I say. 

“He looks kind of weird.”

I glance at him again. “Interesting place to read.” 

“Yeah, really.” 

We keep walking, Jess wiggling her fingers and pointing to her neck. “Oh, my jewels? They’re from a very expensive, very exclusive boutique. All the celebs go there.” 

I grin. “You’re not just an actor, now you’re a celeb?” 

“Why not?” 

When we reach Main Street, the large wooden sign proudly announces: welcome to renn lake, wisconsin’s best kept secret. Located halfway between Madison and the Illinois state line, Renn Lake is the town, and Renn Lake is the lake. They’re symbiotic, like we learned about in science. They need each other.

Jess turns to me and makes a heart with her hands. “I forgot to tell you. Happy found day.” 

“Thanks.” I catch a glimpse of Alden’s at the end of Main across from the lake, innocent looking, like it’s an ordinary store. I shiver a little, even though it’s warm out. 

Twelve years ago today. 

Jess fixes her skirt, which has twisted around. “Another special dinner tonight. So yay, more cupcakes!” She sighs. “Honestly, the best part about you getting two celebrations is that I love cupcakes.” 

“Really?” I huff a little. Jess would say that. 

She elbows me. “You know I’m only kidding.” 

We celebrate my birthday on June 2, the day the doctors determined I was born, and my found day on June 4. Mom and Dad started calling it that when I was five and they told me I was an abandoned baby. They would tickle my feet and sing a silly made-up song with rhymes for found day, like “homeward-bound day” and “astounding day” and “sounds like we love you day.” They stopped tickling when I got older, but they still sing the song. Every year.

Even so, every year on this day, there’s a hollow space in my chest that Mom and Dad’s song can’t quite fill. 

I point to the sidewalk in front of the Main Street stores, wet and shiny from last night’s rain. “It almost looks like an enchanted secret passageway, doesn’t it? The way the sun is reflecting off the pavement.” 

Jess doesn’t reply. She pauses in front of the movie theater and waves. To no one. “It’s an honor just to be nominated,” she gushes, giggling. 

I smile. “You know you have to actually act in something before you’re nominated?” 

“I will!” 

“Like you played the guitar and cooked with all those fancy utensils Mom and Dad bought you? What were they? A garlic press, right? And a lemon zester?” 

“Don’t make fun of me!” She zooms ahead. 

I walk by Castaway, the secondhand shop, its white flag with the blue anchor waving lazily above the door, then the hardware and candy stores. Thick curls of ivy climb the front of the candy store, clinging tightly except for one long vine that lost its grip and is arching away from the building. 

I stop just before the last store--Alden’s Gift Emporium: Flora, Fauna, and Whatnot. I suppose I was Whatnot? 

Faded reddish brick. The wood door with a stained-glass cutout. A water bowl on the ground for thirsty dogs. A striped awning. So normal. Nothing that would signify what happened here four thousand, three hundred, and eighty days ago. I’ve never gone inside. Mom or Dad might’ve taken me when I was little, but by myself? No. 

I shade my eyes and scan the window. There are some plants, a gazing ball on a stand, and a kid-sized rocking chair, but . . . Mrs. Alden. 

Jess pokes my arm. “What’re you doing? I thought you said we had to hurry.” 

It hits me fresh. Mrs. Alden’s gone. She died a month ago. Mr. Alden closed the store for a while and went to stay with one of his sons. But now, under the “Whatnot,” it says: come in! we’re open! 

Every morning on found day, when I’d pass the store on the way to...