Jack galloped into the trees, thinking only of bumpy toads and buried treasure and other things that hide in forests, waiting for children to find them. Sarah paused at the forest’s edge. She felt as you do when you have just left home for a long journey and you’re sure you have forgotten something very precious behind. But she only paused for a moment, and then she shook the feeling away and set off to find her brother.

I shut the book and browse the rest of the shelves slowly, pulling out the interesting-looking books and reading the back covers and jacket flaps. Which is fun but also strategic. The more time I spend here, the less time we’ll have for clothes shopping later.

Any moment now, I know Mom will walk over, look at her watch, sigh impatiently, and tell me it’s time to go.

Except she doesn’t.

Finally, when I have a tower of books so high I can’t add even one more, and I’m actually a little worried Mom might have had a heart attack, I pick up my teetering stack and waddle toward the front of the shop.

I see her standing there, laughing at something the man she’s talking to has just said. The man is tall and has a baseball cap tugged low over his face. He wears a leather jacket, even though it’s way too hot for that today. As I draw nearer, Mom waves at him and he kind of glides from the store.

“Who was that?” I ask.

Mom takes half the books from me, and I see her eyes are glinting with excitement. “That was Arnold O’Shea.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“He’s a big-time journalist,” Mom says. “You see him on the news all the time. Anyway, he’s just bought a new piece of property—right on the river—and he’s looking for an architect, so I gave him my card. Of course, he may already have someone in mind, but we’ll see.”

I’ve never seen her so starstruck before. I don’t care in the slightest about Arnold O’Whatever. But maybe I can use Mom’s good mood to my advantage.

“That’s awesome, Mom,” I say. “Oh, and I’m ready. This is all I want.”

“This is all?” Mom says, floating back to earth. Apparently, my reverse psychology trick has not worked as well as I’d hoped. “You must have fifteen books here.”

“But there’s a really good sale. Buy one, get one half off. So it’s really like I have only . . . not as many.”

You should know that math is not my best subject. It is, in fact, my worst.

“Oh, all right, then.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say sweetly, holding tighter to the stack of books—my books now—almost not believing my good luck.