“Will you please stop scratching?” Mom yells like she’s suddenly gone nuts. “You’re making the poison ivy worse! Do you want it to spread all over you? Go soak in salt water. Then smear calamine lotion on your legs.” She tosses a box of salt to me and starts throwing plates into the dishwasher.

I run upstairs, crying, turn on the hot water, and dump the whole box of salt into the tub. Then I get in. The water’s almost scalding, but my legs stop itching.

I lie in the tub and look at the ceiling. What will I do without Skylar? We’ve been friends since I moved here in third grade. We’re the super-duper dynamic duo, inseparable. We’re two halves of an apple. Essere l’altra metà della mela. The Italian words are so beautiful I memorized them, but I can’t say them the way Greg did.

I stay in the tub so long the water turns cold. The tips of my fingers get wrinkles and I begin to itch again. Finally I heave myself out and get dressed. I slather my legs with so much calamine lotion it cracks like pink mud as it dries. The smell is like summer.

I’m not ready to face Mom, so I lie on my bed and finish reading Fahrenheit 451. I watched the movie with Greg before I read the book, and I remember the ending, where people walk around reciting books in soft voices. Ray Bradbury’s ending is very different. The hero of the story meets up with a group of men who memorize books, but there’s no peaceful community, no women, no children. The United States has destroyed itself in a terrible war, and the men are alone, hoping to contact other readers and start a better world. I like the movie’s ending better, but probably Bradbury’s ending is more realistic—except there should be a few women in the group.

For my fifth and final book I choose To Kill a Mockingbird. I have my own well-read copy. I know what happens and how it ends. It’s sometimes sad, sometimes funny, and sometimes scary, but that’s just the kind of story I need now, especially one that has no surprises for me. No sudden and horrible twists of fate. No dead animals—well, except for the rabid dog Atticus shoots. The death of a rabid dog is okay. You can die from rabies.

The Red Pony pops into my head, and I imagine how Steinbeck would write that scene. First of all, the dog would be Jem’s beloved pet. When the dog gets rabies, Atticus would make Jem shoot his very own pet. I’m glad Harper Lee didn’t write the story like that.