Swept Away by Michelle Dalton

cold cuts if you get hungry,” she tells us. Then comes the whammy: “Is the library open today?” she asks me.
    â€œNo,” I reply. Luckily, it’s true. Mom’s there taking care of historical society business, but the library itself is closed to the public.
    Mrs. . . . Alice sighs. “I guess I’ll be driving over to Franklin. Let me know if you want me to pick up anything.”
    â€œWill do,” Oliver says.
    Made it through round one: meet the mom. I think I passed. Now onto round two: meet Freaky.
    Maybe we’ve all been wrong about him, I muse. The house is so . . . normal. Maybe Freaky is too.
    We go out the kitchen door. The backyard is much bigger than the one in front, though just as unattended. There’s a big shed that’s practically the size of a small cottage. A picnic table with benches sits under a shady tree; grass and weeds curl around the table legs. Right in front of the shed stands a worktable with an attached vise and a saw lying on it. I can smell that sweet scent of freshly cut and sanded wood. Sure enough, there are several pristine planks stacked beside the table.
    â€œPops?” Oliver calls. “You back here?” Oliver starts for the shed as I take a swig of soda and settle onto the picnic table bench.
    â€œDon’t need to holler.” Freaky Framingham emerges from the shed carrying a roll of chicken wire. He squints at me.
    â€œPops, this is Mandy. She’s going to help with the boat.”
    â€œHi,” I say. I have to force myself to not say “Hello, Freaky.”
    Freaky just gives a sharp nod, then leans the chicken wire against the shed. “Getting you your materials,” he tells Oliver. “That’s the way to start. Everything to hand.”
    â€œRight, Pops,” Oliver says. “We got much more to haul out?” He crosses to Freaky.
    â€œEnough.”
    They head toward the shed, and I stand and put the soda can on the table. Just as I start to follow them, Freaky calls over his shoulder, “We’ll handle it.”
    â€œUh. Oh. Okay.” I sit back down. Does he think that because I’m a girl I shouldn’t be around tools? Or does Freaky not want me in his shed?
    I take another sip of soda. The fog has burned off, and now the outside of the can is sweating. Soon I will be too.
    Oliver and Freaky come back out, Oliver carrying a toolbox, with his sketchbook tucked under his arm. Freaky has a staple gun in one hand and coiled wire in the other. Looking at them side by side, I can see the resemblance. They’re both long limbed, with narrowish shoulders. Neither would ever be mistaken for a football player. Freaky wears his standard flannel shirt and paint-spattered overalls. Today, maybe because he’s been­working, his wild gray hair is held back not only in a ponytail but a purple bandanna as well, hippie style.
    â€œI’ll leave you to it,” Freaky says. “Going fishing. Tell your mother.”
    â€œOkay,” Oliver says.
    Freaky goes back into the shed. Oliver lays the sketchbook on the picnic table and opens to a diagram of the structure he wants us to make. It’s a little intimidating.
    â€œSo I think I took care of all the math,” Oliver begins, but stops when Freaky comes back out with his fishing gear. Now he wears a battered canvas hat and has exchanged the flannel for a T-shirt, revealing muscular and tan arms. Skinny, but muscular. “Sinewy,” I guess is the word. The flannel is now tied by the sleeves around his hips. He nods as he passes but doesn’t say another word. He goes around the house, and in a few minutes we hear the truck start up.
    Oliver fiddles with the pencil he’s holding. “Um, so, my grandfather doesn’t really talk very much. Don’t take it personally.”
    â€œI don’t.”
    I wonder if Oliver has any idea of his grandpop’s rep in our town. Should I tell him, or will