Swept Away by Michelle Dalton Page A

that make him not like me?
    â€œPops helped me figure out what materials we’ll need,” Oliver says. “He had a lot of stuff already.”
    â€œSo how is this going to work?” I ask.
    He points to the sketchbook page. “We’ll use the planks as the base. Pops already cut them to the right size. We’ll build the lighthouse on top of that.”
    â€œOut of chicken wire,” I surmise.
    â€œExactly. It’s lightweight, so it should work.”
    â€œYeah,” I say with a laugh. “It would be pretty embarrassing if a lighthouse made a boat sink. It’s supposed to prevent that!”
    He grins, then returns to the page. “Once we’ve got the shape, we’ll cover it with papier-mâché and paint it.”
    â€œWhat about the hat?” I ask.
    â€œThe what?” His eyebrows knit together.
    My cheeks flush. “That’s what I call the spot up on top where the light used to be. That would be hard to construct out of chicken wire.”
    â€œOh! The lantern house,” he says. “I was thinking maybe balsa wood? It’s super lightweight. I use it to make models all the time.”
    So he’s a model maker. It tips him a bit into the nerdy category, but somehow that just makes me like him even more.
    â€œWhat kind of models?” I ask.
    He flushes. “Oh, you know, the usual. Old-fashioned airplanes. Whaling ships. That kind of thing.”
    â€œThat’s what had you so interested at the festival.”
    â€œYou saw that, huh.”
    â€œKinda sorta,” I say, and he grins again. I don’t know why, but it gives me a supreme lift being able to make him smile so easily.
    Oliver puts the boards on the worktable. “I figured out a scale that will work on the boat but still be big enough to sit inside.”
    â€œHow will you row?” I ask, trying to understand what he has in mind.
    â€œWho said I’m going to be the one rowing?”
    I gape at him. “You roped me into this project so that I can be the one doing the hard work?”
    â€œKidding!” he says. “Though . . .” He studies the boards. “You’d probably fit better than I would.”
    â€œLet’s make sure the thing is seaworthy before I even think about volunteering for that job.”
    He shows me the mini keeper’s house he already started making, then we spend the morning working on the lighthouse tower. We hammer the boards together to make an open square, then use staple guns to attach the chicken wire to it. Oliver is very precise about everything, so it takes forever. He had noticed that Candy Cane narrows toward the top and insisted our chicken wire version do the same. It’s not easy to do, especially since it’s my job to hold the ends together while he checks the measurements and his drawings. The wire digs into my hands, leaving deep, red grooves. He’s rapidly going from cute to annoying.
    Once we have the basic shape down, Oliver steps back and announces, “We need a break.”
    â€œThat’s for sure.” I use my arm to wipe the sweat off my forehead, and open and close my hands, trying to stretch them out. I never knew you could sprain your palms.
    â€œHow about we eat down by the river?” he suggests.
    â€œSounds good.” Maybe my cranky will vanish once I’m sitting in the shade and don’t have to worry about making sure my nails go in absolutely straight, or that the staples are evenly spaced. And I thought Mr. Forester the science teacher is exacting.
    I follow Oliver back into the house. Freaky hasn’t returned. The silver car is out front, so his mom is still around somewhere.
    â€œSo . . . lobster mac ’n’ cheese doesn’t really seem like picnic food.”
    â€œNot so much,” I agree, relieved I don’t have to confess my antiseafood stance. I also realize I’m starving. A quick glance at the clock tells me we worked