The Summer Sherman Loved Me

by Jane St. Anthony

• ISBN13: 9780374372897
• ISBN10: 0374372896
• Format: Trade Book
• Copyright: 2006-04-18
• Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

Summary

What happens when you get what you think you want and then don't know what to do with it? When twelve-year-old Margaret hears the boy next door call to her in the middle of the night, her heart races with excitement and nervousness. Will this mean Sherman is her boyfriend? Although Sherman insists that Margaret come and join him for a moonlit bike ride, he doesn't know what to expect any more than she does. But Sherman makes a big mistake on their first date, and Margaret doesn't know if she will ever forgive him. Things get even more chaotic when Sherman shows up with a squirrel he calls Little Margaret. Facing disapproval from her mother, the complications inherent in living with three-year-old twin sisters, and self-imposed pressure to emulate a best friend with confidence enough for two, Margaret attempts to sort out her feelings for Sherman. In the process, she may just find a place for herself in her family and the larger world, in this sparkling debut novel set in the early 1960s.

Author Biography

JANE ST. ANTHONY lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Table of Contents

The Summer Sherman Loved Me

1

"Margaret, I love you," Sherman Jenson whispered loudly from his porch across our front yards the first time I slept on my porch during summer vacation.

I lay still. My face and body were lower than the windowsill. From next door, Sherman must have seen me come out. My chest swelled with pressure. My heart was too full.

A dull thud followed from next door, then the muffled cries of Bobby, Sherman's brother. Sherman was older and larger than Bobby. Bobby's legs were so skinny there didn't seem to be room for bones in them.

"Margaret?"

Suddenly Sherman's voice was so close to my ear that it seemed to be in my head. He had come outside. His face pressed against the porch screen.

"Margaret?"

Was I supposed to say something? Was this supposed to be a conversation?

"Margaret," Sherman said, "come outside."

When we were younger, Sherman and I rode bikes together in the summer. He liked to show off for me, riding with no hands. I hardly ever saw him up close anymore.

Sherman Jenson was almost thirteen. He had the kind of arms that could rescue girls. His voice had dropped so that he sounded more like his dad than his mom when he yelled at Bobby. He was blond. He was cute. And I--too tall, with brown hair and no memorable features--must look cute to him, if he loved me.

But leave the porch? It was already halfway outside. In our family we never unlocked the doors at night except in an emergency, such as when one grandparent fell and the other one called us to come over and help. The sliding bolt on the porch door was our only protection against the unknown.

And now Sherman had invited me out. A date, almost. How could I not go? I hugged my bare arms, wanting to be covered by more than a thin nightgown.

"Just a minute," I whispered back to Sherman. As soon as I spoke, I wished I had pretended to be asleep.

One of the twins had abandoned her baby doll on a lawn chair on the porch. The doll lay wrapped in a piece of old doll blanket secured at her neck. I undid the safety pin and threw the blanket around my shoulders, fastening the pin over the lump in my throat. Then I walked to the door and slid the bolt out of its bracket as quietly as I could.

Sherman sat on the lawn between our houses. I walked towardhim. He didn't have a shirt on, only striped pajama bottoms. The streetlights grinned silently at my nightgown. I sat down on the damp grass and looked straight ahead.

Sherman cleared his throat. His head, I sensed, was locked in the forward position, too. "What should we do?" he asked.

What should we do? Wasn't he the one who had invited me to leave my foldout metal bed on the porch? "I don't know," I answered.

"Let's go to the park."

"Why?" I said.

"You know. Hang around."

"How would we get there?" I asked, recognizing it as a stupid question the minute it came out of my mouth. The edge of the park was less than one city block away from where we sat on the grass.

Sherman was silent. I waited. "Bike," he said.

"Mine is in the garage," I said. "I think it's locked."

"I'll get mine. And Bobby's." He jumped up and raced around the side of his house.

I put my face in my hands, trying to escape from the picture of Mother staring at me, her face tight and drawn with disbelief.

Sherman wheeled both bikes out of his garage at once, one on each side of his lean frame. "Let's go," he said, running the bikes down the hill of lawn to the street.

Bobby's bike was too short for me. When I sat on it, my knees jutted up and out as if they were two missiles aimed atslightly off-center targets. I stood up for a second to arrange my nightgown underneath me. It wanted to bunch up in front because of the bar on the boy's bike.

Sherman started off down the street. I biked after him.

A light winked in the Underwoods' house where old Mrs. Underwood lived with her son, Mr. Underwood. Mrs. Underwood was widely known for the popcorn balls she made for Halloween. Mr. Underwood smiled all the time, even when he took the trash out.

I looked ahead. Sherman neared the corner. My bare toes gripped the cool pedals. The blanket lifted off my back a little as I pedaled faster. A black cat skittered in front of me, and I almost hit it in the dark. I hoped that it had a patch of white somewhere on its body.

Copyright © 2006 by Jane St. Anthony

Excerpts

From The Summer Sherman Loved Me
“Margaret, I love you,” Sherman Jenson whispered loudly
from his porch across our front yards the first time I slept on
my porch during summer vacation.
I lay still. My face and body were lower than the windowsill.
From next door, Sherman must have seen me come out. My
chest swelled with pressure. My heart was too full.
A dull thud followed from next door, then the muffled cries of
Bobby, Sherman’s brother. Sherman was older and larger than
Bobby. Bobby’s legs were so skinny there didn’t seem to be
room for bones in them.
“Margaret?”
Suddenly Sherman’s voice was so close to my ear that it seemed
to be in my head. He had come outside. His face pressed
against the porch screen.
“Margaret?”
Was I supposed to say something? Was this supposed to be a
conversation?
“Margaret,” Sherman said, “come outside.”
When we were younger, Sherman and I rode bikes together in
the summer. He liked to show off for me, riding with no hands.
I hardly ever saw him up close anymore.
Sherman Jenson was almost thirteen. He had the kind of arms
that could rescue girls . . . He was blond. He was cute. And I
– too tall, with brown hair and no memorable features – must
look cute to him, if he loved me.
But leave the porch?

---

Excerpted from The Summer Sherman Loved Me by Jane St Anthony
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.