One summer it had even been kept short by Ziggy’s uncle Raphael’s pet goat. The grass was cut whenever someone thought about it. Ziggy’s mom sometimes planted flowers and sometimes vegetables in the front yard, so there was an odd assortment of tomato plants, roses, corn, and lilies growing together. It was huge, brightly painted, and cheerful. Basically boring, thought Rico.īut Ziggy’s house-now that was another story. She was the kind of mom who didn’t think dinner was complete unless a green vegetable was served. She went bowling with her friends every Friday night and took Rico to piano lessons every Saturday afternoon. Rico lived with his mom, who drove a dull brown car and worked in an office building downtown, where she wore sensible, flat shoes and wrote careful letters to people in other offices. Rico liked to go to Ziggy’s house because it was so different from his own. Rico Johnson grabbed his basketball and headed down the street to Ziggy’s house. But the day was warm, and no matter how he tried to ignore it, the sunshine had called him early to get up. It was still early for a boy who had just finished fifth grade and promised himself he would sleep until noon every day of summer vacation. SCHOOL WAS OVER AND THE SUMMER MORNING stretched ahead like a soft, sweet piece of bubble gum.
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