Chapter 29

“Time to get up!” Mom calls from the hallway.

I grunt and pull the covers over my head. It’s only eleven. There’s no reason to wake up this early! The parade doesn’t start until this afternoon. Surely, Mom will understand me sleeping a few more minutes . . . or hours.

My bedroom door suddenly swings open.

“GET UP!” Mom’s voice blares from the bullhorn that I really need to return to Mrs. Fox.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I reply. “But that bullhorn actually makes me wish for the evil song.”

Mom laughs. “I already made brunch. We need to get going if we want to get a good spot to watch the parade.”

Every year our town has a parade to commemorate the end of summer and to remind families that school starts in a couple of days. Parents really get into it for some reason. We kids aren’t quite as excited about the reminder.

I get dressed and come downstairs.

“What’s a parent’s favorite color?” Dad asks, bursting into the kitchen.

“School bus yellow,” Mom and Dad say together, laughing.

It’s one of Dad’s favorite jokes. I know he’s excited to see my brother and me back in school so we can educate our brains. He likes to remind us—as often as possible—that school gives us the opportunity for a brighter future.

“Just think,” he says. “Next Monday this house will be safe and quiet throughout the day.”

“What about our brains?” I ask.

“Those will be safe and quiet too.”

It appears that the rest of the family already ate. I grab a plate and start eating what appears to be cold pancakes and overdone bacon. And the orange juice is all gone. Mom says she couldn’t make as much as usual because she is missing four oranges.

“Hurry up, Bob,” Dad calls.

We all head out to the car. It’s decorated in black and gold streamers—our school colors. Our family isn’t even in the parade, but that’s how much back-to-school spirit my parents have.

“I wish we were in the parade,” Brian says.

“Your brother got us banned for a year,” Mom reminds him.

That’s true. Our town’s high school baseball team made it to the state finals last year, so my family celebrated by making a baseball float for the parade. The float was decorated to look like a baseball diamond, and Dad towed it behind his truck. My brother played the pitcher, and I was the batter. When we rounded Main Street, I thought actually hitting a ball would get people excited.

I blame Brian for what happened next. He’s not a very good pitcher. I mean, if you’re serious about baseball, you should throw a pitch that’s hard to hit. Anyway, we spent the beginning of the school year earning the money to repair the bank sign. We were also asked to sit out this year’s parade.

By the time we get to the parade route, lots of people are already there. All the parents are smiling and looking at each other like We made it through another summer!

I should’ve thought of this earlier, but I could have waited until today to invite everyone to church. After all, nearly the entire town is at the parade. I don’t know about you, but I get really bored at parades unless they’re throwing out candy. And not every float recognizes this vital necessity.

One year I tried to get my parents to walk against the direction of the parade so we could get to the candy-throwing floats sooner. My parents just laughed, smiled, and looked forward to hearing that first school bell ring.

At least today’s parade starts off well. Sheriff Morefield rolls down Main Street tossing donut holes from his police car. He even blasts his siren every once in a while.

As I wait for the candy-throwing floats, I decide to double-check my list to make sure I really have invited everyone to church. Looking at the list, I write down the names of the last few families Billy and I invited while driving around in the police car.

That’s when Billy’s family float comes rolling by. Their float is a candy-throwing kind, so I set aside my list to tell Billy to throw me some candy.

“Over here, Billy!” I call out as I open my mouth like a hungry big-mouth bass.

Billy tosses a gummy bear straight up into the air and catches it in his own mouth.

“Sorry, AB,” he says, chewing away. “I’m a really bad pitcher. Maybe I can be on the Smiley float next year and you won’t get in trouble again!”

I’m disappointed that I don’t get any candy, but I have to admit it’s a good joke. I go back to adding up everyone I’ve invited—and that’s when it hits me!

I bend down to pick up the hard candy that Donny just bounced off my head.

“You can put that in your locker’s secret safe at school on Monday!” Donny shouts.

Maybe Donny and I will get along better this year, because that’s a pretty good joke too.

I return to my calculations. After adding everyone up, the number of church invitations comes to 484.

Hold on! I think. There are 486 people in our town!

I begin to panic. Who have I overlooked? I pull out the antique phone book and check all the names I’ve marked off. Everyone is marked. Who am I missing?

I turn to the lady next to me and ask, “Did I invite you to church?”

“Yes,” she says. “Remember, you came back to fix the clothesline in my front yard. You invited us then. We’re actually coming tomorrow.”

I start running through the crowd, randomly asking everyone I see.

“Did I invite you to church?”

“Yes. You were wearing a funny unicorn Band-Aid,” says a random woman.

“Did I invite you to church?”

“Yes. I said I would go if you’d get your bike out of my flower bed,” says a random man.

“Did I invite you to church?”

“Yes. You said you’d finally bring my bullhorn back if I came,” says a not-so-random Mrs. Fox.

“Did I invite you to church?”

“Yes. And you bought some of my broccoli!” says the MegaMart manager.

It seems like I’ve invited everyone! I just know it. I continue to move through the crowd, interrupting conversations and distracting everyone I see. I know it’s rude, but this is important! In fact, inviting people to church is way more important than the most amazing tree house. And it’s definitely more important than brushing your teeth on a particular schedule.

Then, out of nowhere, someone grabs my collar.

“Hey, you’re not my da—” I start to say. Then I realize that it is my dad.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Dad, I’m two people short of inviting everyone in town to church,” I say. “And that was my biggest goal this summer!”

“I know it was,” he says. “That’s why your mother and I have been wondering when you were going to ask us.”

I freeze for a moment, then break into a grin. I never invited my parents! That’s why I am two people short. I open my mouth to invite him, but I choke on a gummy bear instead.

“Nice throw, Billy!” I yell.

But even as sweet as this gummy bear is, I know Sunday morning will be even sweeter.