The Remarkable Journey of Coyote Sunrise

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The Remarkable Journey of Coyote Sunrise Page 26

by Dan Gemeinhart


  Rodeo nodded and sighed.

  “I know. I just don’t think I can stay here, and—”

  “Me, neither,” I interrupted him. His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Coming back here was … something I had to do. And I’m glad we did. But it’s hard, being here. I don’t think I could walk past that torn-up park every day.

  “But I want to take them with us. Mom. And Ava. And Rose. I’m not leaving ’em behind, not ever again. We’re a family again. Okay?”

  Rodeo’s eyes were red and watery, but he looked ’em into mine and nodded.

  “Okay.”

  “And I don’t just wanna leave here. I wanna go somewhere. Not running away. Looking. Looking for a home. A home without four wheels. That’s what I want. Okay?”

  Rodeo blinked at me. Then he nodded, a deep, slow nod.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. We’ll find it.”

  And I leaned over and grabbed my dad in a hug, and my dad hugged me back.

  “Good,” he said. “Now, let’s go in and help your grandma with the dishes.” He let me go and stood up and walked away from me, toward the back door glowing warm with yellow light.

  “One more thing, Dad.” He turned to me and I said, “For god’s sake, will you cut off that beard now?”

  My dad took a step back toward me and he leaned down and said into my eyes, “Absolutely not,” and then he smiled and I knew I was smiling back.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-EIGHT

  And so here we are now. Rambling still, but maybe not roaming. Wandering, but also looking. We ain’t drifting so much as waiting. Like a dandyflower seed, blown free by a breath from the sweetest little girl the world ever saw, floating with the sunshine but looking for soil, looking to take root, looking to flower. That’s us. That’s me and Rodeo. That’s me and my dad.

  And you know what? Driving toward something is better than driving away from something. Way better.

  I do cry sometimes. But I don’t have to hide it anymore. When I feel sad, when I miss my mom or my sisters, I can just cry. And my dad puts his arm around my shoulder. And sometimes he cries with me. And it’s awful. And I love it.

  Yeah. Maybe I’m a little broken. Maybe I’m a little fragile. But I think of Val, and Salvador, and Lester, and I think it’s all right. Maybe we’re all a little broken. Maybe we’re all a little fragile. Maybe that’s why we need each other so much.

  Every morning, Rodeo asks me where I want to go. And if I have an opinion on the matter, I tell him. And I know that the next time I tell him I want to visit Poplin Springs, Washington—and there will be a next time, absolutely—then that’s where we’ll go.

  I don’t take care of my dad anymore. We take care of each other.

  Back in my room, under my bed, there’s a box. Inside the box is a treasure. A whole pile of treasures, actually. Sometimes I sit and look through them. Sometimes we sit and look through them together.

  I started a new tradition for us, too. Most nights before we go to sleep, we each tell a memory. One a day. A memory about our family. It can be a big memory or a small memory, a sad memory or a happy memory. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes, I write them down and put them in the box.

  I remember the night before we made it home. How I was afraid that once I got there, my mom and my sisters would feel gone. Well, they are gone. But, lord, they aren’t gone at all. Not even close. Not anymore. Not ever again.

  And then one day, we see it. That green highway road sign with the name of a town on it. A town we visited years ago, and liked. Loved, even. A small town, with nice folks. A town we’ve maybe been working our way toward but pretending we weren’t. A river runs through it, always moving, but always there. It’s got a bakery with big, round sourdough loaves that are absolute heaven with a smear of butter on ’em. It’s got a middle school with a big soccer field. And, over by the laundromat, it’s got a taco truck. There’s even a drive-in movie place in the summer. It’s a fine place. A place that’s worth a shot, maybe.

  And the sign, it’s telling us that town is ten miles away.

  The sun is coming sideways through Yager’s windows, and she’s humming all around us. To be honest, there’s still a faint smell of goat to the place, but we’re used to it, and even if we weren’t we wouldn’t mind, because she was a darn fine goat and traveling companion.

  Ivan is sitting on the dashboard, eyes half-closed, gazing out at the highway.

  The sun is thinking of setting, but she won’t just yet. She’s gonna light our way right into town. She’s gonna leave us enough light to get there. And then there’ll be the coolness of night. And then we’ll wake up to a new day.

  I look up at the Holy Hell Bell, and it’s gleaming like St. Peter’s gates up there in a sun ray and I think about standing up and ringing it, but I don’t, because it ain’t that kind of moment. It’s just not. It’s rich and it’s full and it’s a certain deep kind of happy, but it’s already ringing with its own quiet music.

  And then my dad says, “Give me a once-upon-a-time, Ella.”

  And I smile. And I rub my eyes. And I take a little breath, and then a big one.

  And I’m almost silenced by how much story there is to tell in this world. Almost.

  I stand there, looking out at the world we’re driving into. None of it had to happen. Not one bit. Sunrises and sunsets and ice cream cones never had to exist, shooting stars and acoustic guitars and holding hands, good books and warm blankets and goodnight kisses—none of them ever had to be. Mama and Ava and Rose never had to live and breathe; they could’ve never come to be. Rodeo and me and Yager and Lester and Grandma and Salvador and Val and Ivan could’ve never come to be. All of it, every little bit, could’ve never happened, and I could’ve never seen it and I’d never even know I hadn’t.

  But it did. And I did. Oh, I did.

  There is so much happiness in the world.

  There is so much sadness in the world.

  There is just so much in the world.

  “Well,” I say, and I squeeze my dad’s shoulder, “once upon a time, there was a girl and her dad.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The biggest fiction in any book is that there is usually only one name on the cover. I’m in debt to so many folks for all their help and support along the way in getting this story out into the world.

  Thanks to my agents, Pam and Bob, for finding Coyote a home and fighting for her every step of the way.

  To my amazing editor, Christian, whose yes made this book possible and whose intelligence and sensitivity made the story immeasurably better.

  To all the hardworking folks at Henry Holt and MacKids, thanks for making lots of beautiful books, including this little one.

  To Celia Krampien, for bringing Coyote and Ivan to life and giving my story such a wonderful, perfect cover.

  To all the other kidlit writers and storytellers with whom I’ve connected in real life or online … it’s so great to be in a community with you, doing this work.

  To all the teachers and librarians out there who share books with their students, and who make it possible and joyful to make a living writing stories for young people.

  To all you readers who pick up a book when there are so many other things you could be picking up—you kids reading on buses and sidewalks and park benches and couches and beaches, in cars and beds and classrooms and airplanes and restaurants: I see you and I am you and I thank you.

  And last, but not remotely least, to all my friends and family, who have always been in my corner. Thank you, times a million.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dan Gemeinhart lives in a small town smack-dab in the middle of Washington State with his wife and three young daughters. He was lucky and grateful to be a teacher-librarian in an elementary school for fourteen years, where he got to share awesome books with awesome kids. He loves camping, cooking, and traveling. He also plays guitar (badly) and reads (constantly). His house is always a mess. He is really pretty darn happy.


  Visit him online at dangemeinhart.com, or sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2019 by Dan Gemeinhart

  Lyrics to “Be Set Free” printed with permission of Langhorne Slim

  Henry Holt and Company

  Publishers since 1866

  Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010

  mackids.com

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Gemeinhart, Dan, author.

  Title: The remarkable journey of Coyote Sunrise / Dan Gemeinhart.

  Description: First edition.|New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2019. | Summary: Twelve-year-old Coyote and her father rush to Poplin Springs, Washington, in their old school bus to save a memory box buried in a park that will soon be demolished.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018021834 | ISBN 9781250196705 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250196712 (eBook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Automobile travel—Fiction. | Fathers and daughters— Fiction. | Single-parent families—Fiction. | Grief—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.G46 Rem 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018021834

  Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by email at [email protected].

  First hardcover edition, 2019

  eBook edition, January 2019

 

 

 


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