A Summer to Die by Lois Lowry

stroked the fine, wispy, babylike hair she has left.
    I could understand, I guess, the change in Molly if she were still sick. But she isn't; she's perfectly well.
She is still taking the pills, and every few weeks Mom takes her to Portland to the hospital, for tests, to make sure everything is okay. Soon, the doctors said, she'll be able to stop taking the pills altogether, and then her hair will grow back. She'll win a beauty contest, the specialist told her, when she has her curls again.

    Mom told us that at dinner, after they had come back from the hospital, and Molly just smiled, the casual and tolerant kind of smile that most people give to small children who say foolish things. But there was a time when it would have meant something to Molly, to be told she was beautiful.
    Well, things change. I just have to learn to adjust to what they change to.
    One morning early in June, my father came into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sighed. I was just finishing my breakfast and had planned to spend all of Saturday morning in the darkroom. I had photographed Maria by her kitchen window, and Will and I were experimenting with different kinds of paper for the finished prints. I could hardly wait to try printing Maria in different contrasts, textures, and tones.
    But when Dad pouts a cup of coffee, sits down in the kitchen, and sighs, I know I'd better stick around because something's up.
    "I just got a phone call," he said, "from Clarice Callaway."

    "Are your books overdue?" I asked. "She's a real stickler about overdue books."
    He laughed. "No, she and I have achieved a pretty good understanding about my overdue books. I wish that's all it were. She started the conversation by saying, 'I don't want to meddle, but—' You know what that means."
    "It means she wants to meddle. Sometimes she starts with, 'I don't mean to be inquisitive, but—.'"
    "Right. And that means she means to be inquisitive. I can see you have Clarice figured out, Meg. Well, this time she's upset about Will renting the house. She says the whole village is up in arms—which I assume is a Callaway exaggeration–because there are hippies living in Will's house."
    "Hippies? What's that supposed to mean?"
    Dad frowned. "
I
don't know. Ben has a beard, and I guess by Clarice's definition that makes him a hippie. But maybe you can shed some light on the things she brought up. Is it true that Ben and Maria are growing marijuana behind the house?"
    I started to laugh. "Dad, of course not. They've put in peas and strawberries so far. Ben wants to plant squash, but he hasn't decided what varieties yet. And his tomatoes and beans go in this week."
    "Is it true that they walk around nude?"

    "Good grief, Dad. No, it isn't true, but even if it were, whose business would it be? They're out in the middle of nowhere. One afternoon Maria took off her shirt and lay in the sun. When I came along, she had her shirt off, and she asked me if I minded. I said I didn't, and she left it off for a while. She gets so hot and uncomfortable, because the baby's due soon."
    "Well, that was another of Clarice's topics. Is it true that they're planning to have that baby by themselves, in the house?"
    "Yes. But they've both been reading everything they can find about delivering a baby. Maria's doing all sorts of exercises, and they took a course together in Boston. And Dr. Putnam in the village has agreed to come if they need him."
    Dad scratched his head. "No chance that they'll change their minds about that?"
    "I don't think so, Dad. It's very important to them. They're really excited about doing it themselves, about having the baby born there in the house, instead of in a hospital. They don't like the impersonal qualities of a hospital. But the baby's important to them, too. They're doing everything they can to be sure the baby will be safe and healthy."
    "Well, I guess I can try to convince Clarice of
that. So that leaves only one thing.