Return to Sender by Kevin Henkes Page A

in tying knots in the doll’s hair to see Barney, who was already approaching the porch. “Boy, oh boy,” Barney said, “it looks like Molly saw a ghost, or a spider, or Frogman, or . . .”
    Whitaker turned around quickly and got to his feet, dropping the doll. “Frogman? You know him, Barney?”
    â€œWell, not personally. But it seems to me I’ve heard of him.” He paused. “I’ll bet you want the mail.”
    â€œOnly if it’s for me,” Whitaker answered anxiously.
    â€œLet me see,” Barney said. “There’s a postcard from your Aunt Nancy and Uncle Iggie. They’re traveling in New York. The picture’s of that famous Miss Liberty statue.”
    â€œWhat else?” Whitaker asked.
    â€œWell, I see what appears to be a phone bill. And . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOne for you.”
    Barney held out the envelope to Whitaker. Whitaker snatched it excitedly. He tore open the envelope and saw the signature of his hero, written in what he thought was a perfectly disgusting shade of green. “Wow!” he shouted. He dashed inside the house, letting the screen door slam. “MO-O-O-O-o-o-o-om!”
    Barney smiled. He finished reading the postcard, and put it and the phone bill in the mailbox. Then he whistled his way down Kewaunee, the water tower looming in the distance.

CHAPTER 2
Who Believes
    â€œS EE? I KNEW HE’D answer me!” Whitaker said, as he held up the letter so Mrs. Murphy could read it while she scrubbed the remains of burned scrambled eggs from a frying pan.
    â€œWell, there has to be a catch,” Mrs. Murphy reasoned. She plopped the pan back into the dishwater, wiped her hands, and took the letter from Whitaker.
    â€œBe careful with it,” Whitaker said, wondering if his mother’s hands were perfectly dry. Hoping that they were.
    â€œThe postmark is smudged—so that’s no help,” she said. She reread the letter aloud and examined the signature. “Oh, Whit, I don’t know about you. Are you sure you just didn’t get someone to do this for you?”
    â€œYes. I’m sure. Barney brought it. You can even ask him.”
    â€œWell, I don’t know. We’ll have to let your father take a look at it when he comes home from work. I have a feeling it’s just another one of your tricks.” She paused, then added, “At least I think it is.”
    Whitaker sighed. He took the letter from his mother and carefully held it in his open hands as he walked down the hallway to Molly’s room. He thought that he might have heard his mother shout from the kitchen, “And Whitaker, please don’t scare your sister with that thing.” But he pretended that he hadn’t.
    After making Molly cry three times, Whitaker went to his room and closed the door. Lying on his bed, he studied the letter. Then he reached for the dictionary his parents had given him on his last birthday. It sat on the bookshelf beside his bed—dusty from neglect. Following the A’s until he came to the word “amphibious,” Whitaker read the definition: “able to live both on land and in water.” Wow, Whitaker thought.
    He traced the signature with his finger, imagining himself right alongside Frogman, fearlessly hopping to the rescue of the oppressed—knocking out Black Beetle and Sergeant Snakehead and The Army Ants with that rapid-fire tongue. Then, together, they’d triumphantly croak a victory song, silhouetted against the orange glow of sunset. The pictures in his head danced him to a late-morning nap. He dreamed of wars and insects, and of course frogs.
    That night when Whitaker showed the letter to his father, Mr. Murphy’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
    â€œI’ll be darned,” he said, shaking his head. “It looks like that hero of yours really is super.” He held the letter up to the floor lamp that stood next to the