Return to Sender by Kevin Henkes Page B

sofa where they sat, taking full advantage of the light.
    â€œI don’t think Mom believes it’s real,” Whitaker whispered.
    â€œIt’s real all right. But I wonder where it came from.”
    â€œDad,” Whitaker impatiently explained, as if the whole world should have known, “it came from Frogman, who is on TV every Saturday morning, who I think I saw last week in the creek by the spaceship at Horlick’s Field, who—”
    â€œWait a minute, Whitaker James,” Mr. Murphy interrupted. “I don’t question the fact that Frogman is on TV every Saturday morning. And I admit, I didn’t discourage you from writing to him—although maybe I should have. But you never saw a six-foot frog with a cape in the creek at Horlick’s Field. And that spaceship is a water tower. Nothing else.”
    Molly, who had been hiding behind the sofa listening, suddenly popped up. “I told you, Whitaker. I told you,” she said. She jumped onto the sofa and crawled into Mr. Murphy’s lap. “Tell him again, Daddy.”
    â€œTell her that this letter is real,” Whitaker said. “Dad, you said it was real.” He turned toward Molly and added, “And if little sisters touch it, they get warts.” He brushed the envelope against Molly’s cheek, picturing her face covered with a thousand enormous green pimples.
    â€œTell him it’s not real,” Molly pleaded.
    â€œTell her it is, ” Whitaker demanded.
    â€œWell . . .” began Mr. Murphy, very slowly, thinking very fast.
    â€œWell?” Whitaker said.
    â€œWell?” Molly said.
    â€œWell . . .” Mr. Murphy repeated. “Let’s go ask your mother.”
    Whether anyone else believed in it or not, the letter from Frogman immediately became Whitaker’s most prized possession. It was more valuable to him than his Brewer batting helmet or his baseball autographed by Hank Aaron. More valuable than his dead bug collection or his fiberglass knife with its real cowhide sheath. And even more valuable than his jar of black sand that Aunt Nancy and Uncle Iggie brought back from their trip to Hawaii.
    Whitaker put the letter under his pillow at night. During the day, he folded it in half and in half once more, and kept it in his front pocket along with his usual assortment of front pocket necessities—a cat’s-eye marble, an inch-thick rubber band, a few baseball cards, a picture of Frogman cut from the back of a box of Colonel Cornflakes, a flattened penny, and a dead wasp or fly to add to his collection.
    Whitaker read and reread the letter nearly a hundred times, so that in a matter of days the creases started to give way. Soon the letter was in four wrinkled and ripped and tattered pieces. Whitaker knew what that meant. It was time to write to Frogman again.

CHAPTER 3
An Unpleasant Morning
    W HITAKER’S SECOND LETTER to Frogman was written and mailed—in the same fashion as the first—before his parents had a chance to talk with him about what kinds of things in life are real, what kinds are make-believe, and how to tell the difference.
    This time, Whitaker asked Frogman how many flies he ate daily. How old he was. And if he had a little sister, and weren’t they a pain?
    As he walked back from the mailbox downtown, Whitaker decided to take better care of the new reply when he received it. He wouldn’t fold it or stash it under his pillow. I know, he thought, I’ll keep it in the exact middle of my dictionary. Whitaker was pleased. In his entire life he had never had any desire to use a dictionary, and now within a few days he had actually looked up a word, and believe it or not, he had discovered an even better use for it—a safe home for his anticipated letter.
    As the previous time, Orson Pitt was the first person to take notice of the new letter. Again, he stamped the envelope Return to Sender, Not Deliverable As Addressed. But