The next day is the same: explore our part of the island, swim with Mom, dinner on the beach, no television or Internet. The only things different are that Mom makes me stay away from the jungle and we have barbecued chicken and cornbread for supper. After dinner, the grownups do the same boring thing: talk, talk, hug, hug around the campfire.
Aunt Rita is talking on the phone when I come into the kitchen the third morning. The phone is weird. It’s blue, big, and mounted on the wall. The part that Rita is talking into is linked to the wall phone by a curly blue cord. Jeeps, so very last century.
“Of course, I sent the material,” Aunt Rita is saying in a loud voice. “The package is probably sitting on the i***t’s desk somewhere. What? What? I can’t hear you,” Rita slaps the side of the ph
