The Curious World Of Calpurnia Tate - Plot & Excerpts
AS I BRUSHED MY HAIR one hundred strokes at bedtime, I asked, “What is the sea like, Aggie? And the beach, what is that like? What about seashells? Is it true that you can just walk along and pick them up for free, or do you have to pay for them?” “Pay? Don’t be silly—who would you pay?” “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” “You pick up whatever you want, although why you’d bother, I don’t know.” “For a shell collection, of course.” One of my resolutions last New Year’s Eve had been to set eyes on the ocean—any ocean—before I died, and since there was considerable doubt that this would ever happen, a shell collection would be a valuable thing to get my mitts on. Aggie said, “I can’t imagine why anyone would want a bunch of dirty old shells.” I found this conversation discouraging but persevered with, “Have you ever seen a dolphin? I’ve read all about them. They’re mammals, you know, warm-blooded. Not fish at all.” “How can they not be fish?”
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