Jubilee

All the Way Home

Eleven

The Gift of the Pirate Queen

Gingersnap

A House of Tailors

Lily's Crossing

Maggie's Door

Nory Ryan's Song

Pictures of Hollis Woods

R My Name Is Rachel

Storyteller

Until I Find Julian

Water Street

Wild Girl

Willow Run

Winter Sky

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2016 by Patricia Reilly Giff

Cover art copyright © 2016 by Dawn Cooper

Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Sarah Hokanson

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Wendy Lamb Books, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Wendy Lamb Books and the colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Giff, Patricia Reilly, author.

Title: Jubilee / Patricia Reilly Giff.

Description: First Edition. | New York : Wendy Lamb Books, [2016] | Summary: “Judith stopped talking long ago when Mom left her in the care of beloved Aunt Cora. Going back into a regular fifth-grade classroom won't be easy, but she has her Dog and new friend who will help her through”—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015045694 | ISBN 978-0-385-74486-7 (hardback) | ISBN 978-0-385-74487-4 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-0-385-74488-1 (ebook)

Subjects: | CYAC: Selective mutism—Fiction. | Dogs—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Islands—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / General (see also headings under Social Issues).

Classification: LCC PZ7.G3626 Ju 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

Ebook ISBN 9780385744881

The illustrations were rendered in pencil.

Random House Children's Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v4.1

ep

T
he last day of freedom. School tomorrow!

I sat on the edge of the wharf, legs dangling, holding my pad and pencils.

I drew a kid with red hair and green eyes, brows a little thick. I used quick lines for a pointy nose, and a squirrely nest of corkscrews for the hair.

It was turning out to be a girl like me, Judith Ann Magennis.

I tapped the pencil. What was missing?

Of course, the mouth.

My pencil hovered over the blank space. I tore the paper out of the pad, scrunched it up, and tossed it into the water.

Maybe like a mother who'd toss a kid away.

I hid my pad and pencils under a rock and slid down under the wharf to cool off. Water swished in, and I spread my hands like starfish to capture bits of shells.

Noise exploded above me—pounding on the wooden planks.

“I'm going to get you!” a voice yelled.

Me? I ducked under the water and came up dripping. I listened as feet barreled out to the deep end. Not me after all.

“Yeow!” someone yelled, and there was a huge splash.

I peered out from behind a splintery piling. What was going on?

“Serves you right, Mason!” the voice shouted. “Keep your hands off my books. Fingerprints all over them!”

Mason. I knew who he was. He was always a mess. Once I'd seen him rolling down the hill with his brother. He was on the bottom, then winning, on top, grass stains and mud all over him.

I glanced up through the spaces in the wharf and caught a glimpse of his brother, Jerry, who walked away, acting as if he owned the world.

In the water, Mason was a perfect cartoon, mouth open, sputtering, hair plastered to his head.

He swam around the side of the wharf and scrambled up onto the sand. Then he was gone.

I climbed up to the wharf and shook my hair dry. I loved this island. In the distance I could see the coast of Maine, a misty purple blur. And across from me were wooden walls that creaked and groaned when the ferry edged into the slip.

My mother had left on that ferry when I was a toddler, dropping me off at Aunt Cora's as if I were a bundle of laundry.

She sent presents at Christmas and cards on my birthday, postmarked Oakdale, or Vista, or even Apple Valley. She signed them
Mom,
or
Mother,
or her name,
Amber.
She didn't even know what to call herself.

A small boat sped by, sending up a curved wake. A man at the tiller turned off the motor and shouted back at me. “Hey, kid!”

I raised my hand to wave.

“Want a dog?”

Before I could move, he'd picked up a dog and dropped him into the water. “Can't keep him.” He switched on the motor again and veered toward open water.

The dog struggled, paddling against the boat's wake.

Poor dog.

Without thinking, I raced along the wharf and dived into the water.

There was a fierce riptide here. It made no difference to me. Gideon, the ferry boat captain, had taught me to swim by the time I was three.

“Swim with the tide, then around it,” he'd told me. “Don't fight it.”

But the dog was fighting; I could see how tired he was. And soon he'd pass the end of the island and be swept out to sea.

I couldn't speak, but I could certainly swim! I took long, sure strokes and kicked hard and evenly.

When I was close to him, I grabbed the narrow blue collar around his neck, but it came apart in my hand. I gripped a handful of his thick fur; then, with one arm around his neck, I swam back to shore.