Carol Kean is a wonderful woman, and not just because she approves of my typing practice. Ever since meeting her, we’ve kept in touch and exchanged family gossip, book tips, writing ideas, and we’ve read each other’s work. I read an early draft of Comrade Cruises and thought it was great.
The cruise ship was so much bigger than Emmy expected, she couldn’t even think of a word for it. Gargantuan was one, but that sounded like a giant tarantula. Titanic was downright terrifying, for a girl about to set sail.
“Colossal,” she decided, saying it out loud but not too loud. Emmy was learning not to sound smarter than other seven-year-olds. It wasn’t fair to them.
Her foster mother gripped her hand. “You lucky girl, Emmy. Think of the memories you’re about to make!” Leaning toward foster Dad, “FM” (Fake Mom) half-whispered out the side of her mouth, “If this doesn’t make her glad we saved her from those terrible people, nothing will.”
She got that right. Nothing would.