Harper and the Sidewalk Puddle

“You’re bigger than my rain boots,” Harper tells the puddle.

It spreads across the sidewalk from one grassy edge to the other. Rainwater has collected in a low spot, making a wide, muddy lake right in Harper’s way. Little raindrops plink into it, though the rain has mostly stopped.

Harper hugs her library book to her chest. Its bright yellow cover shows a rabbit wearing a red scarf. She has promised to bring it home dry.

“Please don’t splash,” she tells the rabbit. “Your scarf should stay nice and fuzzy.”

Her dad walks beside her. They stop at the puddle’s edge and look at the muddy water.

“Could we go around?” Harper asks.

Dad looks at the narrow strip beside the puddle. It is all squishy mud. “That looks slippery,” he says. “Let’s stay on the dry sidewalk.”

Harper presses the toe of one boot gently against the muddy edge. The mud slides with a slick little shhh.

“Not that way,” she says. “I don’t want to slip or get the book wet.”

The puddle makes a ploop.

“Was that a laugh?” Harper asks.

“Ploop,” says the puddle, in Harper’s imagination. “I’m very wide today.”

“You are,” Harper agrees. “But we still need to get home.”

She looks up and down the sidewalk. There are no dry stepping-stones, and the puddle reaches farther than one big hop. A hop might send muddy water flying onto the book.

“No, thank you,” she tells the rabbit. “We’ll think of something better.”

A few flat stones lie near the grassy edge, and a small branch rests beside them. Harper leaves them where they are. The water looks shallow near the edges and darker in the middle. The mud looks slick wherever the water has spread.

“Perhaps you aren’t a lake after all,” she says to the puddle. “Perhaps you’re a puzzle.”

The puddle makes another ploop.

Harper smiles. “All right. Let’s find a safe answer.”

Harper stays on the dry sidewalk beside Dad. She keeps the library book tucked high under her arm and studies the puddle from a safe spot.

“I could look for a path across,” she says, “but the stones are wet, and the mud might move.”

“That’s right,” Dad says. “We won’t step on them. Let’s take another sidewalk.”

He points back the way they came. A little farther behind them, a side street has a dry sidewalk that curves around the puddle’s block and leads toward home.

“Is that our puzzle answer?” Harper asks.

“It is,” says Dad. “We’ll go together.”

“Good thinking, Dad,” Harper says. “You have a very good map in your head.”

“Ploop!” says the puddle. “You’re leaving me out!”

“Not forever,” Harper replies. “You can stay here and hold the raindrops.”

Harper and Dad turn around and walk back along the dry sidewalk. At the corner, Dad checks that it is safe to go, and they follow the side street together. Harper holds her book carefully, away from the puddles along the curb.

“One step,” she says. “Two steps. No splashing, please.”

A raindrop plinks behind them. Harper glances back, but she keeps walking beside Dad. The yellow cover stays dry, and the rabbit’s scarf stays bright red.

Soon, the sidewalk curves around the block and joins the way home. Harper gives the book a little pat. “We found a dry path!”

Harper and Dad walk on together. Her boots leave small damp prints on the sidewalk, but not one muddy spot touches the yellow cover.

At the next corner, Harper looks back. The puddle lies in its low place, holding a few raindrops and a wiggly picture of the clouds. Beside it, the stones and branch wait near the grass.

“Good-bye, puddle,” Harper calls. “You can be wide again tomorrow, if you like.”

“Ploop,” the puddle answers.

Harper thinks it sounds a little less like a laugh now. Maybe it is saying thank you. Maybe it is simply making puddle sounds. Either way, she waves.

They pass the mailbox with its damp red flag and the little front yards where spring flowers lift their heads after the rain. A tulip has gathered a bead of water on one petal. A robin hops along a fence, looking busy and important.

“Excuse me,” Harper tells the robin. “I’m carrying a very special rabbit.”

The robin gives a quick chirp and hops out of her way.

When Harper and Dad reach home, Harper opens the door carefully and steps inside. She sets her boots by the mat, then carries the library book to the kitchen table. The cover is still dry.

“Home safe,” she tells the rabbit. “And not one splash.”

She opens the book just enough to peek at the first picture. The rabbit in the red scarf sits beside a small wooden bridge. Harper smiles at him.

“I know how you feel,” she says. “Sometimes the way across takes a little thinking.”

Her family’s voices murmur from the next room. Harper sits at the table for a quiet moment, listening to the last drops patter outside. They tick against the window and fall from the roof into the garden, one by one.

The spring rain has left the sidewalks shining with puddles. Harper’s book rests dry on the table, ready for a bedtime story tomorrow. She closes its cover gently, says good night to the scarfed rabbit, and carries the day’s last rain sounds with her toward bed.