Growing Up & Facts of Life
![Morgan Matson - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0034PNLF4.jpg)
The Firefly Summer
The Penderwicks meets The Vanderbeekers of 141st Street in New York Times bestselling author Morgan Matson's middle grade debut about a young girl who gets to know her mom's side of the family and hunts for hidden treasure over the course of one chaotic summer.
For as long as Ryanna Stuart can remember, her summers have been spent with her father and his new wife. Just the three of them, structured, planned, and quiet. But this summer is different. This summer, she's received a letter from her grandparents-grandparents neither she nor her dad have spoken to since her mom's death-inviting her to stay with them at an old summer camp in the Poconos.
Ryanna accepts. She wants to learn about her mom. She wants to uncover the mystery of why her father hasn't spoken to her grandparents all these years. She's even looking forward to a quiet summer by the lake. But what she finds are relatives…so many relatives! Aunts and uncles and cousins upon cousins-a motley, rambunctious crew of kids and eccentric, unconventional adults. People who have memories of her mom from when she was Ryanna's age, clues to her past like a treasure map. Ryanna even finds an actual, real-life treasure map!
Over the course of one unforgettable summer-filled with s'mores and swimming, adventure and fun, and even a decades-old mystery to solve-Ryanna discovers a whole new side of herself and that, sometimes, the last place you expected to be is the place where you really belong.
For as long as Ryanna Stuart can remember, her summers have been spent with her father and his new wife. Just the three of them, structured, planned, and quiet. But this summer is different. This summer, she's received a letter from her grandparents-grandparents neither she nor her dad have spoken to since her mom's death-inviting her to stay with them at an old summer camp in the Poconos.
Ryanna accepts. She wants to learn about her mom. She wants to uncover the mystery of why her father hasn't spoken to her grandparents all these years. She's even looking forward to a quiet summer by the lake. But what she finds are relatives…so many relatives! Aunts and uncles and cousins upon cousins-a motley, rambunctious crew of kids and eccentric, unconventional adults. People who have memories of her mom from when she was Ryanna's age, clues to her past like a treasure map. Ryanna even finds an actual, real-life treasure map!
Over the course of one unforgettable summer-filled with s'mores and swimming, adventure and fun, and even a decades-old mystery to solve-Ryanna discovers a whole new side of herself and that, sometimes, the last place you expected to be is the place where you really belong.
Editorial Reviews
"Matson's vibrant setting, peopled with an easygoing extended family that encourages free play, is irresistibly rendered, while Ryanna's quest to learn more about her mother, as well as her father's falling out with the family, imbues the carefully plotted central mystery with emotional resonance." -- -Publishers Weekly, STARRED ― 3/20/2023
"Like a great summer camp, this tale evokes the best of the past while setting the stage for something new." -- -Kirkus Reviews, STARRED ― 3/1/23
"Morgan Matson's middle grade debut is brimming with heart, summer nostalgia, and a bit of mystery too! This is the kind of book you wish you could live in." -- -Julie Murphy, #1 New York Times Bestselling author
"The Firefly Summer is a deeply satisfying story - well crafted, evocative and so funny. It's whole hearted and deliciously timeless-capturing the feeling of a truly magical summer." -- -Adele Griffin, two-time National Book Award nominee and author of The Beckett List
"A sparkling middle-grade debut." -- -Sarah Mlynowski, New York Times bestselling author of Whatever After
"The Firefly Summer is heartfelt and hilarious, witty and wise, with indelible characters and laugh-out-loud humor. A fantastic read for any season of the year." -- -Stuart Gibbs, New York Times Best Selling author of Spy School
"I loved this book - I laughed and cried and immediately craved s'mores." -- - Julie Buxbaum, New York Times bestselling author of The Area 51 File
"The Firefly Summer is an ode to warm summer nights, bittersweet memories, and the enduring love of family. I loved every page of this charming, clever story." -- -Brandy Colbert, award-winning author of The Only Black Girls in Town
"Mystery! Humor! Dead lizards? The Firefly Summer has it all - I loved it!" -- – Max Brallier, New York Times bestselling author of the The Last Kids On Earth
"Like a great summer camp, this tale evokes the best of the past while setting the stage for something new." -- -Kirkus Reviews, STARRED ― 3/1/23
"Morgan Matson's middle grade debut is brimming with heart, summer nostalgia, and a bit of mystery too! This is the kind of book you wish you could live in." -- -Julie Murphy, #1 New York Times Bestselling author
"The Firefly Summer is a deeply satisfying story - well crafted, evocative and so funny. It's whole hearted and deliciously timeless-capturing the feeling of a truly magical summer." -- -Adele Griffin, two-time National Book Award nominee and author of The Beckett List
"A sparkling middle-grade debut." -- -Sarah Mlynowski, New York Times bestselling author of Whatever After
"The Firefly Summer is heartfelt and hilarious, witty and wise, with indelible characters and laugh-out-loud humor. A fantastic read for any season of the year." -- -Stuart Gibbs, New York Times Best Selling author of Spy School
"I loved this book - I laughed and cried and immediately craved s'mores." -- - Julie Buxbaum, New York Times bestselling author of The Area 51 File
"The Firefly Summer is an ode to warm summer nights, bittersweet memories, and the enduring love of family. I loved every page of this charming, clever story." -- -Brandy Colbert, award-winning author of The Only Black Girls in Town
"Mystery! Humor! Dead lizards? The Firefly Summer has it all - I loved it!" -- – Max Brallier, New York Times bestselling author of the The Last Kids On Earth
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
I could tell something was wrong the second I came downstairs.
First of all, my dad was sitting at the kitchen table.
I know for most people, this might not be weird. Normal dads probably sit at kitchen tables all the time.
But we live in Los Angeles, and my dad is a writer-he writes screenplays. Not just everything the actors say-all the action and settings and everything else that happens in a movie has to be written down too. (Not everyone knows this. Nana, my dad's mom, still thinks that the actors make up their own lines, no matter how many times my dad tells her otherwise.) He also used to direct movies, until his last one did so badly that now he's in movie jail, and when we go on hikes, producers pretend they don't see him when he waves.
But because of this, my dad was normally always busy writing something, and always in motion-pacing around our pool as he tried to figure out a story problem, or working in his office, or in meetings. He was almost never just sitting still at home. So right away, I knew something was up.
"What's up?" I asked as I came into the kitchen.
I'd been upstairs reading, which was pretty much what I'd been doing since school let out last week. I'd managed to make it through the sixth grade, even though I barely passed PE. (My PE teacher didn't seem to get that some people can climb ropes and some people can't. And that no amount of encouraging me to do it would magically give me the ability as I spun in circles a few inches off the ground and everyone snickered.)
I'd been deep into a mystery-my favorite type of book to read. My current favorite series was Miss Terry's Case Files, where the heroine, Terry Turner, is a seventh-grade detective who people hire to get to the bottom of things. Whenever I was reading those books, I couldn't help wishing that I, too, lived in a small town in Vermont with lots of mysteries. Stupid Los Angeles had a lot of private detectives already, so nobody needed to turn to middle schoolers to solve their crimes.
"Why aren't you working?" I asked my dad.
"I want to talk to you about something," he said.
"Okay," I said, sitting across from him, studying his expression and noticing that he looked pale. I frowned. "Are you remembering to take your B-12?"
"Ryanna," my dad said, shaking his head. "Keeping track of vitamins is supposed to be my job. I should be asking you that."
"Of course I'm taking all my vitamins. Are you taking your B-12?"
My dad sighed. "No."
I nodded, satisfied, and headed to the cabinet, where I pulled the white bottle down. I knew most of my friends would not have any idea if their dad was taking his vitamins, and would probably be alarmed that this was something they were supposed to keep track of.
But it had been just my dad and me, ever since my mother died when I was three.
I'd basically grown up on movie sets with my dad all over the world. I loved everything about being on set-getting snacks at craft services (aka "crafty"), hanging out in the hair-and-makeup trailer and learning all the best gossip, the friends I'd make with the child actors, who were usually the only other kids around.
But mostly what I loved was that a movie set was a tidy, orderly universe. The day's schedule was printed every morning and handed out-and it told you everything. The shot list and the time the sun would be coming up and setting. The times that different crew and actors would be arriving. When lunch would be and what we were having. While there were often a lot of surprises that cropped up while making a movie, the basic structure of the day was never in question. Everyone had a job, and if there was ever an issue, there were always lots of production assistants with walkie-talkies who could answer any questions for you.
But especially when my dad was directing, he was the one who was responsible for knowing everything, which meant it became my job to make sure that he was eating and drinking water and remembering to call Nana back so she wouldn't panic and call his agent over and over again. When I started middle school, my dad said that he wanted to be home more, and we hadn't spent much time on set since. But some habits were hard to break.
I handed him his vitamins. "Here."
"Thanks. But I do need to talk to you, Ry. This is serious."
"Okay," I said, starting to get worried I was in trouble. But we'd already gotten my report card, which was fine except for the PE grade. "Is everything okay with Ginger?"
Ginger was my stepmother-she and my dad got married eight months ago in Ojai, which is a town two hours outside Los ...
I could tell something was wrong the second I came downstairs.
First of all, my dad was sitting at the kitchen table.
I know for most people, this might not be weird. Normal dads probably sit at kitchen tables all the time.
But we live in Los Angeles, and my dad is a writer-he writes screenplays. Not just everything the actors say-all the action and settings and everything else that happens in a movie has to be written down too. (Not everyone knows this. Nana, my dad's mom, still thinks that the actors make up their own lines, no matter how many times my dad tells her otherwise.) He also used to direct movies, until his last one did so badly that now he's in movie jail, and when we go on hikes, producers pretend they don't see him when he waves.
But because of this, my dad was normally always busy writing something, and always in motion-pacing around our pool as he tried to figure out a story problem, or working in his office, or in meetings. He was almost never just sitting still at home. So right away, I knew something was up.
"What's up?" I asked as I came into the kitchen.
I'd been upstairs reading, which was pretty much what I'd been doing since school let out last week. I'd managed to make it through the sixth grade, even though I barely passed PE. (My PE teacher didn't seem to get that some people can climb ropes and some people can't. And that no amount of encouraging me to do it would magically give me the ability as I spun in circles a few inches off the ground and everyone snickered.)
I'd been deep into a mystery-my favorite type of book to read. My current favorite series was Miss Terry's Case Files, where the heroine, Terry Turner, is a seventh-grade detective who people hire to get to the bottom of things. Whenever I was reading those books, I couldn't help wishing that I, too, lived in a small town in Vermont with lots of mysteries. Stupid Los Angeles had a lot of private detectives already, so nobody needed to turn to middle schoolers to solve their crimes.
"Why aren't you working?" I asked my dad.
"I want to talk to you about something," he said.
"Okay," I said, sitting across from him, studying his expression and noticing that he looked pale. I frowned. "Are you remembering to take your B-12?"
"Ryanna," my dad said, shaking his head. "Keeping track of vitamins is supposed to be my job. I should be asking you that."
"Of course I'm taking all my vitamins. Are you taking your B-12?"
My dad sighed. "No."
I nodded, satisfied, and headed to the cabinet, where I pulled the white bottle down. I knew most of my friends would not have any idea if their dad was taking his vitamins, and would probably be alarmed that this was something they were supposed to keep track of.
But it had been just my dad and me, ever since my mother died when I was three.
I'd basically grown up on movie sets with my dad all over the world. I loved everything about being on set-getting snacks at craft services (aka "crafty"), hanging out in the hair-and-makeup trailer and learning all the best gossip, the friends I'd make with the child actors, who were usually the only other kids around.
But mostly what I loved was that a movie set was a tidy, orderly universe. The day's schedule was printed every morning and handed out-and it told you everything. The shot list and the time the sun would be coming up and setting. The times that different crew and actors would be arriving. When lunch would be and what we were having. While there were often a lot of surprises that cropped up while making a movie, the basic structure of the day was never in question. Everyone had a job, and if there was ever an issue, there were always lots of production assistants with walkie-talkies who could answer any questions for you.
But especially when my dad was directing, he was the one who was responsible for knowing everything, which meant it became my job to make sure that he was eating and drinking water and remembering to call Nana back so she wouldn't panic and call his agent over and over again. When I started middle school, my dad said that he wanted to be home more, and we hadn't spent much time on set since. But some habits were hard to break.
I handed him his vitamins. "Here."
"Thanks. But I do need to talk to you, Ry. This is serious."
"Okay," I said, starting to get worried I was in trouble. But we'd already gotten my report card, which was fine except for the PE grade. "Is everything okay with Ginger?"
Ginger was my stepmother-she and my dad got married eight months ago in Ojai, which is a town two hours outside Los ...
