Also by E. L. Konigsburg

Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth,

William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth

From the Mixed-up Files

of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

Altogether, One at a Time

A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver

The Dragon in the Ghetto Caper

The Second Mrs. Gioconda

My Father’s Daughter

Throwing Shadows

Journey to an 800 Number

Up From Jericho Tel

Samuel Todd’s Book of Great Colors

Samuel Todd’s Book of Great Inventions

Amy Elizabeth Explores Bloomingdale’s

T-Backs, T-Shirts, COAT, and Suit

TalkTalk

The View From Saturday

Silent to the Bone

The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place

The Mysterious Edge

of the Heroic World

For Fred Sochatoff—

who was there at the beginning,

before either of us knew

it was a beginning

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events,

real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters,

places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination,

and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

www.simonandschuster.com

Copyright © 1979 by E. L. Konigsburg

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in

part in any form.

ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and related logo are registered trademarks

of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Collier Books edition 1988

First Aladdin Paperbacks edition February 1981

Second Aladdin Paperbacks edition April 1998

Third Aladdin Paperbacks edition September 2007

2  4  6  8 10  9  7  5  3  1

The Library of Congress has cataloged a previous edition as follows:

Konigsburg, E.L.

Throwing shadows / E.L. Konigsburg

p. cm.

Summary: Five short stories in which young people gain a sense of self.

1. Identity—Juvenile fiction. [1. Identity—Fiction. 2. Short stories.]

I. Title.

PZ7.K8352Th 1988

[Fic]—dcl9 87-21741

ISBN-13: 978-0-689-30714-0 (hc.)

ISBN-10: 0-689-30714-4 (hc.)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-4959-6 (pbk.)

ISBN-10: 1-4169-4959-3 (pbk.)

eISBN: 978-1-4424-3975-7

Contents

On Shark’s Tooth Beach

by Ned

The Catchee

by Avery

In the Village of the Weavers

by Ampara

At the Home

by Phillip

With Bert & Ray

by William

On Shark’s Tooth Beach

by Ned

My dad is Hixon of Hixon’s Landing, the fishing camp down on the intracoastal waterway just across Highway A1A. Our camp isn’t a fancy one. Just two coolers, one for beer and one for bait, plus four boats and eight motors that we rent out.

Dad was raised on a farm in Nebraska, but he joined the Navy and signed on for the war in Vietnam and came back knowing two things. One, he hated war, and two, he loved the sea. Actually, he came back with two loves. The other one was my mother. There wasn’t any way anyone could get him to settle anywhere that was far from the ocean when he got out of the service, so he bought this small stretch of land in north Florida, and we’ve been there for all of my life that I can remember.

Dad’s got this small pension for getting wounded over in Nam, so between what we sell, what we rent and what the government sends, we do all right. We’re not what you’re likely to call rich, but we are all right. Mom doubts that we’ll ever make enough money to pay for a trip to her native country of Thailand, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She says that it is more important to love where you’re at than to love where you’re from.

Mom makes and sells sandwiches for the fishermen. She does a right good job on them, I can tell you. There is this about Mom’s sandwiches: you don’t have to eat halfway through to the middle to find out what’s between the bread, and once you get hold of a bite, you don’t have to guess at whether it is egg salad or tuna that you’re eating. The filling is high in size and in flavor.

The town next door to us is spreading south toward our landing, and both Mom and Dad say that our property will be worth a pretty penny in a few years. But both of them always ask, What’s a pretty penny worth when you can’t buy anything prettier than what you already have? I have to agree. Maybe because I don’t know anything else, but I can’t imagine what it would be like not to have a sandbox miles and miles long and a pool as big as an ocean for a playground across the street—even if the street is a highway. I can’t ever remember going to sleep but that I heard some water shushing and slurping or humming and hollering for a lullaby.

Last spring, just as the days were getting long enough that a person could both start and finish something between the time he got home from school and the time he went to bed, I went out onto our dock and I saw this guy all duded up from a catalogue. Now that the town has grown toward us, we have more of these guys than we used to. When you’ve been in the business of fishing all your life, you come to know the difference between fishermen and guys who have a hobby. Here are some of the clues:

1. The hat. A real fisherman’s hat is darkened along the edges where the sweat from his hand leaves marks. A non-fisherman’s hat has perfect little dent marks in it.

2. The smile. Real fishermen don’t smile while they’re fishing unless someone tells them a joke. Real fishermen wear their faces in the same look people wear when they are in church—deliberate and far-off—the way they do when they don’t want to catch the eye of the preacher. The only time that look changes is when they take a swig of beer and then it changes only a little and with a slow rhythm like watching instant replay on television. Non-fishermen twitch their necks around like pigeons, which are very citified birds, and non-fishermen smile a lot.

3. The umbrella. Real fishermen don’t have them.

This old guy sat on a wooden-legged, canvas-bottom folding campstool that didn’t have any salt burns on it anywhere and put his rod into one of the holders that Dad had set up along the dock railing. Then he held out his hand and called out, Hey, boy, do you know what I’ve got here?

I walked on over to him and said, Name’s Ned.

What’s that? he asked, cupping his hand over his ear so that the breeze wouldn’t blow it past him.

I said that my name is Ned, I repeated.

All right, Ed, he said. I have a question for you. Do you know what this is, boy?

Name’s Ned, I repeated. I looked down at the palm of his hand and saw a medium-sized shark’s tooth from a sand shark. Not bad, I said.

But do you know what it is, boy? he asked.

I could tell that it wasn’t the kind of question where a person is looking for an answer; it was the kind of question where a person just wants you to look interested long enough so that he can get on with telling you the answer. I decided that I wouldn’t play it that way even if he was a customer. Three boys in a row made me mean, so I said, Medium-sized sand.

What’s that? he shouted, cupping his hand over his ear again.

Medium-sized sand, I repeated louder.

That’s a shark’s tooth, he said, clamping his hand shut.

Shoot! I knew that it was a shark’s tooth. I was telling him what kind it was and what size it was.

That is a fossilized shark’s tooth, boy, he said. Found it just across the street.

Name’s Ned, I told him, and I walked away.

Sharks’ teeth wash up all the time at the beach just across the road from Hixon’s Landing. There’s a giant fossil bed out in the ocean somewheres, and a vent from it leads right onto our beach. When the undertow gets to digging up out of that fossil bed and the tide is coming in, all kinds of interesting things wash in. Besides the sharks’ teeth, there are also pieces of bones that wash up. I collect the backbones, the vertebraes, they’re called; they have a hole in them where the spinal column went through. I have a whole string of them fixed according to size.

I collect sharks’ teeth, too. I have been doing it for years. Mom started me doing it. It was Mom who made a study of them and found what kind of animal they might come from. Mom has these thorough ways about her. Dad says that Mom is smarter’n a briar and prettier’n a movie star.

Mom fixes the sharks’ teeth that we collect into patterns and fastens them down onto a velvet mat and gets them framed into a shadowbox frame. She sells them down at the gift shop in town. And the gift shop isn’t any tacky old gift shop full of smelly candles and ashtrays with the name of our town stamped on it. It’s more like an art gallery. Matter of fact, it is called The Artists’ Gallery, and Mom is something of an artist at how she makes those sharks’ teeth designs. Some of the really pretty sharks’ teeth Mom sells to a jeweler who sets them in gold for pendants. When she gets two pretty ones that match, he makes them into earrings.

When I find her a really special or unusual one, Mom says to me, Looks like we got a trophy, Ned. When we get us a trophy, one that needs investigating or one that is just downright super special, we don’t sell it. Shoot! We don’t even think about selling it. There’s nothing that bit of money could buy that we’d want more than having that there trophy.

Most everyone who comes to Hixon’s Landing knows about Mom and me being something of authorities on fossils, especially sharks’ teeth, so I figured that this old dude would either go away and not come back or hang around long enough to find out. Either way, I figured that I didn’t need to advertise for myself and my mom.

The next day after school there was the old fellow again. I wouldn’t want to sound braggy or anything, but I could tell that he was standing there at the end of our dock waiting for me to come home from school.

Hi, I said.

Well, boy, he said, did you have a good day at school?

Fair, I answered. I decided to let the boy ride. I figured that he couldn’t hear or couldn’t remember or both. Catch anything? I asked.

No, not today, he said. Matter of fact I was just about to close up shop. Then he began reeling in, looking back over his shoulder to see if I was still hanging around. He didn’t even