Read Online Brett McCarthy by Maria Padian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maria Padian
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annoyance.
“So,” she said as she scraped the pan, “did you finally tell her?”
“Yup,” I replied.
“And how did it go?” she asked.
“She seemed a little preoccupied,” I said.
Nonna shut off the burner and turned.
“Her daughter gets suspended from school and she’s preoccupied? That doesn’t sound like your mother.”
“Well, I think she’s worried about you,” I said.
Nonna frowned. “What did she tell you?” she asked.
“Nothing. But even someone as clueless as me can tell something’s up. Why were you guys at the doctor’s today?”
Nonna sighed and pulled up an adjacent kitchen chair.
“I’ve never seen such overreaction,” she said. “You know, I hate to surprise you all, but I’m an old lady! These wrinkles are real! And I think I overdid it at the island this summer. I felt tired, came back early, and next thing I know, your mother is dragging me to the doctor because she doesn’t like my ‘color.’ My color! ‘Have you ever seen a suntan before?’ I asked her. Then Dr. Fischer starts asking me all these questions, and gets all wide-eyed when I tell him I think I caught a bit of brown-tail moth. I’ve been itchy for weeks, and the cortisone cream isn’t helping. Next thing you know, he’s sending me for bloodwork and an MRI!”
“MRI?” I asked.
“Magnetic resonance imaging,” she said. “Takes a picture of your organs. He wanted to peek at my pancreas.”
“What’s a pancreas?” I asked.
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s an expensive distraction!” Nonna said, returning to her smoking pan. “I’m having an allergic reaction to something, and these doctors want to order up unnecessary tests! Meanwhile, I’m itchy and irritable and your mother is so worried that she’s not taking care of business. Which means reprimanding you for hitting someone at school!”
“Maybe I should send Dr. Fischer a thank-you note?” This conversation was making me feel much better. Nonna sure wasn’t acting sick.
“You’re not getting off that easy,” she said. “Since your mother is too ‘preoccupied’ to deal with you, I’ll hand down the sentence. And you know how I feel about violence.”
“I know,” I said.
“There’s no excuse for hitting someone, Brett.”
“Hmmm,” I said. I wished, really wished, that I saw it her way. But I’m not as good a person as my grandmother.
“I’d say a little community service is in order. How long are you suspended?”
“The rest of the week.”
“That’s just enough time to help me sort out the entire garage and get organized for my sale. We’ll hold it this weekend, you’ll be in charge, and we’ll donate all the proceeds to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center.”
I groaned. Not that I had anything against the Domestic Violence Prevention Center. But Nonna’s garage was a mess. Dusty, rusty, moldy junk was stacked floor to ceiling. I didn’t want to touch it.
Before I could think of a way to wriggle out of my sentence, Mr. Beady tapped on the door.
“Come in, Beady!” Nonna said. “I’m running a little late.”
Mr. Beady carried a paper bag. I could see the top of a wine bottle and a bag of corn chips poking from the top. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me.
“Well, if it isn’t the local boxin’ champ!” He grinned. “How’s it goin’,
sluggah
?”
Mr. Beady is not a native Mainer. He’s “from away.” Born in Connecticut, actually. And when he tries to imitate a Maine accent, it’s really annoying.
“How’d you hear?” I asked him.
“Oh, it’s all the talk of the grocery
stow-ah,
” he said. “Sorry, Eileen. I forgot salsa,” he added to Nonna.
“Look in the fridge,” she replied.
“Miss Brett, will you be joinin’ us tonight for…” Mr. Beady peered into Nonna’s pan. “Blackened
gah-lick
?”
“No thanks,” I said, getting up. “Mom’s serving edible food at home.”
“Ah, we will have to check in another time for tales of your ignominious
“So,” she said as she scraped the pan, “did you finally tell her?”
“Yup,” I replied.
“And how did it go?” she asked.
“She seemed a little preoccupied,” I said.
Nonna shut off the burner and turned.
“Her daughter gets suspended from school and she’s preoccupied? That doesn’t sound like your mother.”
“Well, I think she’s worried about you,” I said.
Nonna frowned. “What did she tell you?” she asked.
“Nothing. But even someone as clueless as me can tell something’s up. Why were you guys at the doctor’s today?”
Nonna sighed and pulled up an adjacent kitchen chair.
“I’ve never seen such overreaction,” she said. “You know, I hate to surprise you all, but I’m an old lady! These wrinkles are real! And I think I overdid it at the island this summer. I felt tired, came back early, and next thing I know, your mother is dragging me to the doctor because she doesn’t like my ‘color.’ My color! ‘Have you ever seen a suntan before?’ I asked her. Then Dr. Fischer starts asking me all these questions, and gets all wide-eyed when I tell him I think I caught a bit of brown-tail moth. I’ve been itchy for weeks, and the cortisone cream isn’t helping. Next thing you know, he’s sending me for bloodwork and an MRI!”
“MRI?” I asked.
“Magnetic resonance imaging,” she said. “Takes a picture of your organs. He wanted to peek at my pancreas.”
“What’s a pancreas?” I asked.
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s an expensive distraction!” Nonna said, returning to her smoking pan. “I’m having an allergic reaction to something, and these doctors want to order up unnecessary tests! Meanwhile, I’m itchy and irritable and your mother is so worried that she’s not taking care of business. Which means reprimanding you for hitting someone at school!”
“Maybe I should send Dr. Fischer a thank-you note?” This conversation was making me feel much better. Nonna sure wasn’t acting sick.
“You’re not getting off that easy,” she said. “Since your mother is too ‘preoccupied’ to deal with you, I’ll hand down the sentence. And you know how I feel about violence.”
“I know,” I said.
“There’s no excuse for hitting someone, Brett.”
“Hmmm,” I said. I wished, really wished, that I saw it her way. But I’m not as good a person as my grandmother.
“I’d say a little community service is in order. How long are you suspended?”
“The rest of the week.”
“That’s just enough time to help me sort out the entire garage and get organized for my sale. We’ll hold it this weekend, you’ll be in charge, and we’ll donate all the proceeds to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center.”
I groaned. Not that I had anything against the Domestic Violence Prevention Center. But Nonna’s garage was a mess. Dusty, rusty, moldy junk was stacked floor to ceiling. I didn’t want to touch it.
Before I could think of a way to wriggle out of my sentence, Mr. Beady tapped on the door.
“Come in, Beady!” Nonna said. “I’m running a little late.”
Mr. Beady carried a paper bag. I could see the top of a wine bottle and a bag of corn chips poking from the top. He raised his eyebrows when he saw me.
“Well, if it isn’t the local boxin’ champ!” He grinned. “How’s it goin’,
sluggah
?”
Mr. Beady is not a native Mainer. He’s “from away.” Born in Connecticut, actually. And when he tries to imitate a Maine accent, it’s really annoying.
“How’d you hear?” I asked him.
“Oh, it’s all the talk of the grocery
stow-ah,
” he said. “Sorry, Eileen. I forgot salsa,” he added to Nonna.
“Look in the fridge,” she replied.
“Miss Brett, will you be joinin’ us tonight for…” Mr. Beady peered into Nonna’s pan. “Blackened
gah-lick
?”
“No thanks,” I said, getting up. “Mom’s serving edible food at home.”
“Ah, we will have to check in another time for tales of your ignominious
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