bed. They probably do that on purpose to keep kids from staying here long, faking. I watch warily as Ms. Blakely explains what happened, hauling Mitch in with her on their way down to the office. Mitch leans against the open door, leering at me, making rude gestures behind the adults’ backs.
“Maybe I should sue,” he says when Ms. Blakely finishes.
My mom spins to glare at him. He seems immune. In fact, the smile he gives her in return borders on seductive—or creepy, hard to tell with Mitch. I can see why he’d be attracted to Mom; it happens all the time, especially to hospital interns. With her long blond hair and a figure like a movie star, she’s pretty glamorous. That’s how folks know she’s not my biological mother, not with me and my Plain Jane flat chest and skinny hips.
“This school has faulty equipment. I had no idea it would start a fire. You all”—Mitch’s tone grows indignant—“placed me in danger.”
Mom’s mouth opens and shuts again as she swallows whatever she was about to say. She stands rigid but I see wrinkles form around her lips—a sure sign that a storm’s gonna hit.
Ms. Blakely isn’t so controlled. “You didn’t know a fire starter might start a fire?”
“No, ma’am.” Mitch manages to look innocent, injured, and insolent all at once.
She shakes her head and gets a faraway look in her eyes as if counting the days until the weekend or end of school or her retirement. Or maybe she’s counting the millennia since Prometheus discovered fire, wondering how Mitch eluded all those generations of human evolution.
“Come with me, Mitchell,” she says, her words ending with a sigh of exasperation. “Sorry, Cindy,” she murmurs to my mom as she hauls Mitch away.
To my surprise, my mom stands there saying nothing as she watches them leave. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but she’s thinking hard. Then she heaves her shoulders as if getting ready to lift something heavy and turns to me. I know that look.
“I’m not going to the ER.” I launch a preemptive strike. “I feel better. And my arm is fine, see?”
She looks at my arm. It’s not even red anymore, no blisters, no singed hair. My wool sweater took most of the damage. Thank God I wasn’t wearing polyester. Too bad I wasn’t wearing a wool cap. I string my fingers through my hair, the burnt ends crispy and snapping off.
“Still, you almost fainted.”
“I stood up too fast and it smelled so bad and—” I shut up. Fast. But she lasered in on my admission.
“And what?”
“And I didn’t eat all my lunch.” Didn’t eat any of it, actually. I was too busy ruining Mitch’s jacket and, apparently, my future.
She blows out her breath in that long-suffering exhalation mothers master. “Scarlet. How can I trust you if you won’t take care of yourself? Coming to school was a bad idea. You should stay home. The deal’s off.”
“No!” My shout surprises even me. “Mom, no. Please. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
She turns away without answering, raiding her stash of emergency rations, giving me a gluten-free almond butter protein bar and a bottle of orange juice. I dutifully chew as she takes my pulse and blood pressure, monitors my oxygen level, listens to my heart. Finally, she pulls her stool up and sits down across from me.
“You really want this, don’t you?”
“More than anything,” I answer between chews. I’m afraid to say more; sometimes the more you push Mom, the more she digs in.
“Well, you are closer to me here than you would be at home.”
I nod, watching her expression warily.
She rolls up her stethoscope, shoves it into the pocket of her lab jacket. “If you’re going to stay in school,” she finally says, “we need some ground rules.”
I nod again, a wad of almond butter getting stuck in my throat. I don’t want to gag, but I can’t spit it out, so all I can do is keep swallowing over and over, trying to get it down. Mom doesn’t seem to
“Maybe I should sue,” he says when Ms. Blakely finishes.
My mom spins to glare at him. He seems immune. In fact, the smile he gives her in return borders on seductive—or creepy, hard to tell with Mitch. I can see why he’d be attracted to Mom; it happens all the time, especially to hospital interns. With her long blond hair and a figure like a movie star, she’s pretty glamorous. That’s how folks know she’s not my biological mother, not with me and my Plain Jane flat chest and skinny hips.
“This school has faulty equipment. I had no idea it would start a fire. You all”—Mitch’s tone grows indignant—“placed me in danger.”
Mom’s mouth opens and shuts again as she swallows whatever she was about to say. She stands rigid but I see wrinkles form around her lips—a sure sign that a storm’s gonna hit.
Ms. Blakely isn’t so controlled. “You didn’t know a fire starter might start a fire?”
“No, ma’am.” Mitch manages to look innocent, injured, and insolent all at once.
She shakes her head and gets a faraway look in her eyes as if counting the days until the weekend or end of school or her retirement. Or maybe she’s counting the millennia since Prometheus discovered fire, wondering how Mitch eluded all those generations of human evolution.
“Come with me, Mitchell,” she says, her words ending with a sigh of exasperation. “Sorry, Cindy,” she murmurs to my mom as she hauls Mitch away.
To my surprise, my mom stands there saying nothing as she watches them leave. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but she’s thinking hard. Then she heaves her shoulders as if getting ready to lift something heavy and turns to me. I know that look.
“I’m not going to the ER.” I launch a preemptive strike. “I feel better. And my arm is fine, see?”
She looks at my arm. It’s not even red anymore, no blisters, no singed hair. My wool sweater took most of the damage. Thank God I wasn’t wearing polyester. Too bad I wasn’t wearing a wool cap. I string my fingers through my hair, the burnt ends crispy and snapping off.
“Still, you almost fainted.”
“I stood up too fast and it smelled so bad and—” I shut up. Fast. But she lasered in on my admission.
“And what?”
“And I didn’t eat all my lunch.” Didn’t eat any of it, actually. I was too busy ruining Mitch’s jacket and, apparently, my future.
She blows out her breath in that long-suffering exhalation mothers master. “Scarlet. How can I trust you if you won’t take care of yourself? Coming to school was a bad idea. You should stay home. The deal’s off.”
“No!” My shout surprises even me. “Mom, no. Please. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
She turns away without answering, raiding her stash of emergency rations, giving me a gluten-free almond butter protein bar and a bottle of orange juice. I dutifully chew as she takes my pulse and blood pressure, monitors my oxygen level, listens to my heart. Finally, she pulls her stool up and sits down across from me.
“You really want this, don’t you?”
“More than anything,” I answer between chews. I’m afraid to say more; sometimes the more you push Mom, the more she digs in.
“Well, you are closer to me here than you would be at home.”
I nod, watching her expression warily.
She rolls up her stethoscope, shoves it into the pocket of her lab jacket. “If you’re going to stay in school,” she finally says, “we need some ground rules.”
I nod again, a wad of almond butter getting stuck in my throat. I don’t want to gag, but I can’t spit it out, so all I can do is keep swallowing over and over, trying to get it down. Mom doesn’t seem to
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