Read Online Donutheart by Sue Stauffacher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue Stauffacher
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your arms in a knot and throw you in the Grand River.”
“Where exactly are we going again?” I asked after school as my mother hustled me and Sarah into her work van.
“Her name is Fiona Foster, and the guys down at the rink say she makes the best dresses.” She looked over her shoulder and gazed meaningfully at Sarah in the backseat.
“Did you say ‘Foster’?” I asked. Was it possible we were about to visit the home of Rebecca Foster? Had she been referring to this meeting when she said Donuthead was on her calendar?
“You might want to prepare yourself mentally, Sarah,” my mother continued. “She’s going to measure you.”
“What for?”
I lowered my voice and turned to Sarah. “Can we just get this over with as quickly as possible? For my sake?”
Sarah looked at me. “You’re not supposed to let strangers touch you,” she said quietly.
Despite hours of listening to classic rock at dangerously high volume, my mother has excellent hearing.
“Fiona Foster is a seamstress, not a stranger. She’s had her hands on practically every girl at the skating rink and they survived. Come on, Sarah.”
But Sarah didn’t answer. She sat, hunched and silent, staring out the window. The tears from the morning were long gone, but the way she kept her lips pressed together and swallowed hard every so often made me realize they could come back. Anyone else staring at her at that moment might think she was mad as the dickens. But I knew a thing or two about Sarah Kervick.
I also knew a thing or two about my mother. Sarah’s stubbornness about this dress was getting on her last nerve. I sent a mental suggestion to Sarah to
tell my mother what’s going on
. Not that I had a complete picture myself. The dress was the least of my worries. A girl her age should not be left alone all night. Sarah had made me promise not to tell anyone, so all I could do with the information she’d given me was worry!
Also, I’m not very experienced at keeping secrets. The only other time I’d been asked was when my mother made me promise not to reveal to Rick, her last boyfriend, that she’d ordered prescription-strength Skintactix, the most popular adult acne medication, on the Home Shopping Network. As we sat in the van in silence, I tried to think of something—anything—to say besides
Sarah’s father has disappeared!
We parked next to a split-level with a sign out front that announced FIONA’S FASHIONS . My mother turned around in her seat. “Help us out here, Franklin,” she said.
As I may have mentioned, shopping under any circumstances is not my mother’s strong suit. I opened the van door for Sarah. Together, our mood could only be described as somber.
But Fiona Foster, who threw wide the door to her “lower-level fashion studio,” was determined to outcompete our gloom with her enthusiasm.
“Skaters!” she said, waving her free arm in a dramatic curlicue. “You are most welcome.”
Fiona Foster was, to quote my mother, “a piece of work.” She looked a bit like a Barbie doll that has spent too much time in the sun.
So
this
was Rebecca Foster’s gene pool.
My mother followed Fiona Foster down the stairs into the darkened basement.
I grabbed Sarah’s arm. “Shouldn’t we do something? I mean, about your dad. Maybe call the police?”
Sarah looked at me. She seemed disgusted by the suggestion. “Do something? Do what? He’s done it before, Franklin. Just drop it, okay? He’ll be back.” She let out a long sigh through her nose, and headed down.
I took a deep breath and followed her. In a clatter of steps, we entered a dimly lit room filled with that suffocating moldy-basement smell. Fiona plunged farther into the darkness.
“I want to turn on the lights all at once so you get the full effect,” she said. “We just finished the remodel. Ta da!”
The “remodel” seemed to consist of stringing white Christmas lights around the drop ceiling. Surely, the pink shag
“Where exactly are we going again?” I asked after school as my mother hustled me and Sarah into her work van.
“Her name is Fiona Foster, and the guys down at the rink say she makes the best dresses.” She looked over her shoulder and gazed meaningfully at Sarah in the backseat.
“Did you say ‘Foster’?” I asked. Was it possible we were about to visit the home of Rebecca Foster? Had she been referring to this meeting when she said Donuthead was on her calendar?
“You might want to prepare yourself mentally, Sarah,” my mother continued. “She’s going to measure you.”
“What for?”
I lowered my voice and turned to Sarah. “Can we just get this over with as quickly as possible? For my sake?”
Sarah looked at me. “You’re not supposed to let strangers touch you,” she said quietly.
Despite hours of listening to classic rock at dangerously high volume, my mother has excellent hearing.
“Fiona Foster is a seamstress, not a stranger. She’s had her hands on practically every girl at the skating rink and they survived. Come on, Sarah.”
But Sarah didn’t answer. She sat, hunched and silent, staring out the window. The tears from the morning were long gone, but the way she kept her lips pressed together and swallowed hard every so often made me realize they could come back. Anyone else staring at her at that moment might think she was mad as the dickens. But I knew a thing or two about Sarah Kervick.
I also knew a thing or two about my mother. Sarah’s stubbornness about this dress was getting on her last nerve. I sent a mental suggestion to Sarah to
tell my mother what’s going on
. Not that I had a complete picture myself. The dress was the least of my worries. A girl her age should not be left alone all night. Sarah had made me promise not to tell anyone, so all I could do with the information she’d given me was worry!
Also, I’m not very experienced at keeping secrets. The only other time I’d been asked was when my mother made me promise not to reveal to Rick, her last boyfriend, that she’d ordered prescription-strength Skintactix, the most popular adult acne medication, on the Home Shopping Network. As we sat in the van in silence, I tried to think of something—anything—to say besides
Sarah’s father has disappeared!
We parked next to a split-level with a sign out front that announced FIONA’S FASHIONS . My mother turned around in her seat. “Help us out here, Franklin,” she said.
As I may have mentioned, shopping under any circumstances is not my mother’s strong suit. I opened the van door for Sarah. Together, our mood could only be described as somber.
But Fiona Foster, who threw wide the door to her “lower-level fashion studio,” was determined to outcompete our gloom with her enthusiasm.
“Skaters!” she said, waving her free arm in a dramatic curlicue. “You are most welcome.”
Fiona Foster was, to quote my mother, “a piece of work.” She looked a bit like a Barbie doll that has spent too much time in the sun.
So
this
was Rebecca Foster’s gene pool.
My mother followed Fiona Foster down the stairs into the darkened basement.
I grabbed Sarah’s arm. “Shouldn’t we do something? I mean, about your dad. Maybe call the police?”
Sarah looked at me. She seemed disgusted by the suggestion. “Do something? Do what? He’s done it before, Franklin. Just drop it, okay? He’ll be back.” She let out a long sigh through her nose, and headed down.
I took a deep breath and followed her. In a clatter of steps, we entered a dimly lit room filled with that suffocating moldy-basement smell. Fiona plunged farther into the darkness.
“I want to turn on the lights all at once so you get the full effect,” she said. “We just finished the remodel. Ta da!”
The “remodel” seemed to consist of stringing white Christmas lights around the drop ceiling. Surely, the pink shag
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