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Authors: Sue Stauffacher
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change …”
I stopped then, knowing I had everybody's ear, even the pink rat slurping coffee at the counter. Reaching into the junk drawer for a bottle of Elmer's glue, I put two big blobs on the counter and smacked the empty Frosted Flakes box over them. About twice a year, Granny bought some nice name-brand cereal and let the kids eat it. For days afterward, she left the empty box on the counter for show.
“Perfect,” I said, leaning back to admire my work, “for seeing when you walk in the door to pick up your kids.”
Spooner stretched in his seat to get a look at what I was doing and accidentally knocked over the milk pitcher; what was left ran lazily to the edge of the table and started dripping on the floor. Granny was at him in a hot minute. She had a plastic spatula in her hand, and if I knew Granny, she was going to plant a few on the back of his head.
But I was too quick for her. I yanked it out of her hand and pointed it at Sink and Dip.
“www dot …” I jabbed the spatula in their direction.
They both ducked. I could be as lousy as Grannyif I wanted to.
“
www.angelsbeforetheirtime.com,” I said, taking a deep breath in. “Eight years and change. Think about it. No perfume. No boys. No sleeping in.”
I grabbed my backpack, the one I'd had for the last four years, the one with the duct tape on the bottom to keep the guts from falling out, and paused in front of Serendipity.
“Imagine a bright orange jumpsuit with ‘Dip’ embroidered on the pocket,” I said.
Though the girls tried to act like nothing I said bothered them in the least, Dip had to shudder when I mentioned the color orange.
Orange was a fall color, see? And whenever she worked up the colors that looked best on her, Dip was a summer every time.
I heard tires crunching on gravel and watched Granny disappear, swearing under her breath, to get her company robe. I decided not to stay for the charade.
“Have a loving and licensed day, all,” I said, and I was out the door.
Glancing at the clock on my way out, I figured it would be a miracle if I made it to school before Ms. Lanier, as I'd planned.
Which got me started on miracles again.
“Do you believe in miracles?” Homer asked on his bad days. Since Mom went down, I got so good at lying, I could lie to my own self and believe it.
But I couldn't lie to Homer.
Only one thing has ever happened to me that could be described as a miracle, but I suppose I sided with the policeman quoted in one of those articles Homer had me read to him over and over again.
“If you look at it in a certain way, little Harriet was mighty lucky.”
I burned through a lot of luck on that flight.
I keep hoping I didn't burn through it all.
I don't know why Homer was so endlessly fascinated with my fall. Was it because he jumped a fraction of the distance and things ended up so badly? Maybe it's just that, as he puts it, I flew in the face of reason. And that puzzles him.
For most people it's forgotten history. What the old teachers at Trench Vista Elementary tell the new ones is that my father threw me out the window. Or they say I survived a ninety-foot fall. Mom doesn't get much play in either version.
She was an addict, I know, but she was addicted to good things, too. Like me, for instance. Like books.
I remember sliding my hands over the stacks of glossy-covered library books that filled our arms as we rode home on the bus. I remember her reading to me late in the night on her days off, lying in bed, trying to ease me into sleep. My mom could be doing laundry, painting her nails, talking on the phone,but if I wobbled over to her with a book in my hand, she'd pull me onto her lap and we'd read it.
She liked fairy tales best, liked getting lost in the pictures. We went east of the sun and west of the moon, more north than north, more south than south.
And she had a powerful urge to know, not just the stories but the authors, too. She liked to talk back to them, tell them to lighten
I stopped then, knowing I had everybody's ear, even the pink rat slurping coffee at the counter. Reaching into the junk drawer for a bottle of Elmer's glue, I put two big blobs on the counter and smacked the empty Frosted Flakes box over them. About twice a year, Granny bought some nice name-brand cereal and let the kids eat it. For days afterward, she left the empty box on the counter for show.
“Perfect,” I said, leaning back to admire my work, “for seeing when you walk in the door to pick up your kids.”
Spooner stretched in his seat to get a look at what I was doing and accidentally knocked over the milk pitcher; what was left ran lazily to the edge of the table and started dripping on the floor. Granny was at him in a hot minute. She had a plastic spatula in her hand, and if I knew Granny, she was going to plant a few on the back of his head.
But I was too quick for her. I yanked it out of her hand and pointed it at Sink and Dip.
“www dot …” I jabbed the spatula in their direction.
They both ducked. I could be as lousy as Grannyif I wanted to.
“
www.angelsbeforetheirtime.com,” I said, taking a deep breath in. “Eight years and change. Think about it. No perfume. No boys. No sleeping in.”
I grabbed my backpack, the one I'd had for the last four years, the one with the duct tape on the bottom to keep the guts from falling out, and paused in front of Serendipity.
“Imagine a bright orange jumpsuit with ‘Dip’ embroidered on the pocket,” I said.
Though the girls tried to act like nothing I said bothered them in the least, Dip had to shudder when I mentioned the color orange.
Orange was a fall color, see? And whenever she worked up the colors that looked best on her, Dip was a summer every time.
I heard tires crunching on gravel and watched Granny disappear, swearing under her breath, to get her company robe. I decided not to stay for the charade.
“Have a loving and licensed day, all,” I said, and I was out the door.
Glancing at the clock on my way out, I figured it would be a miracle if I made it to school before Ms. Lanier, as I'd planned.
Which got me started on miracles again.
“Do you believe in miracles?” Homer asked on his bad days. Since Mom went down, I got so good at lying, I could lie to my own self and believe it.
But I couldn't lie to Homer.
Only one thing has ever happened to me that could be described as a miracle, but I suppose I sided with the policeman quoted in one of those articles Homer had me read to him over and over again.
“If you look at it in a certain way, little Harriet was mighty lucky.”
I burned through a lot of luck on that flight.
I keep hoping I didn't burn through it all.
I don't know why Homer was so endlessly fascinated with my fall. Was it because he jumped a fraction of the distance and things ended up so badly? Maybe it's just that, as he puts it, I flew in the face of reason. And that puzzles him.
For most people it's forgotten history. What the old teachers at Trench Vista Elementary tell the new ones is that my father threw me out the window. Or they say I survived a ninety-foot fall. Mom doesn't get much play in either version.
She was an addict, I know, but she was addicted to good things, too. Like me, for instance. Like books.
I remember sliding my hands over the stacks of glossy-covered library books that filled our arms as we rode home on the bus. I remember her reading to me late in the night on her days off, lying in bed, trying to ease me into sleep. My mom could be doing laundry, painting her nails, talking on the phone,but if I wobbled over to her with a book in my hand, she'd pull me onto her lap and we'd read it.
She liked fairy tales best, liked getting lost in the pictures. We went east of the sun and west of the moon, more north than north, more south than south.
And she had a powerful urge to know, not just the stories but the authors, too. She liked to talk back to them, tell them to lighten
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