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Authors: Dana Reinhardt
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record of Irish folk songs I had playing only because that’swhat was already on the stereo. Mom loved this record. I’d roll my eyes at her whenever she put it on. Again, Mom?
But here I was, listening to it. Having that music on was like having Mom at home. It was the sound of not being alone.
I wished I had something else playing. Something cooler. Something Georgia would have had on when a boy stopped by to see her. And I really, really, really wished I hadn’t already put on my pajamas. Flannel, old-man style, with pictures of sheep jumping over clouds.
“Do you like this music?” he asked.
I wondered if this was a trick question, but decided to go with the truth. “It’s okay.”
“Well, then I’ve got someone you have to meet. What are you doing tomorrow?”
I walked over to the couch and sat down. He sat across from me in the corduroy armchair. Dad’s favorite chair.
He wore tan pants with no holes in the knees. A button-down shirt over a gray T-shirt. Almost as if he’d dressed for the occasion. He was rosy. Pink. Maybe he was nervous. Or winded from the walk over here; I’d never seen him with a bike.
The cut on his cheek had healed a bit, and I noticed for the first time a softness about him. He wasn’t beautiful like Nick, but there was a sweet, almost cartoonish humor to his look. He had a face you’d throw away the rules for. A face to unlock doors.
“I’m supposed to go to the shop, but …” I picked up a cushion and put it in my lap. It was doing nothing to helphide my hideous pajamas. I turned it over a few times and then put it back down again. “How did you know where I live, anyway?”
“I’ve been following you.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have opened the door .
He leaned forward and grinned. “Robin. I’m kidding. I knew your address from the inside of your backpack. If Lost, Please Return to Drew Solo: One Forty-Six Mount Pleasant Drive .”
Right. My backpack.
“There’s a phone number in there too,” I said. “You could have called.” You didn’t have to wait a whole week .
“I could have,” he said. “But then maybe you’d never have invited me over.”
I thought of the bag in the refrigerator.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m pretty much always hungry.”
I led him into the kitchen.
The paper bag held linguini, fresh pesto, and a wedge of Reggiano. Mom didn’t believe in pregrating cheese. We always shaved it fresh over our hot plates.
I put water on to boil, took out some silverware and a cloth napkin, and set him a place at the counter. I’d never cooked for anyone other than Mom, and I was nervous.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I ate already.”
“So did I. You don’t see that stopping me.” It wasn’t that the cornflakes had filled me up, it was that when nervous, like a rat, I tended to lose my appetite.
He picked up his fork and twirled it between his fingers.
“Robin, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
This sounded serious. I knew the saying about a watched pot never boiling, but I stared at it anyway.
“It’s about Hum,” he said. “I don’t know if you know this about rats, but they should have at least one other rat, a rat to attach themselves to, or else they get lonely.”
Hum needed a friend? That was all he wanted to tell me?
Emmett might have thought he knew everything about rats, but he didn’t understand that Hum was different. Hum didn’t need another rat, because he had me.
“I take him everywhere. He’s never alone.”
This statement didn’t account for the fact that, at that moment, Hum was very much alone in my room. He wasn’t allowed in the kitchen when we were cooking or eating. It was one of the rare occasions when Mom’s rules actually made some sense.
“Yeah, that’s another thing,” he said. He leaned back in his stool, almost tipping over. “That cage you take him everywhere in—it’s too small. Rats need room to roam.”
I put the pasta into the water, which had
But here I was, listening to it. Having that music on was like having Mom at home. It was the sound of not being alone.
I wished I had something else playing. Something cooler. Something Georgia would have had on when a boy stopped by to see her. And I really, really, really wished I hadn’t already put on my pajamas. Flannel, old-man style, with pictures of sheep jumping over clouds.
“Do you like this music?” he asked.
I wondered if this was a trick question, but decided to go with the truth. “It’s okay.”
“Well, then I’ve got someone you have to meet. What are you doing tomorrow?”
I walked over to the couch and sat down. He sat across from me in the corduroy armchair. Dad’s favorite chair.
He wore tan pants with no holes in the knees. A button-down shirt over a gray T-shirt. Almost as if he’d dressed for the occasion. He was rosy. Pink. Maybe he was nervous. Or winded from the walk over here; I’d never seen him with a bike.
The cut on his cheek had healed a bit, and I noticed for the first time a softness about him. He wasn’t beautiful like Nick, but there was a sweet, almost cartoonish humor to his look. He had a face you’d throw away the rules for. A face to unlock doors.
“I’m supposed to go to the shop, but …” I picked up a cushion and put it in my lap. It was doing nothing to helphide my hideous pajamas. I turned it over a few times and then put it back down again. “How did you know where I live, anyway?”
“I’ve been following you.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have opened the door .
He leaned forward and grinned. “Robin. I’m kidding. I knew your address from the inside of your backpack. If Lost, Please Return to Drew Solo: One Forty-Six Mount Pleasant Drive .”
Right. My backpack.
“There’s a phone number in there too,” I said. “You could have called.” You didn’t have to wait a whole week .
“I could have,” he said. “But then maybe you’d never have invited me over.”
I thought of the bag in the refrigerator.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m pretty much always hungry.”
I led him into the kitchen.
The paper bag held linguini, fresh pesto, and a wedge of Reggiano. Mom didn’t believe in pregrating cheese. We always shaved it fresh over our hot plates.
I put water on to boil, took out some silverware and a cloth napkin, and set him a place at the counter. I’d never cooked for anyone other than Mom, and I was nervous.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I ate already.”
“So did I. You don’t see that stopping me.” It wasn’t that the cornflakes had filled me up, it was that when nervous, like a rat, I tended to lose my appetite.
He picked up his fork and twirled it between his fingers.
“Robin, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
This sounded serious. I knew the saying about a watched pot never boiling, but I stared at it anyway.
“It’s about Hum,” he said. “I don’t know if you know this about rats, but they should have at least one other rat, a rat to attach themselves to, or else they get lonely.”
Hum needed a friend? That was all he wanted to tell me?
Emmett might have thought he knew everything about rats, but he didn’t understand that Hum was different. Hum didn’t need another rat, because he had me.
“I take him everywhere. He’s never alone.”
This statement didn’t account for the fact that, at that moment, Hum was very much alone in my room. He wasn’t allowed in the kitchen when we were cooking or eating. It was one of the rare occasions when Mom’s rules actually made some sense.
“Yeah, that’s another thing,” he said. He leaned back in his stool, almost tipping over. “That cage you take him everywhere in—it’s too small. Rats need room to roam.”
I put the pasta into the water, which had
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