Read Online Things I’ll Never Say by Ann Angel - Free Book Online

that for? We don’t want your stories.”
    What we wanted didn’t seem to be an issue for Ruthie’s mother. She cleared her throat theatrically and, clutching the remote to her chest, began: “Once upon a time there was this princess, see.” She studied us both, and now that she was vertical, noticed our makeup. “Is the light in here lousy?” she asked. “Or am I sharing my goddamn living room with a couple of freaking movie stars?”
    â€œMom, please!” Ruthie rose from her chair, but I stayed where I was, mesmerized. I’d never heard anyone but Courtney use the words Mrs. Kepner did. And I’d never known anyone who made stories up out of thin air.
    â€œThis princess, she was all gussied up like you two, so she figured she’d go downtown and kiss a handsome prince.”
    â€œWe have an English assignment, in case you forgot.” Ruthie looked at me, one dedicated scholar to another. I was glad to stand quickly, but my acting skills didn’t match Ruthie’s. I was reduced to stunned silence in the face of this prissy reminder coming from someone who, I knew, never, ever did her homework.
    Mrs. Kepner must have known it, too. She barely missed a beat. “But there was this problem, see, this big problem. Every time the princess found a hot prospect and planted one on him, damn if he didn’t turn into a frog.” She was no longer looking at us, but stared at the empty TV screen instead. “That happens a lot. You’ll see.
    â€œâ€˜Crap doodle,’ the princess said, ‘I’m probably using the wrong brand of lipstick. Or maybe I need a new dress.’ Poor nitwit was always ready to blame herself, know what I mean?”
    No one answered her. Ruthie, a finger across her shiny painted lips, slithered by the sofa and headed for the stairs. I sort of wanted to hear the rest of the story, but I definitely didn’t want to be left alone with Mrs. Kepner. So I followed my hostess upstairs, while her mother went right on talking to the empty room. I’d never walked out on an adult before, and the sound of this one, rambling on and on behind us, filled me with guilt and dread in equal measure.
    Long after we’d fallen asleep, two firemen tramped into Ruthie’s bedroom and woke us up. Apparently, Mrs. Kepner had gotten up from that couch in the middle of the night. She’d tried to make popcorn with a lot more oil and a lot less popcorn than most people use. A neighbor smelled the fire all the way across the street and called 911. Which was fortunate because Mrs. Kepner wouldn’t move. Even after the firemen brought Ruthie and me downstairs, she refused to leave the kitchen. She just stood by the stove, the vivid pink arms of a sweater tied around her waist, her mascara streaming. Over and over, she rattled the charred kernels in the frying pan, sobbing into the smoke. “Can’t do anything right,” she told the youngest fireman, shaking her head and sniffling. “Can’t do any damn thing right.”
    â€œIt’s okay, Momma.” Maybe it was being woken from a sound sleep. Or perhaps it was seeing her mother in such distress. Whatever the reason, Ruthie’s voice had acquired a soft, purring tone. But the tearful woman shrugged her off.
    â€œGet away,” she commanded. “Wouldn’t none of this happened in the first place if you didn’t insist on having your uppity friends over.” Briefly, she looked at me, and I was filled, not with guilt but with remorse. I wished intensely that I had never accepted Ruthie’s invitation. “Trying to make a treat for you and Miss Fancy-pants, is all.” Mrs. Kepner sighed, then turned her baleful stare on the firemen’s shiny yellow jackets as the three men packed up to leave.
    After the fire, I wasn’t allowed to visit Ruthie anymore. My mother had a new strict rule: don’t trust your only child to a drunk. But