a deep breath and quickly said, “Wedecidedtosendyoutoboardingschool.”
“What?” asked Cleo.
Helen took over. “Cleomella, we are sending you to boarding
school. You’ll be leaving in a week. I suggest you start packing now, as you
won’t be coming back home until summer break.”
Cleo, for the first time in her life, was absolutely
speechless. Two fat tears slid down her cheeks and splashed on the stone floor.
She looked from one parent to the other, waiting for one of them to say “just
kidding!” or laugh. Instead, Helen walked away, and Darwin cleared his throat
once more before putting a hand on Cleo’s shoulder and adding, “You might want
to make a packing list, just to be sure you get everything.” Then, he went
upstairs to his study. Cleo stood there until, finally, Vera stepped out of the
shadows and pulled her into a hug.
Cleo started to really cry. She buried her face in Vera’s
midsection and sobbed. Finally, the sensation of a hand stroking up and down
her back began to calm her down. She looked up at Vera and hiccupped. “Why are
they making me go away?” she asked.
Vera’s mouth tensed, just for a moment, and she shot a glare
at the top of the staircase before replying. “They don’t know what else to do,”
she said. “But you’re going to be fine, child. You always are.”
Cleo thought about this. She was going to be fine, because
Vera said so. She just needed to approach this as an experiment, a new field
study. Different place, different people, different habits. She was going to
need a lot of new notebooks—which, of course, reminded her of the cause of her
current troubles…the missing notebook.
She looked up at Vera and batted her eyelashes. “I’ve never
had to pack before. I just hope I get everything I’ll need.”
Vera smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it that everything is
bundled up before you go. You just spend your time getting adjusted to the
idea.”
Cleo quickly devised a plan. “Vera, you’re right. I need
some time. I think I’m going to go for a walk.”
Vera nodded and stroked her hair one last time before
heading back toward the kitchen. Cleo waited until she was out of sight before
sprinting up the stairs. She put on some tennis shoes, grabbed her backpack and
a handful of money from her sock drawer, made a quick call from the telephone in
the library, and tiptoed back down to the front door. Nobody seemed to be
paying any attention, so she walked right down the front steps and out to the
road.
7
Santo heard a car door slamming suspiciously close to his
house. He peered out the window at the taxi slowly lumbering over the ruts and
roots of his driveway. Then the pounding started.
He looked out through the dirty diamond shaped panels of
glass in his front door, but didn’t see anyone. The pounding began again, and
the vibrations seemed to be coming from the very center of the door, right
beside the doorknob. He cautiously drew back the security chain and opened the
door, just a crack.
“Give me my damn notebook,” said the very pissed-off nine
year old on his stoop.
He slammed the door and froze. How did she find him? Were
the police close by? Should he run? Hide? Hold her hostage? Santo finally
decided to just be very, very still, and wait for her to go away.
“Open the damn door and give me my damn notebook!” screamed
Cleo.
“No!” yelled Santo as he quietly maneuvered his recliner in
front of the door. This was greeted with silence, and he finally began to
relax. Maybe she really had gone away.
But the jagged chunk of cinderblock that came crashing
through his window, showering him with glass, proved otherwise. He (unwisely)
ran to the window and yelled, “You little bitch!” before saluting her with both
middle fingers. It was during this interval that Cleo managed to locate the
other pieces of the broken cinderblock under the saggy underside of
“What?” asked Cleo.
Helen took over. “Cleomella, we are sending you to boarding
school. You’ll be leaving in a week. I suggest you start packing now, as you
won’t be coming back home until summer break.”
Cleo, for the first time in her life, was absolutely
speechless. Two fat tears slid down her cheeks and splashed on the stone floor.
She looked from one parent to the other, waiting for one of them to say “just
kidding!” or laugh. Instead, Helen walked away, and Darwin cleared his throat
once more before putting a hand on Cleo’s shoulder and adding, “You might want
to make a packing list, just to be sure you get everything.” Then, he went
upstairs to his study. Cleo stood there until, finally, Vera stepped out of the
shadows and pulled her into a hug.
Cleo started to really cry. She buried her face in Vera’s
midsection and sobbed. Finally, the sensation of a hand stroking up and down
her back began to calm her down. She looked up at Vera and hiccupped. “Why are
they making me go away?” she asked.
Vera’s mouth tensed, just for a moment, and she shot a glare
at the top of the staircase before replying. “They don’t know what else to do,”
she said. “But you’re going to be fine, child. You always are.”
Cleo thought about this. She was going to be fine, because
Vera said so. She just needed to approach this as an experiment, a new field
study. Different place, different people, different habits. She was going to
need a lot of new notebooks—which, of course, reminded her of the cause of her
current troubles…the missing notebook.
She looked up at Vera and batted her eyelashes. “I’ve never
had to pack before. I just hope I get everything I’ll need.”
Vera smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it that everything is
bundled up before you go. You just spend your time getting adjusted to the
idea.”
Cleo quickly devised a plan. “Vera, you’re right. I need
some time. I think I’m going to go for a walk.”
Vera nodded and stroked her hair one last time before
heading back toward the kitchen. Cleo waited until she was out of sight before
sprinting up the stairs. She put on some tennis shoes, grabbed her backpack and
a handful of money from her sock drawer, made a quick call from the telephone in
the library, and tiptoed back down to the front door. Nobody seemed to be
paying any attention, so she walked right down the front steps and out to the
road.
7
Santo heard a car door slamming suspiciously close to his
house. He peered out the window at the taxi slowly lumbering over the ruts and
roots of his driveway. Then the pounding started.
He looked out through the dirty diamond shaped panels of
glass in his front door, but didn’t see anyone. The pounding began again, and
the vibrations seemed to be coming from the very center of the door, right
beside the doorknob. He cautiously drew back the security chain and opened the
door, just a crack.
“Give me my damn notebook,” said the very pissed-off nine
year old on his stoop.
He slammed the door and froze. How did she find him? Were
the police close by? Should he run? Hide? Hold her hostage? Santo finally
decided to just be very, very still, and wait for her to go away.
“Open the damn door and give me my damn notebook!” screamed
Cleo.
“No!” yelled Santo as he quietly maneuvered his recliner in
front of the door. This was greeted with silence, and he finally began to
relax. Maybe she really had gone away.
But the jagged chunk of cinderblock that came crashing
through his window, showering him with glass, proved otherwise. He (unwisely)
ran to the window and yelled, “You little bitch!” before saluting her with both
middle fingers. It was during this interval that Cleo managed to locate the
other pieces of the broken cinderblock under the saggy underside of
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