presumably at my grandmother.
I hear a muffled voice in the background. “Just a second, tell her I’m getting the muffins out of the oven.”
“She’s getting the muffins out of the oven!” shouts Grandpa, at a volume ten times louder than a normal person.
“So how are you, Grandpa?”
“What?”
“I said, how are you doing?”
“We’re doing just fine. Here you go. Here’s your grandmother.”
“Sara, dear. Shouldn’t you be at school? Is something wrong?”
This is the part where I should tell her that my mom is missing and my dad is insane, but instead I say, “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m home sick today.”
The toilet flushes. It sounds loud and industrial. Nothing like the toilet we have at home.
“You don’t sound sick,” my grandma says.
“I’ve been throwing up all morning. So I thought I’d call and see how you guys were doing. There’s nothing on TV right now.”
Grandma pauses, as if trying to reconcile the loud toilet flush with me being at home. “We’re just fine. We’ve got Grandpa’s heart doctor appointment this afternoon, then tomorrow morning it’s our day to deliver Meals On Wheels.” My grandma is way into volunteerism. “What kind of service projects do you have going on at your school this year?”
Our family is the opposite of my grandparents. We never volunteer for anything. Although once my mom and I are on our own, who knows, maybe we’ll start. I make something up. It’s easier than hearing my grandma talk about how important it is to help others. “I think there’s this Habitat for Humanity thing next month.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
I make one last attempt. “So, nothing else is new with you?” This is the point where she’s supposed to mention that my mom called to say that she’s on her way to see them.
“No, that’s about it,” she says.
“Okay, great then. I’ll let you get back to Wheel of Fortune .”
“ The Price Is Right , dear. Wheel of Fortune is on in the evening.”
“Right. Of course. Talk to you later, then.” I disconnect.
Rachel washes her hands and leaves.
The call to my aunt goes similarly except that my uncle (who works from home) doesn’t need a hearing aid and my aunt definitely doesn’t believe I’ve just called to see what’s up with her. But I don’t feel like I can share the truth. If I tell them that my mom is missing and has either run away from my dad because he’s beating her up or that I think my dad killed my mom, they’ll insist that I call the police. In fact, they’ll probably call the police for me, i.e., Jack Reynolds. I’ll be as good as dead. The best thing I can do is to sit tight and wait for Mom to come back for me. There must be a good reason why she didn’t pick me up yesterday. I just can’t think of it right now.
I go back to class and put my head down.
“Sara, you were gone more than ten minutes.” I prop my head up. Robertson is towering above my desk.
“Sorry, stomachache,” I say.
Robertson narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t let it happen again.”
I nod and pretend to pay attention. The last thing I need is Robertson calling home and asking to speak to my parents.
This is what my version of paying attention looks like:
Stare intently at Robertson. Squint at the board.
Write furiously: Must leave. Have to go. Must leave. Have to go. She’s coming back. Be patient. Stay calm. Must leave. Have to go.
Pretend not to notice Alex’s desk moving closer to mine. Turn the page in my notebook so Alex can’t see what I’m writing. Copy down what’s actually written on the board. Hide the note Alex slides to me under my notebook. Try to recover from accelerated heartbeat caused by Alex’s hand brushing mine as he passes me the note.
Stare at Robertson. Stare at the board.
Think about kissing Alex. Look at Alex. Notice dimples. Wonder how someone can look so hot in a T-shirt with a sports logo on it. Imagine the
I hear a muffled voice in the background. “Just a second, tell her I’m getting the muffins out of the oven.”
“She’s getting the muffins out of the oven!” shouts Grandpa, at a volume ten times louder than a normal person.
“So how are you, Grandpa?”
“What?”
“I said, how are you doing?”
“We’re doing just fine. Here you go. Here’s your grandmother.”
“Sara, dear. Shouldn’t you be at school? Is something wrong?”
This is the part where I should tell her that my mom is missing and my dad is insane, but instead I say, “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m home sick today.”
The toilet flushes. It sounds loud and industrial. Nothing like the toilet we have at home.
“You don’t sound sick,” my grandma says.
“I’ve been throwing up all morning. So I thought I’d call and see how you guys were doing. There’s nothing on TV right now.”
Grandma pauses, as if trying to reconcile the loud toilet flush with me being at home. “We’re just fine. We’ve got Grandpa’s heart doctor appointment this afternoon, then tomorrow morning it’s our day to deliver Meals On Wheels.” My grandma is way into volunteerism. “What kind of service projects do you have going on at your school this year?”
Our family is the opposite of my grandparents. We never volunteer for anything. Although once my mom and I are on our own, who knows, maybe we’ll start. I make something up. It’s easier than hearing my grandma talk about how important it is to help others. “I think there’s this Habitat for Humanity thing next month.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. You’ll have to tell me all about it.”
I make one last attempt. “So, nothing else is new with you?” This is the point where she’s supposed to mention that my mom called to say that she’s on her way to see them.
“No, that’s about it,” she says.
“Okay, great then. I’ll let you get back to Wheel of Fortune .”
“ The Price Is Right , dear. Wheel of Fortune is on in the evening.”
“Right. Of course. Talk to you later, then.” I disconnect.
Rachel washes her hands and leaves.
The call to my aunt goes similarly except that my uncle (who works from home) doesn’t need a hearing aid and my aunt definitely doesn’t believe I’ve just called to see what’s up with her. But I don’t feel like I can share the truth. If I tell them that my mom is missing and has either run away from my dad because he’s beating her up or that I think my dad killed my mom, they’ll insist that I call the police. In fact, they’ll probably call the police for me, i.e., Jack Reynolds. I’ll be as good as dead. The best thing I can do is to sit tight and wait for Mom to come back for me. There must be a good reason why she didn’t pick me up yesterday. I just can’t think of it right now.
I go back to class and put my head down.
“Sara, you were gone more than ten minutes.” I prop my head up. Robertson is towering above my desk.
“Sorry, stomachache,” I say.
Robertson narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t let it happen again.”
I nod and pretend to pay attention. The last thing I need is Robertson calling home and asking to speak to my parents.
This is what my version of paying attention looks like:
Stare intently at Robertson. Squint at the board.
Write furiously: Must leave. Have to go. Must leave. Have to go. She’s coming back. Be patient. Stay calm. Must leave. Have to go.
Pretend not to notice Alex’s desk moving closer to mine. Turn the page in my notebook so Alex can’t see what I’m writing. Copy down what’s actually written on the board. Hide the note Alex slides to me under my notebook. Try to recover from accelerated heartbeat caused by Alex’s hand brushing mine as he passes me the note.
Stare at Robertson. Stare at the board.
Think about kissing Alex. Look at Alex. Notice dimples. Wonder how someone can look so hot in a T-shirt with a sports logo on it. Imagine the
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