Read Online Whatever by Ann Walsh - Free Book Online Page A

“Darrah, where are you? I’ve been frantic. You’re not answering your phone and I’ve checked with all your friends.”
    â€œI thought I should do my sanctions anyway,” I tried to explain. “So I took the bus. My phone was in my backpack in the front hall; I didn’t hear it.”
    â€œWell, you’re not taking a bus home; it’s almost dark. I’ll send your father over to get you. He can pick up a pizza on the way back.”
    She didn’t sound too mad, in spite of her words. “Sorry, Mom. I got busy and forgot to call.”
    My mother had already hung up. I’d have to apologize again when I got home.
    I detoured by the bathroom and cleaned up a bit. Mrs. J. was trying to bend down far enough to peer into the oven. “You look,” she said. “Tell me if you think they’re golden brown on top.”
    They were. They were also double their original size. I grabbed the oven mitts and pulled out the pan. I’d used the biscuit recipe variation in the red book and made cheesebiscuits, and the golden tops of the biscuits were speckled with flecks of grated cheddar.
    â€œThese smell good.”
    She told me where to find the cooling racks, and sniffed appreciatively as I took the biscuits off the pan. “Pass me one, please.”
    I did, and watched nervously as she broke it in half, blew on it, then took a bite. “Ah,” she sighed. “That hits the spot. Almost as good as if I’d made them myself.”
    I beamed, as proud as if I’d landed the lead in a play. I had just taken my first bite when Dad banged at the door. I inhaled the rest of the biscuit. “See you on Monday,” I said.
    â€œDon’t rush off, have another one. After all, you made them.”
    â€œI should go.” I knew I was in for one of Dad’s lectures on the “always letting your parents know where you are” theme. No point in making him wait to deliver it; he’d get madder.
    â€œInvite him in,” said Mrs. Johnson.
    â€œMaybe it’s not a good idea.”
    â€œMaybe it’s an excellent idea. Bet he hasn’t had a fresh biscuit since he left home and married your mom.”
    It turned out that Dad hadn’t had homemade biscuits in years. He wolfed down two, and didn’t object when Mrs. Johnson insisted I wrap up a half dozen more to take home.
    â€œHow’s Andrew?” I asked as soon as we got in the car.
    â€œHe’s got stitches where he hit his head, but he’s okay, I think. He doesn’t want to talk, shut himself up in his roomwhen we got home from the hospital. Your mother thinks he’s crying but he won’t let her come in. She’s upset and doesn’t know what to do.”
    Then he remembered to be mad. “She’s got enough on her mind without having to worry about where you are, Darrah. You know the rules.”
    But he said it mildly, and nodded absently when I apologized.
    â€œThink you could make those biscuits at home?” he asked.

Chapter Seven

    ANDREW NEVER CRIES . I mean, not since he was little. The last time I remember him crying was his first day of kindergarten. Mom drove us both to school and went in with him, but she had to go to work. She couldn’t stay like most of the other mothers, so she took Andrew to his classroom, hung out for a half hour, then left.
    Shortly after she left, Andrew arrived at my classroom door, bawling his eyes out. The principal was with him. “Darrah, can we borrow you for a few minutes?” I ended up spending the rest of the morning in the kindergarten room, holding Andrew’s hand until snack time when he let go long enough to grab and eat a happy-face cupcake. At the end ofthe kindergarten day, which was lunch time for the rest of the school, I took him outside where he clung to me until Mom arrived and lifted him into the car.
    The next morning, he took a deep breath, opened the car door, got out