my bed. "What's up?"
Her eyes pivoted until they met mine. "I hate it."
"Hate what?"
"My life."
So did I. I gathered her in my arms, rested my chin on the top of her head, and whispered, "I know."
Sarah took a huge gasping gulp of air and burrowed more tightly into me. I held her and smoothed her hair, following the long blonde strands down her back. Her tears soaked through my shirt, but I didn't move.
We sat together, the two of us, for the next twenty minutes.
At six, I still hadn't heard the kitchen door, so I knew Mom wasn't home yet â which had become her new routine. If I asked her where she'd been, I got a rock wall. Whenever I brought it up to Dad, his face would tighten and his lips would mold into a straight line. No one was happy with this new, secretive mother.
At six-thirty, the door opened and banged shut. Sarah heard it, and she jerked upright. "Mom's here."
"At last."
"Don't tell her I cried." Sarah's face held a worried expression, and she eyed the bedroom door.
"I won't say a thing."
"Did Dad tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"What happened when I got in trouble?" She looked down and picked at the tip of her fingernail.
Oh wow. I'd been so wrapped up in myself, I'd forgotten all about Dad's appointment with her principal. "No."
"I threw my math and language books in the toilet."
My mouth dropped. "Why?"
"I don't know. I wanted to."
"You weren't suspended?"
"Dad got me out of it, but the books cost one hundred and thirty-two dollars."
"Uh oh."
Sarah stood and pulled at the pockets of her pants. "I made it all worse. Never thought about it costing money."
"Everyone screws up sometimes."
I almost told her about the major screw-up with the Servant Sale but decided two of us moaning wouldn't help anything.
"Don't tell them I talked, either."
"Sarah, they're worried."
"I know, but I can't talk to them."
"Okay, I won't tell." Promising her didn't feel right. Deep in my gut, I was becoming suspicious that Sarah's silence was more than a little kid's rough adjustment.
Dinner was quiet. Dad ate as if he was competing in an obsessive-compulsive tournament, cutting each piece of food into tiny squares and making sure no one food touched another. Mom watched him with covert disdain, pretending to be enamored with her own meal. Sarah shoved her food around the plate, not eating, while I observed and wondered what had happened to my family.
Later in bed, I remembered the Servant Sale signs were still plastered all over the school. I'd have to wait through the whole weekend to tear them down. I flopped onto my side and groaned. No one would forget in a New York minute with those signs glaring from every corner.
****
First thing Monday morning I asked Dad to take me to school early, but he couldn't. Instead, I took the bus with Sarah as usual. When we pulled into the middle school, Sarah didn't budge.
"We're here," I prodded her.
She sat motionless, staring straight ahead.
"Sarah, get up. We're here."
The bus driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. He frowned and jerked his head toward the door.
"Sarah! Get up!" I hollered.
Like a terminally ill patient, she stood and dragged herself forward, trailing down the steps without a backward glance.
Could things be worse? I settled back into the seat and counted the seconds until we pulled into the high school parking lot. The driver barely had his foot on the brakes before I jumped up and hurtled the steps. There were already groups of students milling around. I pushed through them into the school.
"No running," the officer warned after I burst through the doors.
"Sorry," I said and grabbed the first poster I saw off the wall. By the time I rushed to the other two floors and pulled them all off, the bell was about to ring.
I crammed the posters into a nearby trashcan and looked up to see Jordan. He was standing two yards away, watching me. I smiled at him and shrugged.
He walked over. "Getting rid of the evidence, huh?"
"Sure
Her eyes pivoted until they met mine. "I hate it."
"Hate what?"
"My life."
So did I. I gathered her in my arms, rested my chin on the top of her head, and whispered, "I know."
Sarah took a huge gasping gulp of air and burrowed more tightly into me. I held her and smoothed her hair, following the long blonde strands down her back. Her tears soaked through my shirt, but I didn't move.
We sat together, the two of us, for the next twenty minutes.
At six, I still hadn't heard the kitchen door, so I knew Mom wasn't home yet â which had become her new routine. If I asked her where she'd been, I got a rock wall. Whenever I brought it up to Dad, his face would tighten and his lips would mold into a straight line. No one was happy with this new, secretive mother.
At six-thirty, the door opened and banged shut. Sarah heard it, and she jerked upright. "Mom's here."
"At last."
"Don't tell her I cried." Sarah's face held a worried expression, and she eyed the bedroom door.
"I won't say a thing."
"Did Dad tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"What happened when I got in trouble?" She looked down and picked at the tip of her fingernail.
Oh wow. I'd been so wrapped up in myself, I'd forgotten all about Dad's appointment with her principal. "No."
"I threw my math and language books in the toilet."
My mouth dropped. "Why?"
"I don't know. I wanted to."
"You weren't suspended?"
"Dad got me out of it, but the books cost one hundred and thirty-two dollars."
"Uh oh."
Sarah stood and pulled at the pockets of her pants. "I made it all worse. Never thought about it costing money."
"Everyone screws up sometimes."
I almost told her about the major screw-up with the Servant Sale but decided two of us moaning wouldn't help anything.
"Don't tell them I talked, either."
"Sarah, they're worried."
"I know, but I can't talk to them."
"Okay, I won't tell." Promising her didn't feel right. Deep in my gut, I was becoming suspicious that Sarah's silence was more than a little kid's rough adjustment.
Dinner was quiet. Dad ate as if he was competing in an obsessive-compulsive tournament, cutting each piece of food into tiny squares and making sure no one food touched another. Mom watched him with covert disdain, pretending to be enamored with her own meal. Sarah shoved her food around the plate, not eating, while I observed and wondered what had happened to my family.
Later in bed, I remembered the Servant Sale signs were still plastered all over the school. I'd have to wait through the whole weekend to tear them down. I flopped onto my side and groaned. No one would forget in a New York minute with those signs glaring from every corner.
****
First thing Monday morning I asked Dad to take me to school early, but he couldn't. Instead, I took the bus with Sarah as usual. When we pulled into the middle school, Sarah didn't budge.
"We're here," I prodded her.
She sat motionless, staring straight ahead.
"Sarah, get up. We're here."
The bus driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. He frowned and jerked his head toward the door.
"Sarah! Get up!" I hollered.
Like a terminally ill patient, she stood and dragged herself forward, trailing down the steps without a backward glance.
Could things be worse? I settled back into the seat and counted the seconds until we pulled into the high school parking lot. The driver barely had his foot on the brakes before I jumped up and hurtled the steps. There were already groups of students milling around. I pushed through them into the school.
"No running," the officer warned after I burst through the doors.
"Sorry," I said and grabbed the first poster I saw off the wall. By the time I rushed to the other two floors and pulled them all off, the bell was about to ring.
I crammed the posters into a nearby trashcan and looked up to see Jordan. He was standing two yards away, watching me. I smiled at him and shrugged.
He walked over. "Getting rid of the evidence, huh?"
"Sure
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