Night Swimmers by Betsy Byars Page B

thing—mashed potatoes.
    The volcano was almost as tall as his cup of milk now, a really spectacular display. “Look,” he said to Retta and Johnny.
    He waited until he had their attention. Then, making sound effects with his mouth, he erupted the volcano, sending margarine spilling down the sides, creating destruction on one side and then the other until the entire volcano was a flat mess of potatoes that covered his entire plate.
    Satisfied at last, he picked up his spoon and began to eat. “Want me to make something out of your potatoes, Retta?” he asked.
    “No.”
    “I can make anything—boats, rivers, planets—”
    “No.”
    “I won’t make anything for Johnny because he won’t tell me the secret.”
    “Good,” Johnny said.
    Johnny and Retta were not eating. Neither was hungry. Johnny was too excited to eat because he and Arthur were going on a secret mission that night. Retta was too suspicious to eat. She knew Johnny was up to something—she could tell from the nervous energy that caused him to dig at his food, shift in his chair, pull at his clothes, and dig at his food again.
    She watched Johnny with eyes sharp enough to penetrate his thoughts.
    “Quit staring at me,” he said finally.
    “I’m not staring.”
    “You are too.”
    She looked down at her plate and shifted her potatoes with her fork. She lifted the fork and sipped the potatoes on it as if she were taking medicine. Her eyes rolled to Johnny.
    “You’re staring at me again!” he accused.
    “Well, you’re staring at me too!”
    “All right, everybody,” Shorty Anderson said, coming into the room with a square-dance step. “Everybody can stare at me!” He had on his hot-pink velour outfit with the rhinestone lapels, his favorite. He danced around the table in his matching leather boots.
    “Supper’s cold,” Retta said.
    “I don’t believe I’ll have anything, honey. I’ll just get something at the Hoedown. Looks mighty good though.” Shorty never took chances eating in his pink suit. It cost twenty-two dollars to have it cleaned.
    “We had mashed potatoes,” Roy said, “and I made a volcano.”
    “I used to do that when my mama wasn’t looking,” Shorty Anderson said. “But my mama wouldn’t let us play with our food. That’s the only bad thing I can say about her.” He put one hand on Retta’s shoulder. “You’re lucky to have a sweet sister who lets you do what you want.”
    “Oh, Dad,” Retta said through her teeth.
    “Well, they are.” He turned away. “You kids behave yourselves now.”
    “We will,” Roy called happily.
    Retta, Roy, and Johnny continued to sit at the table after their father left, even though they had finished eating. Retta kept her eyes down, but her thoughts were on Johnny. He’s slipping out tonight, she said to herself.
    Finally Johnny broke the silence. He stood up, stretching. “Well, I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
    “It’s only eight o’clock,” Retta said.
    “So—I’m tired. All right?”
    As Johnny left the room, Retta looked up, eyes burning. She watched him until he disappeared into the hall. Then she got up and began to wash the dishes. Over the hot, steaming water, her face was set.
    They all went to bed early. Roy fell asleep quickly, but Retta and Johnny lay wide awake, eyes staring at the ceiling. From time to time Johnny smiled slightly in anticipation, but Retta’s face remained hard, unyielding.
    She knew the exact moment when Johnny got out of bed because she heard the creak of his bed springs. She lay without moving, eyes shut, while Johnny slipped out of his room and into the hall.
    Johnny paused in the doorway of Retta’s room. He wanted to make sure Retta was asleep. If she stirred, he was going to pretend he was on his way to the bathroom. She did not move. Breathing a sigh of relief, Johnny moved quietly into the living room.
    Johnny had always felt that the one thing he was really good at was not being noticed. Indeed, he sometimes