“Hi, Mr. Mulligan.”
“Hello, Penny,” he says with a big smile.
“Mr. Mulligan was just telling me how he might be getting a new route. Isn’t that interesting, Penny?” my mother asks.
“Real interesting,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes.
“I better be off. Lots of deliveries yet,” Mr. Mulligan says, and tips his hat. He walks back to his truck, whistling.
We go inside to the kitchen, and Mother pours a cup of coffee, smiling to herself. She didn’t smile when I gave her the fox stole last night; she just shook her head and put it in the closet, saying, “Now, where would I ever wear this?”
“It’s going to be just you and Me-me and Pop-pop for dinner tonight,” she tells me. “I have to work late.”
“Okay,” I say. I feel bad for my mother sometimes. She works so hard. None of the other kids I know have mothers who have to work. But then, most of them have fathers.
“Do you have to work at your uncle’s store today?” she asks.
“We have deliveries this afternoon.”
Her mouth purses slightly. “Then be sure to give Me-me a hand with the chores this morning.”
I go to my bedroom and come back a moment later.
“Here,” I say, holding out a small envelope. “Uncle Ralphie paid me.”
“Bunny,” she says, “you don’t have to give me your money.”
“I want to,” I say, going over to the Milk Money jar and dropping it in. “Maybe we can save up and buy a television.”
“We’ll see,” she says, which means no.
“Are we going to Aunt Francine and Uncle Donald’s for vacation this summer?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “At the end of August.”
“Do we have to?”
“But that house is right on the lake,” my mother says, by which she means the house belongs to relatives and is free.
Aunt Francine is my mother’s older sister. She and her husband have a cabin on Lake George in upstate New York, and we go there every summer. It should be fun, but it isn’t, because I always have to watch their seven-year-old daughter, my cousin Lou Ellen. Lou Ellen’s a brat.
Last summer she got mad because I wouldn’t play dolls with her. That night when we were taking a bath together, she reached across and turned on the hot water faucet and it burned me on my back. Mother rushed me home to see Dr. Lathrop, our family doctor, because she didn’t trust the doctor at the lake. I had to go to the hospital and everything. Dr. Lathrop had been in the army and knew all about burns and put this medicine on my back called Scarlet Red that stained everything I wore. I had to get a whole new wardrobe.
The worst part, though, was watching my mother. She went kind of crazy when I got burned. The entire drive home I kept telling her it didn’t hurt. Dr. Lathrop said my nerve endings were destroyed, which is why I didn’t feel any pain. I couldn’t do anything for the rest of the summer: no playing, no baseball, no bicycle riding, no going to the beach, no nothing. I just lay on my stomach listening to the radio and Pop-pop burping. But Mother thought I was going to die. Even now I’m surprised she lets me leave the house.
“Well, I’m not taking any baths with Lou Ellen,” I say.
“That’s probably a good idea,” she says, buttering a piece of toast and passing it to me. “Are you getting excited for your birthday? It’s almost here.”
“I guess,” I say with a shrug. When I was little, I used to ask my mother for a father, but I haven’t asked for that in a while.
“Twelve’s a big birthday,” she says.
Twelve has always seemed pretty old to me. The girls who are twelve are in seventh grade and worry about their hair and are always trying to borrow their older sisters’ bras.
“What did you get when you were twelve?” I ask, curious.
“My first real piece of jewelry,” she says.
“Really?”
“It was a single-strand pearl necklace. Me-me and Pop-pop said that twelve was old enough to take care of something precious. I still have it.”
“I
“Hello, Penny,” he says with a big smile.
“Mr. Mulligan was just telling me how he might be getting a new route. Isn’t that interesting, Penny?” my mother asks.
“Real interesting,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes.
“I better be off. Lots of deliveries yet,” Mr. Mulligan says, and tips his hat. He walks back to his truck, whistling.
We go inside to the kitchen, and Mother pours a cup of coffee, smiling to herself. She didn’t smile when I gave her the fox stole last night; she just shook her head and put it in the closet, saying, “Now, where would I ever wear this?”
“It’s going to be just you and Me-me and Pop-pop for dinner tonight,” she tells me. “I have to work late.”
“Okay,” I say. I feel bad for my mother sometimes. She works so hard. None of the other kids I know have mothers who have to work. But then, most of them have fathers.
“Do you have to work at your uncle’s store today?” she asks.
“We have deliveries this afternoon.”
Her mouth purses slightly. “Then be sure to give Me-me a hand with the chores this morning.”
I go to my bedroom and come back a moment later.
“Here,” I say, holding out a small envelope. “Uncle Ralphie paid me.”
“Bunny,” she says, “you don’t have to give me your money.”
“I want to,” I say, going over to the Milk Money jar and dropping it in. “Maybe we can save up and buy a television.”
“We’ll see,” she says, which means no.
“Are we going to Aunt Francine and Uncle Donald’s for vacation this summer?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “At the end of August.”
“Do we have to?”
“But that house is right on the lake,” my mother says, by which she means the house belongs to relatives and is free.
Aunt Francine is my mother’s older sister. She and her husband have a cabin on Lake George in upstate New York, and we go there every summer. It should be fun, but it isn’t, because I always have to watch their seven-year-old daughter, my cousin Lou Ellen. Lou Ellen’s a brat.
Last summer she got mad because I wouldn’t play dolls with her. That night when we were taking a bath together, she reached across and turned on the hot water faucet and it burned me on my back. Mother rushed me home to see Dr. Lathrop, our family doctor, because she didn’t trust the doctor at the lake. I had to go to the hospital and everything. Dr. Lathrop had been in the army and knew all about burns and put this medicine on my back called Scarlet Red that stained everything I wore. I had to get a whole new wardrobe.
The worst part, though, was watching my mother. She went kind of crazy when I got burned. The entire drive home I kept telling her it didn’t hurt. Dr. Lathrop said my nerve endings were destroyed, which is why I didn’t feel any pain. I couldn’t do anything for the rest of the summer: no playing, no baseball, no bicycle riding, no going to the beach, no nothing. I just lay on my stomach listening to the radio and Pop-pop burping. But Mother thought I was going to die. Even now I’m surprised she lets me leave the house.
“Well, I’m not taking any baths with Lou Ellen,” I say.
“That’s probably a good idea,” she says, buttering a piece of toast and passing it to me. “Are you getting excited for your birthday? It’s almost here.”
“I guess,” I say with a shrug. When I was little, I used to ask my mother for a father, but I haven’t asked for that in a while.
“Twelve’s a big birthday,” she says.
Twelve has always seemed pretty old to me. The girls who are twelve are in seventh grade and worry about their hair and are always trying to borrow their older sisters’ bras.
“What did you get when you were twelve?” I ask, curious.
“My first real piece of jewelry,” she says.
“Really?”
“It was a single-strand pearl necklace. Me-me and Pop-pop said that twelve was old enough to take care of something precious. I still have it.”
“I
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