Pieces of Why by K. L. Going Page B

sparkler. “We did. He’s so amazing.”
    â€œTell me more about it tomorrow?”
    Keisha nodded, and I was relieved to slip away. When I stepped inside, I triple-locked the door, checking the chain twice before I shut off the outside lights. Ma had left a plate of food with a note in the kitchen, but I still couldn’t eat, so I stuck it in the refrigerator. Then I went into my bedroomand put on my softest pajamas: the ones with the yellow stars that I’d mostly outgrown.
    It was strange the way my body was growing, but I still felt the same. Sometimes I wanted to stay me forever, never wanted to outgrow my old star pajamas, but other times I was so scared of getting left behind. Keisha had already started her period, but I hadn’t. What if mine never came?
    I wondered if Danielle had ever gotten her period, but it felt wrong to wonder about such a personal thing. Still . . . did she ever have a boyfriend? A best friend? What had she wanted to be when she grew up?
    Made me feel lonely, so I went into Ma’s room and climbed into bed with her, squeezing next to her thin frame. Hours later, I finally fell asleep listening to the sound of her breathing, real steady, like a metronome keeping the beat.

    When I woke, Ma was already up and the mattress felt too big. I rolled around for a few minutes, then got up, and went into the kitchen. Ma was in her bathrobe standing at the sink doing dishes, but when I came out she stopped, walked over, and kissed me on the forehead.
    â€œHow did it go last night?”
    Horrible. The worst
night ever.
    â€œTia? I asked you a question.”
    â€œWhat?” I glanced up. “Good.”
    Ma nodded, as if
good
were enough information. “Now, what do you want for our feast?”
    Saturday morning feasts were our tradition. Ma went to work at the grocery store later on Saturdays, so we cooked a huge breakfast and stayed in our pajamas for as long as possible.
    â€œWaffles?” she prompted. “And maybe some orange slices and sausages?”
    I opened my mouth to tell her that I didn’t feel like having a feast today, but Ma was already getting her old CD player down from the top of the refrigerator. No one else I knew listened to CDs, but Ma still used the same player she’d had since I was a baby. She put on Nanci Griffith, her favorite bluegrass singer. Usually I sang along and Ma would listen and smile. Sometimes she hummed and every now and then she’d break into a line of song, as if she didn’t realize what she was doing. But now we were quiet as she cracked the eggs into the flour and sugar. She always took the time to make the waffles from scratch.
    What would she say when I told her that I knew what my father had done? I wanted to scream at her for not telling me everything, but how could I yell at someone who worked every spare minute to keep us from falling apart?
    Ma stopped and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. She looked exhausted. Other people had hobbies, or atleast they watched TV shows—
something
—but Ma had nothing except two jobs and Saturday mornings.
    Finally, I couldn’t stand it.
    â€œSit down, Ma,” I said. “Let me finish up.”
    Ma paused, looking between me and the waffle maker, but she didn’t argue. “Be sure to spray it extra good,” she said, sitting down at the kitchen table and propping her slippered feet onto a chair. I nodded and took two plates out of the cupboard. I peeled an orange and pulled apart the segments, their fragrance squirting into the air in a light orange mist. I chewed my bottom lip, wondering what I should say.
    â€œMa,” I said at last.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œDo you think we could talk about . . . the past? I mean . . . about—”
    All the color drained from Ma’s face. Her feet slid off the chair and she looked like she might be sick. I could see the pinch around her eyes that