Takeoffs and Landings by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page A

for small buildings, square street grids, restaurants surrounded by only parking lots.
    Mom seemed entirely at home.
    â€œWe can go out to the science museum when it opens at nine thirty, and then come back downtown for lunch. If there’s time, we can shop a little at Water Tower Place—it’s this huge, ritzy mall with all these incredibly expensive stores. I can’t promise that we could afford anything, but it’s kind of fun to look,” Mom said while they waited to be seated.
    Lori wasn’t interested in science, and Chuck had practically flunked general biology last year. Lori looked around the hotel restaurant, wondering whether she should tell Mom that. She knew Chuck wouldn’t speak up. Surely he was as intimidated by all the shiny brass and fancy chandeliers as Lori was.
    â€œTable for three?” asked the waiter or host or whatever he was called. He had an accent that made the words sound foreign, even though they weren’t.
    â€œYes, please,” Mom said crisply. She was used to talking to people like that, and Lori didn’t even know what they were called.
    The waiter guy pulled out Lori’s chair for her and placed her napkin on her lap. Lori tried not to giggle. Then he handed her a menu. The cheapest breakfast, cold cereal, was $6.95.
    â€œWe could have gone to McDonald’s,” Lori said.
    â€œI know,” Mom said. “But I wanted to treat you. You can go to McDonald’s anytime you want at home.”
    â€œNot really,” Lori said. “Gram and Pop always say it costs too much.”
    Mom didn’t say anything.
    â€œAnyhow, it’s not like Pickford County only has a McDonald’s,” Lori continued. “We have a Burger King there now, too. And a Bob Evans.”
    â€œI know,” Mom said. “I live there, too, remember?”
    â€œOh, sorry,” Lori said. “It’s easy to forget when you’re never around.”
    Lori couldn’t believe she’d actually said that. Maybe she hadn’t—maybe the words were just throbbing in her head so strongly that she only thought she’d spoken them out loud. For a second, no one reacted, and she silently hoped, I didn’t say it. I didn’t say it. Nobody heard. But then Chuck’s eyes bugged out, and two spots of angry color appeared on Mom’s cheeks.
    â€œWe’ll pretend,” Mom said quietly, “that you didn’t say that. That we haven’t had this conversation. We don’t need a repeat of last night.”
    That made everything worse. You couldn’t have your house burn down and blithely say, We’ll pretend that never happened. You couldn’t murder someone and say, Let’s pretend you’re still alive. You couldn’t be furious enough to scream and cry and rage for hours and still smile sweetly and say, Aren’t we such a nice, happy family?
    But hadn’t Lori been doing that for years?
    She looked up and saw that the waiter guy was still there. He was focusing intently on pouring water for all of them, as if that required every ounce of his concentration. He’d heard everything. Lori felt her face go red; she’d thought she’d cried herself out the night before, but a fresh supply of tears threatened under her eyelids as she watched the guy walk away. He probably couldn’t wait to tell the other servers, You won’t believe the horrible family I’ve got over there. Lori had broken one of Gram and Pop’s biggest rules: “Don’t air your dirty laundry in public.” It was closely related to the main question they asked anytime one of the kids even threatened to do anything wrong: “What will people think?”
    Mom and Chuck were studying their menus now with every bit as much concentration as the waiter had used on the water.
    â€œAre you feeling brave today, Chuck?” Mom asked with what had to be fake heartiness. “Want to try the salsa