glanced at me guiltily. He knew I had heard him. I took a deep breath, recalling this phenomenon from my days of parent helping. You show up. Your kid seems overjoyed to have you there, and for five minutes, you cannot peel him off your leg. Then, for the rest of the day, he acts like a monster.
“Henry!” I heard his teacher, Miss O’Hara, say sharply. “Hannah! Miles! Get down this minute and come over here!” They scrambled down the trees so quickly they hardly could have fallen faster.
I was a little in awe of Miss O’Hara, whom the kids called Miss O. Where did they get these teachers? These attractive, smart, organized young women, and a couple of men, who are so woefully underpaid that they have to support their teaching habit with second jobs?
The children squirmed and threw glances at one another. Miss O. stood for a few moments without speaking. Then she said quietly, “Did the three of you sign a contract this morning?”
They nodded.
“Henry?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Miss O.”
“And what is a contract, Hannah?”
“A pwomith,” Hannah lisped. She was missing all four of her front teeth.
“Louder, please.” Her tone was even and kind.
“A pwomith.”
“A promise, what?”
“A pwomith, Mith O.”
Miss O’Hara nodded. “Miles, did the contract say anything about trees?”
“It said I will not climb on trees. Miss O.”
The teacher nodded.
“All right. Since I’m sure you have all learned from your mistake, I’m going to give you
one—more—chance
. One.”
She sounded like me when I say, “I am going to count to three.” You hope the tone of voice does the trick, because you haven’t got a clue what you’ll do if the standoff continues past three. But Miss O. probably knows. She is definitely a person with a plan.
The phone in the kitchen was ringing as Henry and I climbed the stairs, but the call went to the machine before I could get the door open. I figured it was just Hollywood Express, calling to let me know that the
24
DVD was overdue.
It was nearly seven o’clock. Sunshine, fresh air, and the excitement of the day had worn the kids out, but I was still surprised when Henry followed me to a seat on the bus and slid in beside me. He was asleep before we hit Route 2 and slept all the way back to Cambridge, waking only when the bus pulled into the schoolyard. He sat up sharply, damp from the heat of the sun through the window, momentarily disoriented. Then he smiled, sighed, and slumped back down.
I’d forgotten to pick up coffee at Wilson Farms, so we’d driven to Whole Foods before heading home. I had steeled myself to resist the rows of delectable out-of-season fruit shipped halfway around the globe, but the scent of the ever-expanding take-out section captured us the minute we walked in the door. Sure, I had a fridge full of fresh produce and a chicken just waiting to be roasted, but that would take a while. We were both starving, and I wasn’t up for the effort it would take to hold Henry off until I could get a proper meal on the table. Besides, the time would come when I would no longer be able to delight my son simply by springing for a six-inch pizza. Me, I went for chowder and corn bread. We ate at a table by the windows.
I checked for a phone message, but it was too soon. Normally I’d be steering Henry toward the tub at this point, but his hour-long nap had revived him, so I decided to let him play while I cleaned up the kitchen. Junk mail had been piling up, offers from credit card companies and hopeful postcards from local Realtors, who had obviously bought the wrong mailing list. The phone rang again. I picked it up.
“Anza!” someone said, but I couldn’t tell who. There was a little series of sobs, and then a whisper so low I could hardly hear. “The book,” I heard her say. I recognized the voice: it was Sylvia’s.
“The manuscript! It’s gone.”
Chapter Seven
M AX AND ELLIE had just finished supper when I
“Henry!” I heard his teacher, Miss O’Hara, say sharply. “Hannah! Miles! Get down this minute and come over here!” They scrambled down the trees so quickly they hardly could have fallen faster.
I was a little in awe of Miss O’Hara, whom the kids called Miss O. Where did they get these teachers? These attractive, smart, organized young women, and a couple of men, who are so woefully underpaid that they have to support their teaching habit with second jobs?
The children squirmed and threw glances at one another. Miss O. stood for a few moments without speaking. Then she said quietly, “Did the three of you sign a contract this morning?”
They nodded.
“Henry?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Miss O.”
“And what is a contract, Hannah?”
“A pwomith,” Hannah lisped. She was missing all four of her front teeth.
“Louder, please.” Her tone was even and kind.
“A pwomith.”
“A promise, what?”
“A pwomith, Mith O.”
Miss O’Hara nodded. “Miles, did the contract say anything about trees?”
“It said I will not climb on trees. Miss O.”
The teacher nodded.
“All right. Since I’m sure you have all learned from your mistake, I’m going to give you
one—more—chance
. One.”
She sounded like me when I say, “I am going to count to three.” You hope the tone of voice does the trick, because you haven’t got a clue what you’ll do if the standoff continues past three. But Miss O. probably knows. She is definitely a person with a plan.
The phone in the kitchen was ringing as Henry and I climbed the stairs, but the call went to the machine before I could get the door open. I figured it was just Hollywood Express, calling to let me know that the
24
DVD was overdue.
It was nearly seven o’clock. Sunshine, fresh air, and the excitement of the day had worn the kids out, but I was still surprised when Henry followed me to a seat on the bus and slid in beside me. He was asleep before we hit Route 2 and slept all the way back to Cambridge, waking only when the bus pulled into the schoolyard. He sat up sharply, damp from the heat of the sun through the window, momentarily disoriented. Then he smiled, sighed, and slumped back down.
I’d forgotten to pick up coffee at Wilson Farms, so we’d driven to Whole Foods before heading home. I had steeled myself to resist the rows of delectable out-of-season fruit shipped halfway around the globe, but the scent of the ever-expanding take-out section captured us the minute we walked in the door. Sure, I had a fridge full of fresh produce and a chicken just waiting to be roasted, but that would take a while. We were both starving, and I wasn’t up for the effort it would take to hold Henry off until I could get a proper meal on the table. Besides, the time would come when I would no longer be able to delight my son simply by springing for a six-inch pizza. Me, I went for chowder and corn bread. We ate at a table by the windows.
I checked for a phone message, but it was too soon. Normally I’d be steering Henry toward the tub at this point, but his hour-long nap had revived him, so I decided to let him play while I cleaned up the kitchen. Junk mail had been piling up, offers from credit card companies and hopeful postcards from local Realtors, who had obviously bought the wrong mailing list. The phone rang again. I picked it up.
“Anza!” someone said, but I couldn’t tell who. There was a little series of sobs, and then a whisper so low I could hardly hear. “The book,” I heard her say. I recognized the voice: it was Sylvia’s.
“The manuscript! It’s gone.”
Chapter Seven
M AX AND ELLIE had just finished supper when I
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