The Choice by Robert Whitlow Page B

anything, and I cleaned up the milk. Here’s your toast. I put butter on it and poured a fresh glass of milk.”
    Her mother set the milk and toast on the nightstand.
    â€œThanks,” Sandy muttered. “I’m sorry.”
    Her mother held up her hand. “We’re not going to talk now. Drink your milk and eat the toast. I have a dentist appointment in twenty minutes, then I’m going to the nursing home to see Mrs. Belhaven. It’s been over a month since I stopped by for a visit.”
    Mrs. Belhaven was a former neighbor who’d sold her house and moved into a nursing home when her health declined. She’d taught Sandy how to bake peanut butter cookies. Sandy sat up.
    â€œPlease don’t tell her about me.”
    â€œI won’t. But even if I did, she wouldn’t remember it by the time I reached the parking lot. She’s going downhill fast.”
    â€œThen give her a hug from me.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll be gone for several hours.”

    Sandy lay on her bed until she heard the front door close behind her mother, then got up and went downstairs to the laundry room. There was a load of the boys’ dirty clothes waiting to be washed. She put the clothes in the washer and started the machine. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen. If she was at school, she’d be in her honors Spanish class.
    Unlike most of her classmates who despised foreign language study, Sandy enjoyed both speaking and reading Spanish. She’d brought home her Spanish textbook and the original Spanish version of Don Quixote . Returning to her room, she read a few chapters in the classic novel. Cervantes’s portrayal of Dulcinea, the peasant girl whom the delusional Don Quixote believed to be a noblewoman, touched her. Sandy had never experienced life as an outsider looked down upon and laughed at by others. Until now.
    When she went back downstairs, the clothes were ready to be put in the dryer. After they were finished, she neatly folded them and carried them up to the boys’ bedroom. She hoped doing the laundry would be acceptable penance for her blowup in the kitchen.
    Her mother hadn’t come home by noon, and Sandy fixed an elaborate sandwich containing two meats, three cheeses, a tomato slice, lettuce, pickles, mayonnaise, and spicy mustard, all between two thick slices of French bread. She was amazed how quickly she could transition from nausea to famished hunger. She ate every bite of the sandwich and washed it down with two large glasses of water.
    After lunch, time dragged by. To go from the frenetic pace of a high school senior to complete inactivity was a severe jolt. Sandy tried to take a nap but couldn’t. Lying on her bed, she imagined what Brad was doing at school. She knew exactly where he would be throughout the day. In her absence he would have to endure all the scornful stares and snide behind-the-back comments.
    At around two-thirty her mother returned. Sandy went downstairs to the kitchen.
    â€œThanks for doing the boys’ laundry,” her mother said.
    â€œYou’re welcome. It was boring around here. Did you talk to Mr. Pickerel?”
    â€œYes, and he went out of his way to be helpful. He made a couple of phone calls about the school in Atlanta while I waited in his office.”
    â€œWhat did he find out?”
    Her mother took a small notepad from her purse and flipped it open.
    â€œIt’s one of the few options you have. Pregnant girls go to Metro High, along with students who’ve been expelled from schools in the Atlanta system, and are sent there for one last chance. The school also accepts students who’ve come through the juvenile court system.”
    â€œThat sounds horrible,” Sandy replied, her eyes wide. “It’s a school for juvenile delinquents.”
    â€œBut Mr. Pickerel said the principal has a good reputation, and the overall graduation rate is fair. Remember, most of your credits for college