parents having sex with anyone but each other. Even that is more than I want to think about.
I pull on the lavender unicorn-shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, leg warmers. It sure is beginning to get cold here. I put a feather barrette in my hair.
All I need now is the ride to Rosie’s.
My father calls out, “Phoebe, ready yet? I want to get to the sales early.”
Garage sales. He’s been doing a lot of them lately.Since he gave up work, he worries a lot about money and is trying to be careful, so that his savings last until he gets accepted into an art gallery. We used to have lots of money. I think my mother still does. My father, though, worries more and more about it lately. So do I.
“Ready, honey?” He picks up the car keys. “You look great.”
I put on my sweat-shirt jacket.
“It’s getting cold.” He sighs. “You’ve grown a lot. We’ll have to buy you a new coat.”
“I’ll get one when I see Mom,” I say, and then, not wanting him to feel bad about the money, I add, “Or I can hold out till the January sales.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. We’re not that poor.”
“You pay for all the day-to-day stuff,” I say, kissing him. “She can pay for the coat. After all, if I were living with her, she’d be paying more. In lots of families people pay child support to the parent who’s got the kid most of the time. So don’t worry.”
As we get into the car he says, “If people had told me a few years ago that we’d be having this discussion, I’d have said they were nuts.”
We drive in silence for a while.
If only I can think of a way to get him out of this mood.
“Guess what, Dad,” I say. “When I went to Rosie’s after school yesterday, she made us grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“That’s nice.” He uses the voice that parents have when they really aren’t interested.
I continue anyway. “She said that she didn’t want to dirty the grill, so she took two slices of bread, some cheese, made a sandwich, and wrapped it in aluminum foil.”
“That’s nice,” he repeats.
I start to giggle. “Then she took out an iron and ironed it.”
He laughs and glances my way. “You’re kidding.”
“No, it’s true and it works.”
He says, “I guess that’s one way to handle a pressing problem.”
I groan and say, “We’ll just have to remember that technique when things get all wrinkled up.”
It makes me feel good when I can get him out of a bad mood.
CHAPTER 12
R osie’s house is on Meade Mountain Road. Actually it’s a carriage house, part of a much bigger property. The landlord lives in the big house and rents out what was once the place where servants lived.
It’s not big, just cozy and right for two people, a cat, and a dog. Mindy and Rosie furnished most of the house with things from yard, house, garage, and estate sales. In New York City the stuff would probably be called antiques. Here it’s called stuff.
I walk into the house, through the front porch. Mindy’s got her typewriter and paper on the table. It’s a mess, what she calls “creative disorder.”
Rosie’s at the kitchen sink, doing dishes. “Be with you in a minute.”
I stoop down to pet Salamander, the dog.
He licks my face.
If only my father weren’t allergic to animals.
Salamander’s rolling over, wanting to be scratched.
As I scratch his stomach I feel something patting at my face.
It’s Fig Newton, the cat. He’s after my feather barrette.
I don’t know what to do. If I move fast, he may decide to pounce. If I don’t move, he may decide to pounce. What if he claws my hair or face?
“Rosie,” I say, softly.
Rosie turns to me, sizes up the situation, and puts down the plate she is drying.
As she approaches, Fig Newton continues to bat the feather around.
His paw is getting closer and closer to my face.
Rosie comes up behind him, scoops him up, and puts him outside.
“Thanks.” I take a deep breath. “For a minute I thought I was a dead
I pull on the lavender unicorn-shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, leg warmers. It sure is beginning to get cold here. I put a feather barrette in my hair.
All I need now is the ride to Rosie’s.
My father calls out, “Phoebe, ready yet? I want to get to the sales early.”
Garage sales. He’s been doing a lot of them lately.Since he gave up work, he worries a lot about money and is trying to be careful, so that his savings last until he gets accepted into an art gallery. We used to have lots of money. I think my mother still does. My father, though, worries more and more about it lately. So do I.
“Ready, honey?” He picks up the car keys. “You look great.”
I put on my sweat-shirt jacket.
“It’s getting cold.” He sighs. “You’ve grown a lot. We’ll have to buy you a new coat.”
“I’ll get one when I see Mom,” I say, and then, not wanting him to feel bad about the money, I add, “Or I can hold out till the January sales.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly. We’re not that poor.”
“You pay for all the day-to-day stuff,” I say, kissing him. “She can pay for the coat. After all, if I were living with her, she’d be paying more. In lots of families people pay child support to the parent who’s got the kid most of the time. So don’t worry.”
As we get into the car he says, “If people had told me a few years ago that we’d be having this discussion, I’d have said they were nuts.”
We drive in silence for a while.
If only I can think of a way to get him out of this mood.
“Guess what, Dad,” I say. “When I went to Rosie’s after school yesterday, she made us grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“That’s nice.” He uses the voice that parents have when they really aren’t interested.
I continue anyway. “She said that she didn’t want to dirty the grill, so she took two slices of bread, some cheese, made a sandwich, and wrapped it in aluminum foil.”
“That’s nice,” he repeats.
I start to giggle. “Then she took out an iron and ironed it.”
He laughs and glances my way. “You’re kidding.”
“No, it’s true and it works.”
He says, “I guess that’s one way to handle a pressing problem.”
I groan and say, “We’ll just have to remember that technique when things get all wrinkled up.”
It makes me feel good when I can get him out of a bad mood.
CHAPTER 12
R osie’s house is on Meade Mountain Road. Actually it’s a carriage house, part of a much bigger property. The landlord lives in the big house and rents out what was once the place where servants lived.
It’s not big, just cozy and right for two people, a cat, and a dog. Mindy and Rosie furnished most of the house with things from yard, house, garage, and estate sales. In New York City the stuff would probably be called antiques. Here it’s called stuff.
I walk into the house, through the front porch. Mindy’s got her typewriter and paper on the table. It’s a mess, what she calls “creative disorder.”
Rosie’s at the kitchen sink, doing dishes. “Be with you in a minute.”
I stoop down to pet Salamander, the dog.
He licks my face.
If only my father weren’t allergic to animals.
Salamander’s rolling over, wanting to be scratched.
As I scratch his stomach I feel something patting at my face.
It’s Fig Newton, the cat. He’s after my feather barrette.
I don’t know what to do. If I move fast, he may decide to pounce. If I don’t move, he may decide to pounce. What if he claws my hair or face?
“Rosie,” I say, softly.
Rosie turns to me, sizes up the situation, and puts down the plate she is drying.
As she approaches, Fig Newton continues to bat the feather around.
His paw is getting closer and closer to my face.
Rosie comes up behind him, scoops him up, and puts him outside.
“Thanks.” I take a deep breath. “For a minute I thought I was a dead
Similar Books
