survived a natural disaster or tribal attack.
That’s why she got the dog , he realized. She wasn’t losing it. She just wanted company.
* * *
A few days later, Deirdre flopped down onto the couch next to Sean and put her sticky sneakers on the coffee table. She pulled a wad of bills out of her khakis and began counting.
“Do they still do the clapping thing at the end of fifth grade?” he asked, closing his book.
“Clapping thing?”
“Yeah, Kevin’s last day is tomorrow, and it reminded me how all the families used to line up in the hallways and clap when we left on the last day of elementary school.”
“I have no memory of that,” she said dismissively.
“Dee, think,” he said, a little annoyed that she was unwilling simply to confirm an inconsequential memory of his. “On your last day of fifth grade, your last day at Juniper Hill, didn’t everyone come and clap for you?”
“And who’s everyone, Sean? Dad was gone, Hugh was probably busy getting high and crashing the car, Viv didn’t do school events . . . and where were you? Greenland or something? Who would’ve come?” She picked a flake of dried ketchup off her pant leg. “Assuming the stupid clapping thing even happened, which, as I said , I have no memory of.” She swung her legs down and rose from the couch. “Besides, I’m pulling a double tomorrow, so unless they’re clapping all the way to Carey’s, I’m out.”
His original question had been an idle one. And yet her evasiveness had somehow made him feel weirdly strident about it. If he were right about this vague memory of his elementary days, and if the tradition still held, shouldn’t somebody go down to school and clap for Kevin?
Dinner that night was a box of linguine and a jar of marinara that Sean found in one of the cupboards. Deirdre had gone to rehearsal, and Aunt Vivian hadn’t yet risen from a brief rest that had begun two hours before.
“Hey,” he said, as he and Kevin sat at the kitchen table and ate pasta from cereal bowls. “When I was your age, they did this clapping thing—”
Kevin slurped a strand of linguine into his mouth. “Uh huh,” he said. “The Clap Out.”
“Okay!” Sean gave the table a triumphant little slap. “I’m not crazy!”
Kevin looked at him as if he most certainly were.
“No, see, I asked Deirdre and she said she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
Kevin shrugged as if to say, Why would she?
“Don’t they send notices home about stuff like that?”
“They do it by e-mail.”
Aunt Vivvy had a typewriter. Period. “Aunt Dee has a laptop, right?”
“Yeah, but she’s not on the parent e-mail list.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s not a parent.” Kevin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—the annoyance showed only in his eyes.
Sean nodded, chastened. They ate their last strands of linguine in silence.
As they cleared the table, Sean said, “So what if . . . I mean, would it be all right if I, like . . . came? And clapped?”
Kevin glanced over at him with a sort of bafflement.
“If you don’t want me to, that’s fine. No offense taken. And you wouldn’t have to introduce me or anything. I could just clap and go. You know, like . . . like the Lone Ranger of clapping.” He grinned. “Then I’d gallop off on my white horse. . . . Very inconspicuous, I promise.”
Kevin rolled his eyes, but Sean could tell he was stifling a smile.
“Or I could take you with me,” he offered. “A big white stallion is a pretty sweet ride—great way to impress the chicks.”
“Gross!” said Kevin, a faint pink rising under his scattered freckles.
“Okay, no horse. Got it. How about if I just say a quick ‘Hi-ho Silver’ and trot away?”
“No!” said Kevin, giggling with embarrassment.
“Please?”
“No! You’re crazy!”
“All right,” said Sean with a dejected sigh. “I’ll just stand in the back and I won’t even clap very loudly. Come on, give your old
That’s why she got the dog , he realized. She wasn’t losing it. She just wanted company.
* * *
A few days later, Deirdre flopped down onto the couch next to Sean and put her sticky sneakers on the coffee table. She pulled a wad of bills out of her khakis and began counting.
“Do they still do the clapping thing at the end of fifth grade?” he asked, closing his book.
“Clapping thing?”
“Yeah, Kevin’s last day is tomorrow, and it reminded me how all the families used to line up in the hallways and clap when we left on the last day of elementary school.”
“I have no memory of that,” she said dismissively.
“Dee, think,” he said, a little annoyed that she was unwilling simply to confirm an inconsequential memory of his. “On your last day of fifth grade, your last day at Juniper Hill, didn’t everyone come and clap for you?”
“And who’s everyone, Sean? Dad was gone, Hugh was probably busy getting high and crashing the car, Viv didn’t do school events . . . and where were you? Greenland or something? Who would’ve come?” She picked a flake of dried ketchup off her pant leg. “Assuming the stupid clapping thing even happened, which, as I said , I have no memory of.” She swung her legs down and rose from the couch. “Besides, I’m pulling a double tomorrow, so unless they’re clapping all the way to Carey’s, I’m out.”
His original question had been an idle one. And yet her evasiveness had somehow made him feel weirdly strident about it. If he were right about this vague memory of his elementary days, and if the tradition still held, shouldn’t somebody go down to school and clap for Kevin?
Dinner that night was a box of linguine and a jar of marinara that Sean found in one of the cupboards. Deirdre had gone to rehearsal, and Aunt Vivian hadn’t yet risen from a brief rest that had begun two hours before.
“Hey,” he said, as he and Kevin sat at the kitchen table and ate pasta from cereal bowls. “When I was your age, they did this clapping thing—”
Kevin slurped a strand of linguine into his mouth. “Uh huh,” he said. “The Clap Out.”
“Okay!” Sean gave the table a triumphant little slap. “I’m not crazy!”
Kevin looked at him as if he most certainly were.
“No, see, I asked Deirdre and she said she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
Kevin shrugged as if to say, Why would she?
“Don’t they send notices home about stuff like that?”
“They do it by e-mail.”
Aunt Vivvy had a typewriter. Period. “Aunt Dee has a laptop, right?”
“Yeah, but she’s not on the parent e-mail list.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s not a parent.” Kevin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—the annoyance showed only in his eyes.
Sean nodded, chastened. They ate their last strands of linguine in silence.
As they cleared the table, Sean said, “So what if . . . I mean, would it be all right if I, like . . . came? And clapped?”
Kevin glanced over at him with a sort of bafflement.
“If you don’t want me to, that’s fine. No offense taken. And you wouldn’t have to introduce me or anything. I could just clap and go. You know, like . . . like the Lone Ranger of clapping.” He grinned. “Then I’d gallop off on my white horse. . . . Very inconspicuous, I promise.”
Kevin rolled his eyes, but Sean could tell he was stifling a smile.
“Or I could take you with me,” he offered. “A big white stallion is a pretty sweet ride—great way to impress the chicks.”
“Gross!” said Kevin, a faint pink rising under his scattered freckles.
“Okay, no horse. Got it. How about if I just say a quick ‘Hi-ho Silver’ and trot away?”
“No!” said Kevin, giggling with embarrassment.
“Please?”
“No! You’re crazy!”
“All right,” said Sean with a dejected sigh. “I’ll just stand in the back and I won’t even clap very loudly. Come on, give your old
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