something like the highway through the park, and then you could. But that was because there were deer and other wildlife. That was the environment, which was more important than progress.
âYou can go to the mall today if you take your sister,â their father repeated, âor you can stay home with her. Those are your choices.â
âIf I have to stay at home with Heather, shouldnât I be paid for babysitting?â Sunny asked.
âFamily members donât charge one another for doing things for the family,â their father said. âThatâs why your allowance isnât chore-based. You get spending money because your mother and I recognize that you need some discretionary income, even if we donât always approve of the things you buy. The family is an entity, joined in a common good. So no, you donât get money for taking care of your sister. But I will provide bus fare for both of you if you want to go to the mall.â
âBig whoop,â Sunny muttered, chopping up her pancakes but not really eating them.
âWhat did you say?â her father asked, his tone dangerous.
âNothing. Iâll take Heather to the mall.â
Heather was elated. Bus fare. That was an extra thirty-five cents to spend as she wanted. Not that thirty-five cents could buy that much, but it was thirty-five cents of her own she didnât have to spend and could therefore save. Heather was good at saving money. Hoarding, her father called it, and he was being critical, but Heather didnât care. She had thirty-nine dollars in a metal box bound with a complicated system of elastic bands, so she could tell if anyone had tried to get inside it. But she wouldnât take her money to the mall today, because then she couldnât be tempted to spend it. No, she would compare prices and study sales, then return with her birthday money when she had made a careful decision about what she wanted. She wouldnât waste her money on an impulse as Sunny often did. Last fall Sunny had bought a poor-boy knit sweater, off-white, with a red placket. The red trim had bled on the first washing, creating twin tracks on the sweaterâs back. But it was the kind of sale that said no returns, and Sunny would have been out eleven dollars if their mother hadnât gone to the store and berated the salesperson, embarrassing Sunny so much that she wouldnât even say thank you.
Their father put the dishes on the drain board and left the kitchen, whistling. He had been fun this morning, much more fun than usual, making pancakes with Bisquick and even throwing in chocolate chips, real ones, not the carob ones he normally used in baking. He had let Heather pick the radio station, too, and although Sunny made fun of her choice, Heather knew it was the same station that Sunny used to listen to in her room, late at night. Heather knew lots of things about Sunny and what went on in her room. She considered it her business to spy on her older sister, and it was another reason she liked her hour alone on weekdays. Thatâs how she had come to find the bus schedule in Sunnyâs desk drawer yesterday, the Saturday times for the Number 15 carefully highlighted.
Heather had been looking for her sisterâs diary, a miniature book of Moroccan leather with a real lock. But anyone could figure out how to jiggle it open without the key. She had found Sunnyâs diary only once, more than six months before, and it had been sadly boring. Reading her sisterâs diary, she had almost felt sorry for her. Heatherâs life was much more interesting. Maybe that was how it was: People with interesting lives didnât have time to write about them in diaries. But then Sunny had tricked her, drawing Heather into a conversation about one of the entries, only to point out that Heather couldnât know of the incident on the bus unless sheâd read Sunnyâs diary. Heather had gotten into quite abit of
âYou can go to the mall today if you take your sister,â their father repeated, âor you can stay home with her. Those are your choices.â
âIf I have to stay at home with Heather, shouldnât I be paid for babysitting?â Sunny asked.
âFamily members donât charge one another for doing things for the family,â their father said. âThatâs why your allowance isnât chore-based. You get spending money because your mother and I recognize that you need some discretionary income, even if we donât always approve of the things you buy. The family is an entity, joined in a common good. So no, you donât get money for taking care of your sister. But I will provide bus fare for both of you if you want to go to the mall.â
âBig whoop,â Sunny muttered, chopping up her pancakes but not really eating them.
âWhat did you say?â her father asked, his tone dangerous.
âNothing. Iâll take Heather to the mall.â
Heather was elated. Bus fare. That was an extra thirty-five cents to spend as she wanted. Not that thirty-five cents could buy that much, but it was thirty-five cents of her own she didnât have to spend and could therefore save. Heather was good at saving money. Hoarding, her father called it, and he was being critical, but Heather didnât care. She had thirty-nine dollars in a metal box bound with a complicated system of elastic bands, so she could tell if anyone had tried to get inside it. But she wouldnât take her money to the mall today, because then she couldnât be tempted to spend it. No, she would compare prices and study sales, then return with her birthday money when she had made a careful decision about what she wanted. She wouldnât waste her money on an impulse as Sunny often did. Last fall Sunny had bought a poor-boy knit sweater, off-white, with a red placket. The red trim had bled on the first washing, creating twin tracks on the sweaterâs back. But it was the kind of sale that said no returns, and Sunny would have been out eleven dollars if their mother hadnât gone to the store and berated the salesperson, embarrassing Sunny so much that she wouldnât even say thank you.
Their father put the dishes on the drain board and left the kitchen, whistling. He had been fun this morning, much more fun than usual, making pancakes with Bisquick and even throwing in chocolate chips, real ones, not the carob ones he normally used in baking. He had let Heather pick the radio station, too, and although Sunny made fun of her choice, Heather knew it was the same station that Sunny used to listen to in her room, late at night. Heather knew lots of things about Sunny and what went on in her room. She considered it her business to spy on her older sister, and it was another reason she liked her hour alone on weekdays. Thatâs how she had come to find the bus schedule in Sunnyâs desk drawer yesterday, the Saturday times for the Number 15 carefully highlighted.
Heather had been looking for her sisterâs diary, a miniature book of Moroccan leather with a real lock. But anyone could figure out how to jiggle it open without the key. She had found Sunnyâs diary only once, more than six months before, and it had been sadly boring. Reading her sisterâs diary, she had almost felt sorry for her. Heatherâs life was much more interesting. Maybe that was how it was: People with interesting lives didnât have time to write about them in diaries. But then Sunny had tricked her, drawing Heather into a conversation about one of the entries, only to point out that Heather couldnât know of the incident on the bus unless sheâd read Sunnyâs diary. Heather had gotten into quite abit of
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