Yolonda's Genius by Carol Fenner Page A

He didn’t smell right either. She’d give him a bath before dinner.
    â€œI’m sorry I yelled, Andrew,” she said softly against his hair. “Were you at the Hill? Next time make sure you tell me — and make sure I
hear
.”
    She put him down and straightened his jacket. Shirley was right. She sure did love Andrew. But now that the crisis was over, she could get back to Shirley and the cake.
    When Yolonda held open the back door for Andrew, Shirley was in the kitchen cutting the cake into squares. But what a cake! Flat as a paperback.
    â€œWhat happened to the chocolate fudge cake?” asked Yolonda, horrified. It looked like a big cookie.
    â€œI don’t know,” wailed Shirley. “I kept opening the oven door every five minutes to check on it. It never got any bigger.” Tears welled up behind the thick glasses. “But look, there’s no cake on the cake tester.” She held it up in miserable triumph. “That part worked okay.”
    â€œNo wonder,” said Yolonda. “Cakes won’t rise if they keep getting a draft. Never open the door to look at a cake until it’s mostly done.”
    She picked up a square and bit into it. It was warm and fudgy in her mouth.
    â€œMmm,” she groaned happily. “It tastes great! Maybe we’ll whip the cream after all.” She offered a piece to Andrew, who shook his head.
    Shirley took a piece, blew on it first, then tried it. “Fantastic, if I do say so. Doesn’t need whipped cream.”
    â€œWe could go into the dining room and use the china and napkins,” suggested Yolonda. She nudged Andrew again with another piece.
    â€œI like it here in the kitchen,” said Shirley, munching away. “I like looking at your backyard and the flowers coming up.”
    â€œMaybe we’ve invented a great new recipe for brownies or something,” said Yolonda as they sat at the table by the kitchen window. “We’ll have to write it down. How many times did you say you opened the oven door?”
    â€œAbout six times,” said Shirley. “Do you suppose we should include a broken eggshell in the recipe?”
    Andrew sat watching his sister and a girl named Shirley eat chunks of a big cookie-cake cut up in a pan. They took big bites and made
ummm
noises. The kitchen didn’t seem to be the kitchen he knew; the yellow walls looked thin and see-through; light from the windows shimmered like running water. It was as if he sat and watched it all from another place like a stranger, not feeling the warmness, not hearing the girls’ speech. There was no sound to play on his harmonica. He no longer felt the harp in his hands. He no longer felt his hands.
    He slipped off his chair, harmonica hugged to his chest. He needed to do something. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he wanted to be by himself.
    â€œCome back and have a cookie, Andrew,” hollered Yolonda after him.
    â€œYou mean a cake-cookie,” said the deep man voice of the girl named Shirley. Their giggling followed Andrew up the stairs. A half-alive part of Andrew’s brain noted and stored the mix of sound — Yolonda’s giggle full of big bubbles, Shirley’s coughing laugh like a car trying to start in winter. But Andrew’s hands stayed closed as acoffin around the ruined Marine Band harmonica. He went into his room and lay down on his bed. He rested his burden against his chest.
    Even his bed didn’t seem real, nor his room. He was a stranger, like an alien from another world. He thought if he kept his hands closed in a certain way around the harmonica that it might stay together. It might get better.
    Shadows grew long across the bed. He heard his mother’s car come up the drive and stop. A door slammed. He knew in a far part of his mind that he would have to get up soon and come down for dinner. He couldn’t seem to lift his body; it had grown so heavy. He wasn’t aware