asked.
“Sure. Why not.”
Sunday afternoon was why not. I hadn’t thought about how many visitors there would be on a Sunday afternoon. The lounge was crowded with all the people, and still more people I didn’t know even were in Mom’s room. Practically all of them looked at us funny, not laughing funny, but funny like they felt sorry for us. We got out of there in a hurry, let me tell you, without stopping to see Mom.
Then we ran wild around town some more yet, until I was good and sure the Friesens would be gone. When we got home Dad was watching
Hymn Sing
, which usually put him in a pretty good mood. Except not today.
“
Nah yo
” he said, pointing to the stairs, which meant for me to get myself to my room. “This was sure a nice day for killing pigs, thanks to you.”
No one cared less about my side of the story. My essay on How I Spent My Summer Vacation was going to be easy to write this year. One word would do it. Grounded.
Now was not a good time to make Dad still madder, so I kept my mouth shut about the midnight swim.
Lena picked up the torn page with the elephant’s trunk ripped in half and tried to smooth it out. “I’m sorry your book got ripped up.”
She looked miserable, more miserable than me even. I slid to the floor beside her. “Maybe we can fix it.”
I tried fitting the torn piece to the page. “Lookit, we can tape it.”
“I’ll go ask Beth for tape.” Lena jumped up. Without warning she threw her arms around my neck. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you, Elsie. Even if you don’t read to me anymore.”
I was so surprised I hugged her back. “I don’t mind reading to you,” I said.
Then she ran downstairs and even if I thought I was over crying about it I guess I wasn’t, because just like that for no good reason, the tears were pouring down my face all over again. It was stupid, stupid, stupid to cry. It was just a little kid’s book anyways. Only I’d been praying all the time for seven days now and things were getting worse. If Mom was here she’d fix everything. She’d make everything all right again. She wouldn’t let Dad send me to my room for something that wasn’t my fault, or letBeth boss me around. She’d know what to do about Jillian and Sadie, too.
But Mom wasn’t any closer to coming home than before.
I was sick of being grounded all the time.
I was sick of telling God I was sorry and asking for forgiveness.
I was terrible hungry for a hamburger.
And my legs were itching me like crazy because the hair was growing back all prickly, just like Jillian said. Dad was right about one thing; it was a nice day for killing pigs all right.
Two weeks to go still. That seemed like forever.
Dear God
,
I’ve had a lousy day. I don’t even want to go into it.
All this praying is supposed to help me understand your will, but there are more and more things that I don’t understand one bit. My book is ruined! Dad’s all mad at me again, my friends are gone, and nothing is going right.
Please, God, make my mom well again. Please let her come home. I’m really trying my best, God.
I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but sometimes I think you’re lying down on the job, God.
Amen.
F irst thing in the morning before he left for work, Dad got me started painting the garage. He showed me how to stir the paint, how to take the right amount and not too much on my brush or roller, and how to work in a wide band from one side of the scaffold to the other, starting at the top. The top of where I was working anyways, since Dad wouldn’t let me go all the way up to the top of the house.
“Think you can handle it? Without starting a third world war, that is.” He was still pretty steamed yet about yesterday.
“I can handle it,” I muttered.
“Good. Because I’m late for work.” He filled the paint tray for me and set the can of paint on the ground. “Where are the rags?”
“On the porch.”
“Do you think you could get me one, or is that
“Sure. Why not.”
Sunday afternoon was why not. I hadn’t thought about how many visitors there would be on a Sunday afternoon. The lounge was crowded with all the people, and still more people I didn’t know even were in Mom’s room. Practically all of them looked at us funny, not laughing funny, but funny like they felt sorry for us. We got out of there in a hurry, let me tell you, without stopping to see Mom.
Then we ran wild around town some more yet, until I was good and sure the Friesens would be gone. When we got home Dad was watching
Hymn Sing
, which usually put him in a pretty good mood. Except not today.
“
Nah yo
” he said, pointing to the stairs, which meant for me to get myself to my room. “This was sure a nice day for killing pigs, thanks to you.”
No one cared less about my side of the story. My essay on How I Spent My Summer Vacation was going to be easy to write this year. One word would do it. Grounded.
Now was not a good time to make Dad still madder, so I kept my mouth shut about the midnight swim.
Lena picked up the torn page with the elephant’s trunk ripped in half and tried to smooth it out. “I’m sorry your book got ripped up.”
She looked miserable, more miserable than me even. I slid to the floor beside her. “Maybe we can fix it.”
I tried fitting the torn piece to the page. “Lookit, we can tape it.”
“I’ll go ask Beth for tape.” Lena jumped up. Without warning she threw her arms around my neck. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you, Elsie. Even if you don’t read to me anymore.”
I was so surprised I hugged her back. “I don’t mind reading to you,” I said.
Then she ran downstairs and even if I thought I was over crying about it I guess I wasn’t, because just like that for no good reason, the tears were pouring down my face all over again. It was stupid, stupid, stupid to cry. It was just a little kid’s book anyways. Only I’d been praying all the time for seven days now and things were getting worse. If Mom was here she’d fix everything. She’d make everything all right again. She wouldn’t let Dad send me to my room for something that wasn’t my fault, or letBeth boss me around. She’d know what to do about Jillian and Sadie, too.
But Mom wasn’t any closer to coming home than before.
I was sick of being grounded all the time.
I was sick of telling God I was sorry and asking for forgiveness.
I was terrible hungry for a hamburger.
And my legs were itching me like crazy because the hair was growing back all prickly, just like Jillian said. Dad was right about one thing; it was a nice day for killing pigs all right.
Two weeks to go still. That seemed like forever.
Dear God
,
I’ve had a lousy day. I don’t even want to go into it.
All this praying is supposed to help me understand your will, but there are more and more things that I don’t understand one bit. My book is ruined! Dad’s all mad at me again, my friends are gone, and nothing is going right.
Please, God, make my mom well again. Please let her come home. I’m really trying my best, God.
I hope you don’t mind me saying it, but sometimes I think you’re lying down on the job, God.
Amen.
F irst thing in the morning before he left for work, Dad got me started painting the garage. He showed me how to stir the paint, how to take the right amount and not too much on my brush or roller, and how to work in a wide band from one side of the scaffold to the other, starting at the top. The top of where I was working anyways, since Dad wouldn’t let me go all the way up to the top of the house.
“Think you can handle it? Without starting a third world war, that is.” He was still pretty steamed yet about yesterday.
“I can handle it,” I muttered.
“Good. Because I’m late for work.” He filled the paint tray for me and set the can of paint on the ground. “Where are the rags?”
“On the porch.”
“Do you think you could get me one, or is that
Similar Books
