Californium by R. Dean Johnson Page B

like she’s right next to me, and even though I’ve never been to Edie’s house I can see her standing next to the phone in her kitchen, leaning against the counter.
    â€œWho was that?” I say.
    â€œMy grandmother.” Edie has this way of talking while she smiles, especially if she’s making fun of you, and I hear her face doing that. “Are you just calling to see if I gave you the right number?”
    â€œNo. We got a band name.”
    â€œCool,” she says, and she says it cool: not excited like she won a prize but long and smooth, like each
o
really matters.
    â€œYeah. Only, we didn’t go with yours because Treat wanted something more punk rock.” Just as I’m saying this my mom walks into the kitchen and starts pulling things out of the cabinets. My face and chest flash hot like I’ve been caught looking at panty ads in the Sunday
Times.
    â€œThat’s okay,” she says. “What name did you pick?”
    I look at my mom. Her hair is still done up, her nose frecklesstill hidden beneath makeup, but she puts on an apron over her work clothes. She’s going to be here awhile. “Dick Nixon,” I say just above a whisper.
    Edie laughs. “Richard Milhous Nixon? For a punk band?”
    â€œIt’s how you write it,” I say.
    And just as Edie says, “How do you write it?” my mom says, “Who are you talking to?”
    â€œIn English,” I say.
    â€œReece?” my mom says.
    I cover the phone. “Someone from school.”
    She nods and starts washing off potatoes.
    â€œOh,” Edie says like I just told her the earth was round. “So you’re not going to write it in Japanese characters?”
    I know her arms are folded now and she’s smiling like she’s tough. “Characters?” I say. “They’re not letters?”
    â€œNot really. It’s complicated.”
    â€œOh. Well, this isn’t complicated. It’ll still look cool, though.”
    Edie laughs, a nice one, not like she’s making fun, and then neither of us says anything. I’m staring at the floor tiles, listening to Edie breathe. Then it hits me: There isn’t any other sound. My mom’s at the cutting board, potato peeler in one hand, a potato in the other, only she’s not peeling. She grins at me and mouths,
A girl?
    I shake my head no and she looks down to start peeling. “Have I met this person?” she says out loud.
    â€œIs that your mom?” Edie says.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI have?” my mom says.
    I glare at her and cover the phone. “Not you.”
    Edie says, “Tell her I said hi.”
    â€œMy friend says hi.”
    My mom keeps whittling away at the potatoes. “What’s your friend’s name?”
    â€œMy mom says hello,” I say.
    â€œWhat’s she do?” Edie says.
    â€œReece?”
    â€œManages some office,” I say.
    â€œWhat kind of office?”
    My mom clacks the potato peeler down on the cutting board. “Reece?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say to Edie.
    My mom’s eyebrows rise. “I asked you a question.”
    â€œIt’s nobody,” I say. “Just a person from my math class.”
    My mom gives me the
Now, was that so hard?
look before picking up the peeler and returning to the potatoes.
    â€œMan,” I say into the phone and don’t hear anything back. “Hello?”
    â€œI’ll let you go,” Edie says.
    â€œThat’s okay. Dinner’s not ready yet.”
    â€œWell, then I’ll let me go. I need to get back to my homework.”
    â€œOh, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    â€œSure,” she says. “In math class.”
    The phone clicks and I’ve barely got the receiver back on the wall before my mom’s rattling things off without even looking at me: How I’d better not
ever
talk to her like that again, especially in front of a friend,