Dreamsleeves by Coleen Murtagh Paratore Page A

call you, right?”
    â€œYes. That’s fine. But just call me during the day.”
    â€œSure, whatever,” he says.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I say.
    â€œTalking to you,” he says, and laughs.
    Beck is standing by the phone bench, staring at me. “Is it ready?” he says, meaning the sandwiches.
    I swag my head back and forth and mouth “no,” shooing him away with my hand.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Mike says.
    â€œTalking to you,” I say and we laugh. I look out the window at the cars going by.
    â€œWhat else?” he says.
    â€œMaking lunch.”
    â€œSounds good. I’m hungry. What are you having?”
    â€œGrilled cheese.”
    â€œThat’s my favorite. I’ll be right over.”
    A chill runs through me. “No!” I say in a sharp, loud voice. You can never come over. My father would kill me and you, too.
    â€œWhoa … just joking,” Mike says. “Take it easy. I already ate.”
    I laugh.
    Callie is pulling on my leg. “A, they’re burning!”
    Oh, no . “I’ve gotta go, Mike, sorry. Thanks for calling.”
    Out in the kitchen, there’s smoke. When I take the lid off the frying pan, a cloud puffs up and there’s an awful smell. I turn off the burner, flip the sandwiches with the spatula. The bread is sizzling, charcoal black. I try scraping off the crud with the sharp silver knife, but the sandwiches are ruined beyond repair.
    Beck is at the table starting to pour our milk. He knocks over a glass. The glass rolls across the table and crashes on the floor. Scared by the sound, Beck lets the gallon slip from his hands and the milk rushes across the table and over the sides like Niagara Falls. Oh, no, what a mess.
    â€œDummy!” I scream. “What’s the matter with you?”
    Beck is stunned, eyes bugging wide like I’m an alien from outer space who just shot him with a laser gun. I wish I could take back my words, but it’s too late.
    Beck runs to his room and slams the door shut. I follow him.
    â€œBeck, I’m sorry. Honey, I’m sorry.” I try to gently peel his hands away from his ears as he lies facedown on his bunk, his whole body shuddering.
    â€œGet away from me,” he screams into his pillow. “I hate you, A. Go away.”
    I trudge back to the kitchen and mop up the white lake under the table. I squeeze the smelly mop out in the sink. I scrape the black coal off of the frying pan with a Brillo pad, rinse it out, and start all over again, slicing a slab of butter in the pan to melt.
    Callie is sitting, elbows on table, fists clenched to her jaws, watching me. I know she wants to say she hates me, too, hurting her best friend Beck’s feelings like that, but she’s also hungry and so she keeps quiet.
    This time I grill the sandwiches perfectly, dotting the little round chocolates on the cheese, popping on the top layers, turning once, twice, three times until they are nicely browned. I cut the sandwiches into triangles to teach Dooley that shape.
    â€œLunch, Beck,” I call in my kindest voice, but he doesn’t come.
    Callie eats her sandwich without comment.
    â€œTriangles for you today, D,” I say.
    Dooley doesn’t look at me. He is punishing me, too.
    When I sit to feed Eddie his bottle, he wraps his hand around my little finger. At least that’s something. You can always count on babies to love you no matter what. Maybe that’s why my father likes babies so much. They just love you anyway.
    After I wash the dishes, I go to B’s room, to try to make peace again, but he is sound asleep, his sweaty head leaning into his Lambie-Poo stuffed animal, his bat and baseball by his side. I wrap his sandwich in foil and leave it on a plate on his nightstand.
    When all the little ones are asleep, I put on my new bathing suit, slather on the oil, and climb up and out on the roof. The sky is cornflower blue. A plane roars