Leaving Paradise by Simone Elkeles Page A

Mr. Reynolds. Hi, Mrs. Reynolds.”
    Mr. Reynolds leans close and whispers in my ear, “We’re not at the diner. You can call me Lou.”
    “That’d be weird,” I say. Calling Mom’s boss by his first name is just too . . . I don’t know . . . familiar.
    “Okay, well, when you don’t feel weird about it give it a try.”
    Mom sits next to her boss and I walk around the table and plop down next to Mrs. Reynolds.
    “Mrs. Reynolds, it was so generous of you to give my daughter a job,” Mom says. “As I told you on the phone, I’m very grateful.”
    “I’m the grateful one,” Mrs. Reynolds says. “We’ve had a productive first week. Haven’t we, Margaret?”
    My fingernails still have dirt under them that I haven’t been able to scrape out. “Mrs. Reynolds is an expert on daffodils, Mom.”
    “When you get back from Spain they’ll be up and blooming,” Mrs. Reynolds says.
    I smile, thinking about leaving for Spain. It’s about the only thing making me smile lately.
    Mrs. Reynolds looks longingly at the buffet table. “I’m famished,” she says. “How about we take a gander at the food and see if there’s anything worthwhile.”
    “Mom, don’t stuff yourself,” Mr. Reynolds says over the loud dance music the band just started to play on the makeshift stage in front of the Fun House.
    Mrs. Reynolds rolls her eyes. “My son thinks I’m a child.”
    “Mom, you know what the—” Mr. Reynolds’ gruff voice chimes in.
    Mrs. Reynolds silences her son with a single stare. Mom looks kind of nervous and I feel the same way. I don’t want to get involved in this. It’s clearly out of my jurisdiction as companion.
    Mr. Reynolds turns to my mom. “Linda, how about showing the teens some old dance moves?”
    Wow, that came out of left field. Mom never dances. She and my dad would come to the festival year after year and I never once saw them sway to the music, let alone dance.
    “I’d love to,” Mom says. “Maggie, you don’t mind, do you?”
    When I shake my head, she takes Mr. Reynolds’ outstretched hand and he leads her away from the food pavilion.
    I’m sitting here with my eyes wide open. What just happened? Did my mom accept a dance with her boss?
    Isn’t that illegal?
    I can see the dance floor from where I’m sitting. Right away, Mom is wiggling her body and moving around like a teenager. I scan the fairgrounds to see if anyone else is paying attention. Sure enough, a group of kids from school are watching her.
    I want to die.
    Why would Mom want to dance in the first place? She’s making a spectacle of herself, jumping around as if she doesn’t care people are staring. Isn’t it bad enough people stare at me?
    “Margaret, I’m ready to load up my plate now that my son who thinks he’s a doctor is out of my hair. Will you help me?”
    I tear my gaze away from the dancing queen. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
    Mrs. Reynolds leans on her cane as we head to the food line. I hold her plate and pile food on as she points to various dishes. The old lady is totally oblivious to the scene on the dance floor.
    “What do you keep staring at?” Mrs. Reynolds asks.
    “Nothing.”
    “That nothing’s getting a lot of attention.”
    I make a harrumph and move down the line. But when I get to Mrs. Becker’s famous Spaghetti Spectacular, I freeze and wonder if Leah and Caleb are here.
    “This one looks good,” Mrs. Reynolds says, referring to the spaghetti dish.
    “It tastes good, too,” I admit. “But can you eat it? Mr. Reynolds said—”
    “Margaret, I’m an old lady who enjoys her food. If I can’t eat what I want, you might as well bury me six feet under right here and now.”
    “Okaay,” I say warily. “If you insist.” I place a small spoonful on Mrs. Reynolds’ plate, but she raises her eyebrows and urges me to heap on another spoonful. When we get to the end of the buffet line, I’m afraid to take another glance at the dance floor.
    It’s like a car wreck. You know what