doesn’t boil out of the pot, down to medium. “Is that why Mom sent me here? Because she thought I was going to kill myself some night?”
Betty’s eyelid twitches. “She was worried about you.”
“I’m a big girl,” I mock. “I’m fine.”
“You miss your dad.”
“Of course I miss my dad!” I point the pasta spoon at her, which feels way too melodramatic. I put it on the counter by the coffee maker. “That doesn’t make me suicidal. That doesn’t mean I have to have some freaking EMT babysitter standing over me all the time.”
Betty’s face crashes down but her thin, wiry body hardens up like she’s made of steel. “Is that what you think of me?”
“No. I’m sorry. That was mean.” I swallow hard, look away from her hurt face, and turn back to the stove. I grab the stupid pasta spoon again and swirl it around in the water, pretending like it’s really important that none of the spaghetti noodles stick together. “I could come with you if you have a call.”
She sighs. “That would work, maybe. But not if it’s something complicated. You couldn’t come into the building. You’d be sitting outside in the ambulance all by yourself. Plus, it’s illegal.”
“Illegal?”
“To have civilians in the ambulance.”
I turn up the heat a little more and face her.
She smiles. “I could call that Nick boy and have him come over.”
“No!”
“What? You don’t like him? I’ve heard tell you and him and Devyn and Issie are running around all over town together. You went to the library today, right?”
“You’re spying on me?”
“No. It’s a small town. People talk.”
I shake my head, grab some glasses, and open the fridge. “You are not going to phone Nick.”
She takes some paper napkins from under the sink and Hops them on the table. “There probably won’t even be a call.”
Halfway through dinner Belly’s beeper goes off.
“Crap!”
We listen to the scanner. There’s a possible cardiac arrest at the Y.
“Sorry,” she says. “You stay put till I get back. Okay? I’m calling Mick on my way in.”
“No, you aren’t!”
“Yes, I am. And don’t let anyone else in. I’m serious, Zara. Crap.” She kisses me on the top of the head and pushes a bracelet on my wrist, all hectic. “Your mom’s thinking about coming up for a visit.”
I lift up my arm. An iron bracelet dangles there. “What’s this?”
“A little gift.”
She hauls on her jacket. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry about cleaning up.”
“Do not call Nick!” I touch the cold metal of the bracelet.
She ignores me. “Lock the door!”
I could do the Urgent Action appeals for Amnesty. But I don’t.
I could call Nick and tell him not to come. I don’t do that either.
“This is One. I’m I0-23 at the Y,” Betty’s voice sounds from the radio she has on the counter.
The dispatcher, Josie, comes on “I0-4, Unit One. I0-23 at the Y, I845 hours.”
In ambulancespeak I0-23 means “on location.” Anyone else would just say they were there. Unit One is Betty; I845 hours is the time, military-style. It’s all kind of corny.
So Betty is at the Y. It is 6:45 p.m., also known as I845 hours. How can I know this stuff? There’s a list of ten codes Betty posted on the fridge. I swear I’ve memorized half already. Maine is turning me into such a geek.
I push away from the table, dump our dinner plates into the sink, and start scraping off the spaghetti. Betty hasn’t finished hers because she dashed out, so I change my mind and wrap it up, storing it away in the fridge. She might be hungry later. I keep scraping mine away. It is no fun eating alone.
I stare out the window above the sink at the dark woods. The moon is full and it makes everything glow and look almost pretty. Even the snow looks nice, not so cold. I bet the guy is out there, the pixie guy. And I bet if I go out there he’ll find me, and then maybe I’ll get some answers. And I’m not a boy, so I don’t
Betty’s eyelid twitches. “She was worried about you.”
“I’m a big girl,” I mock. “I’m fine.”
“You miss your dad.”
“Of course I miss my dad!” I point the pasta spoon at her, which feels way too melodramatic. I put it on the counter by the coffee maker. “That doesn’t make me suicidal. That doesn’t mean I have to have some freaking EMT babysitter standing over me all the time.”
Betty’s face crashes down but her thin, wiry body hardens up like she’s made of steel. “Is that what you think of me?”
“No. I’m sorry. That was mean.” I swallow hard, look away from her hurt face, and turn back to the stove. I grab the stupid pasta spoon again and swirl it around in the water, pretending like it’s really important that none of the spaghetti noodles stick together. “I could come with you if you have a call.”
She sighs. “That would work, maybe. But not if it’s something complicated. You couldn’t come into the building. You’d be sitting outside in the ambulance all by yourself. Plus, it’s illegal.”
“Illegal?”
“To have civilians in the ambulance.”
I turn up the heat a little more and face her.
She smiles. “I could call that Nick boy and have him come over.”
“No!”
“What? You don’t like him? I’ve heard tell you and him and Devyn and Issie are running around all over town together. You went to the library today, right?”
“You’re spying on me?”
“No. It’s a small town. People talk.”
I shake my head, grab some glasses, and open the fridge. “You are not going to phone Nick.”
She takes some paper napkins from under the sink and Hops them on the table. “There probably won’t even be a call.”
Halfway through dinner Belly’s beeper goes off.
“Crap!”
We listen to the scanner. There’s a possible cardiac arrest at the Y.
“Sorry,” she says. “You stay put till I get back. Okay? I’m calling Mick on my way in.”
“No, you aren’t!”
“Yes, I am. And don’t let anyone else in. I’m serious, Zara. Crap.” She kisses me on the top of the head and pushes a bracelet on my wrist, all hectic. “Your mom’s thinking about coming up for a visit.”
I lift up my arm. An iron bracelet dangles there. “What’s this?”
“A little gift.”
She hauls on her jacket. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry about cleaning up.”
“Do not call Nick!” I touch the cold metal of the bracelet.
She ignores me. “Lock the door!”
I could do the Urgent Action appeals for Amnesty. But I don’t.
I could call Nick and tell him not to come. I don’t do that either.
“This is One. I’m I0-23 at the Y,” Betty’s voice sounds from the radio she has on the counter.
The dispatcher, Josie, comes on “I0-4, Unit One. I0-23 at the Y, I845 hours.”
In ambulancespeak I0-23 means “on location.” Anyone else would just say they were there. Unit One is Betty; I845 hours is the time, military-style. It’s all kind of corny.
So Betty is at the Y. It is 6:45 p.m., also known as I845 hours. How can I know this stuff? There’s a list of ten codes Betty posted on the fridge. I swear I’ve memorized half already. Maine is turning me into such a geek.
I push away from the table, dump our dinner plates into the sink, and start scraping off the spaghetti. Betty hasn’t finished hers because she dashed out, so I change my mind and wrap it up, storing it away in the fridge. She might be hungry later. I keep scraping mine away. It is no fun eating alone.
I stare out the window above the sink at the dark woods. The moon is full and it makes everything glow and look almost pretty. Even the snow looks nice, not so cold. I bet the guy is out there, the pixie guy. And I bet if I go out there he’ll find me, and then maybe I’ll get some answers. And I’m not a boy, so I don’t
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