Harrison’s house on account of it’s important for school.”
She squints again. Mrs. MacPherson hasn’t put her contacts in yet and I don’t think she sees very well without them. She pats at her bathrobe pocket to see if her glasses are in there. They are. She puts them on.
“For school?” She looks at me funny, like she doesn’t believe me.
“Kind of only because a teacher is mad at us and we have to figure out how to get her un-mad.” I hadn’t planned on telling her the truth here. I surprise myself sometimes.
“Oh,” she says. She nods like she believes me. People being mad at me makes a lot of sense to her. “Fine,” she says.
“Fine? Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“Don’t press your luck, Antonia, I said fine. And no, I don’t want to know why you’re in trouble again. When you come home, take your shoes off outside and go straight into the bathroom and take a shower. I won’t have my house smelling like chickens and God knows what else. And be careful what you eat there. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t eat anything at all. And wash your hands …”
But I don’t hear the rest because I’m running upstairsto call Harrison. “Harrison?” I say when I hear his voice on the phone. “She said I could.”
“YES!” Harrison yells so loud, I have to pull the receiver away from my ear.
“I’ll be over in an hour,” I say when he calms down.
“No. Now. I’ll get my dad to pick you up.”
Apparently, Harrison has a plan. This is the only time he gets bossy. I get Pistachio and put him in his favorite coat pocket. Not to hide this time, just because he likes it there.
“I thought you were going to Harrison’s,” my mother says when I go back downstairs.
“I am. His dad’s going to pick me up.”
Kate comes in the kitchen. She’s carrying her notebook. She sees I have my jacket on and Pistachio is in my pocket. “Where are you going?” she asks. Her pencil is poised waiting to record what I say.
“To Harrison’s house,” I say.
“Does Mom know?” she asks.
“Yes, Mom knows,” Mrs. MacPherson says.
Kate nods. Her curls flop around her face. It doesn’t look as if she’s brushed her hair yet this morning.
“Oh, and by the way, what time is your Math-a-thon week after next?” my mom asks. “I wrote down the twenty-eighth, but I didn’t write down the time. I thought I had that postcard here, but it seems to have disappeared. Did you see it, Antonia?”
I tear at my thumbnail. Not saying anything isn’t lying, it’s just not saying anything.
“Good morning.” Your Highness pushes through the kitchen door. She’s wearing pink tights and a pinksweater and her hair is neatly combed in a ballerina bun. Elizabeth is great at making appearances. When she walks into a room, it always seems as if she’s expecting to be handed a bouquet of flowers.
“Good morning,” my mother says. “The reason I am asking is Elizabeth has a dress rehearsal on the twenty-eighth, too.”
I look down at the chipped Formica counter. My finger traces the uneven shape that has chipped off, revealing the wood underneath. I breathe short, like my lungs are rolled up inside me.
“Antonia?” my mother asks.
“It’s ten o’clock,” I say, shoving my finger against the grain of the wood, hoping for a splinter.
“That’s when my dress rehearsal is, Mom, and you have to go to that! You
promised
you would. Angela Beaumont’s mom is going. Angela Beaumont’s mom goes to everything!” Elizabeth says to my mom.
“Well, maybe I could go for part,” my mother suggests. “Or maybe if Dad’s home he can go to one and I can go to the other.”
“
Both
of Angela Beaumont’s parents go for the
entire time
,” Elizabeth says.
My mom looks at Elizabeth. She looks at me. She bites her lip. “Well, I did commit to that first, Antonia,” my mother says. “I’m supposed to bring the lemonade.”
The old pain rises in my chest. I try to shove it back down. So what if she
She squints again. Mrs. MacPherson hasn’t put her contacts in yet and I don’t think she sees very well without them. She pats at her bathrobe pocket to see if her glasses are in there. They are. She puts them on.
“For school?” She looks at me funny, like she doesn’t believe me.
“Kind of only because a teacher is mad at us and we have to figure out how to get her un-mad.” I hadn’t planned on telling her the truth here. I surprise myself sometimes.
“Oh,” she says. She nods like she believes me. People being mad at me makes a lot of sense to her. “Fine,” she says.
“Fine? Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“Don’t press your luck, Antonia, I said fine. And no, I don’t want to know why you’re in trouble again. When you come home, take your shoes off outside and go straight into the bathroom and take a shower. I won’t have my house smelling like chickens and God knows what else. And be careful what you eat there. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t eat anything at all. And wash your hands …”
But I don’t hear the rest because I’m running upstairsto call Harrison. “Harrison?” I say when I hear his voice on the phone. “She said I could.”
“YES!” Harrison yells so loud, I have to pull the receiver away from my ear.
“I’ll be over in an hour,” I say when he calms down.
“No. Now. I’ll get my dad to pick you up.”
Apparently, Harrison has a plan. This is the only time he gets bossy. I get Pistachio and put him in his favorite coat pocket. Not to hide this time, just because he likes it there.
“I thought you were going to Harrison’s,” my mother says when I go back downstairs.
“I am. His dad’s going to pick me up.”
Kate comes in the kitchen. She’s carrying her notebook. She sees I have my jacket on and Pistachio is in my pocket. “Where are you going?” she asks. Her pencil is poised waiting to record what I say.
“To Harrison’s house,” I say.
“Does Mom know?” she asks.
“Yes, Mom knows,” Mrs. MacPherson says.
Kate nods. Her curls flop around her face. It doesn’t look as if she’s brushed her hair yet this morning.
“Oh, and by the way, what time is your Math-a-thon week after next?” my mom asks. “I wrote down the twenty-eighth, but I didn’t write down the time. I thought I had that postcard here, but it seems to have disappeared. Did you see it, Antonia?”
I tear at my thumbnail. Not saying anything isn’t lying, it’s just not saying anything.
“Good morning.” Your Highness pushes through the kitchen door. She’s wearing pink tights and a pinksweater and her hair is neatly combed in a ballerina bun. Elizabeth is great at making appearances. When she walks into a room, it always seems as if she’s expecting to be handed a bouquet of flowers.
“Good morning,” my mother says. “The reason I am asking is Elizabeth has a dress rehearsal on the twenty-eighth, too.”
I look down at the chipped Formica counter. My finger traces the uneven shape that has chipped off, revealing the wood underneath. I breathe short, like my lungs are rolled up inside me.
“Antonia?” my mother asks.
“It’s ten o’clock,” I say, shoving my finger against the grain of the wood, hoping for a splinter.
“That’s when my dress rehearsal is, Mom, and you have to go to that! You
promised
you would. Angela Beaumont’s mom is going. Angela Beaumont’s mom goes to everything!” Elizabeth says to my mom.
“Well, maybe I could go for part,” my mother suggests. “Or maybe if Dad’s home he can go to one and I can go to the other.”
“
Both
of Angela Beaumont’s parents go for the
entire time
,” Elizabeth says.
My mom looks at Elizabeth. She looks at me. She bites her lip. “Well, I did commit to that first, Antonia,” my mother says. “I’m supposed to bring the lemonade.”
The old pain rises in my chest. I try to shove it back down. So what if she
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