Please, Please, Please by Rachel Vail Page B

family. She sent Paul to school with chicken pox as soon as they crusted last year. Besides, what about soccer? At some point, she was going to have to be told all this stuff, and the perfect opportunity kept not coming.
    “What, CJ?”
    Paul wandered in from outside and left the sliding door open.
    “I was thinking about the apple-picking trip,” I said slowly.
    Mom looked up at the corner of the ceiling like that was the only spot in the world that understood what she goes through. “You made a commitment, CJ!”
    I felt my jaw jut out over my front teeth. “But,” I whispered. “I just, I thought, it’s the only time . . .”
    “CJ, I’m not arguing with you,” she said, jumping down off the counter and stalking through the kitchen and living room. “Besides, you already made the arrangements for in-school study.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “Didn’t you?”
    “Yes, yes, yes!” I yelled. “Don’t you even trust me?”
    “Of course I do.”
    “You don’t act it,” I mumbled, down to the kitchen floor.
    Mom slapped her legs. “CJ, don’t make me feel like I’m forcing you into this.”
    “Sorry.”
    She slammed the sliding glass door shut and stepped back over Paul, who was sprawled across the living room floor, watching a very loud football game. “You know how we feel about breaking commitments, CJ,” Mom said as she came toward me. “If you’d grown up on a farm, you’d know there’s no such thing as you don’t feel like it. The cows need to be milked every day, no matter what.” She looked me right in the eyes, and I realized she’s not so much taller than I am anymore.
    “I know,” I said, pushing my arch by pressing the top of my foot against the wood of the kitchen floor. “But, Dad?”
    Dad lifted his wet hands out of the sink, like he was surrendering. “Uh-uh,” he said. “I was listening. I was paying attention. I agreed with Mom. The cows need to be milked every day, and so do you.”
    I stared down at my bare feet, covered in calluses, my long, narrow feet pointing away from each other, in perfect second position without my even thinking about it. My turn-out has definitely been improving, maybe as good as Morgan’s now, if not better. Leaving the kitchen, I glanced up at the cow-shaped kitchen clock. Thirteen hours.

seventeen
    S he told me how proud she is of me as she kissed me good night and said, “It’s really hard sometimes, huh?”
    I nodded and rolled over, away from my mother, to face the wall. She caressed my hair back from my forehead like I love. How can she be so understanding and still not understand me? Rain , I prayed. If it rains tomorrow, they’ll have to cancel the trip, and I won’t have to deal with this until the next day, for soccer practice .
    She leaned over to kiss my forehead, then pulled up my quilt and walked across my room. I flipped to watch her. My old stuffed animals were all lined up on the top shelf in a neat row the way she likes, except History. He had slumped over onto Curious George. She picked up History and fluffed him, then sat him up in a cute pose with his front paws between his back ones.
    “I love you,” she said, flipping off my light. She closed my door just the right amount.
    I stared at History and prayed for rain. A few minutes went by. I whispered “I love you” because I got scared maybe it would be bad luck not to; I say it every night. I could hear Mom’s and Dad’s voices downstairs but not their words, and when they laughed, I felt like they were laughing at me. It’s not funny! I wanted to yell. I got angrier and angrier. Minutes ticked by on my clock. I looked up at History. He was still sitting there in his cute pose with his front paws between his back ones. I used to carry him around all the time. Mom named him Doggie, but I said no, his name is History.
    Well, that’s the story my parents tell, anyway. They thought that was so cute, they even called my grandma Nelly, which Mom never does, to