fort to go to and make better and stronger and stuff. You—you’re the only one who thinks it’s some kind of war. Even Steph knows better.”
“What fighting kids?” Marita’s alert, looking at Charlie, who stares down at his plate and says nothing. “Lane, you fighting with who, what kids?”
“I’m telling Charlie not to fight with some stupid kids he wants to beat up,” I explain. I feel sort of like a tattletale, but maybe just the threat of Marita’s knowing something will stop him. Charlie crosses his arms over his chest and tips himself back onto the hind legs of his chair. He watches me with eyes like pinpricks.
“Don’t worry about it, Marita,” he scowls. “No one’s fighting anyone. It was just something I was thinking about for a minute.” But I can hear the lie hanging in the words that don’t even sound like Charlie’s own.
“So that means you’re not going to hike all the way to Ninth Street and hide out in a tree, even though the rule is no going out after dinner?” I ask brightly, for Marita’s benefit.
Charlie’s scowl deepens.
“Ninth Street?” Marita grates back her chair and stands to clear the table. “No no no, Charlie, or I am telling Señora. Too far and dark for fighting.” She exhales heavily. “You both of you are”—she twirls a finger in the air—“spinning very fast, always, close to trouble. Opino que ustedes, los dos, necesitan ayuda.”
“What did you say? I need your opinion?” asks Charlie.
“She said, ‘I think Charlie needs help,’” I answer.
“She did not. She did not say Charlie.” He crunches up his napkin and beams it at me. It hits my nose and drops into my plate. “She said, ‘Lane has fish eyes and scabby knees.’”
“She said Charlie deserves to be slow-roasted on a spit and served to Cat Face, Rat Face, and The Toothless Wonder for lunch,” I reply.
Charlie almost spits out his milk through his nose, laughing. Cat Face is what we named our slobby school bus driver who fights with Charlie almost every day because he never sits down in the same seat for the entire ride. Rat Face and The Toothless Wonder are our names for her two little kids, who sit in the front seat. Cat Face feeds them candy all day, so they stay quiet.
“She said, ‘Lane is a skunk-faced, bug-eyed, sloth-bodied—’”
“Bastante, both of you. Ay-ay-ay.” Marita lifts our empty plates from the table and clatters them in the sink. “I am going to do laundry. Dessert is there for both.” She taps the dish of custard sitting on the counter. “No fighting, or I tell Señora. Sometimes I think even all the laughing is loco, too much …” She shakes her head at us, but keeps her unfinished thought hovering in the air as she leaves the kitchen.
12
C HARLIE AND I USE up about five minutes splitting the custard, so that we each get exactly equal shares. Then we have a speed-eating contest that gives me a stomachache. After dinner, feeling full as two stuffed potatoes, we sit in the den and play a round of Clue, but it’s too easy to guess the murderer with only two of us playing.
“We need a third,” Charlie mumbles. I think of my letter to Emily resting unfinished on my desk.
“Mom said she and Dad were coming home from the change of command at seven-thirty.”
“When’s the last time Mom and Dad ever played Clue?” Charlie tosses down his cards. “Mr. Green,” he says sourly. “In the ballroom with the rope. Bore-ring.” He slides to his hands and the balls of his feet and starts pumping himself through a round of pushups.
“I have the ballroom.” I wag the card in his face. “So I win, I win. You guessed wrong.”
“Big deal. It’s not like you get a prize.”
“You shouldn’t exercise so soon after dinner.”
“I have to get in shape for later,” Charlie huffs. “But thanks for one more tip about what I’m not allowed to do, Miss Rules.”
“I swear I’ll tell Ted exactly where you are if you leave tonight.
“What fighting kids?” Marita’s alert, looking at Charlie, who stares down at his plate and says nothing. “Lane, you fighting with who, what kids?”
“I’m telling Charlie not to fight with some stupid kids he wants to beat up,” I explain. I feel sort of like a tattletale, but maybe just the threat of Marita’s knowing something will stop him. Charlie crosses his arms over his chest and tips himself back onto the hind legs of his chair. He watches me with eyes like pinpricks.
“Don’t worry about it, Marita,” he scowls. “No one’s fighting anyone. It was just something I was thinking about for a minute.” But I can hear the lie hanging in the words that don’t even sound like Charlie’s own.
“So that means you’re not going to hike all the way to Ninth Street and hide out in a tree, even though the rule is no going out after dinner?” I ask brightly, for Marita’s benefit.
Charlie’s scowl deepens.
“Ninth Street?” Marita grates back her chair and stands to clear the table. “No no no, Charlie, or I am telling Señora. Too far and dark for fighting.” She exhales heavily. “You both of you are”—she twirls a finger in the air—“spinning very fast, always, close to trouble. Opino que ustedes, los dos, necesitan ayuda.”
“What did you say? I need your opinion?” asks Charlie.
“She said, ‘I think Charlie needs help,’” I answer.
“She did not. She did not say Charlie.” He crunches up his napkin and beams it at me. It hits my nose and drops into my plate. “She said, ‘Lane has fish eyes and scabby knees.’”
“She said Charlie deserves to be slow-roasted on a spit and served to Cat Face, Rat Face, and The Toothless Wonder for lunch,” I reply.
Charlie almost spits out his milk through his nose, laughing. Cat Face is what we named our slobby school bus driver who fights with Charlie almost every day because he never sits down in the same seat for the entire ride. Rat Face and The Toothless Wonder are our names for her two little kids, who sit in the front seat. Cat Face feeds them candy all day, so they stay quiet.
“She said, ‘Lane is a skunk-faced, bug-eyed, sloth-bodied—’”
“Bastante, both of you. Ay-ay-ay.” Marita lifts our empty plates from the table and clatters them in the sink. “I am going to do laundry. Dessert is there for both.” She taps the dish of custard sitting on the counter. “No fighting, or I tell Señora. Sometimes I think even all the laughing is loco, too much …” She shakes her head at us, but keeps her unfinished thought hovering in the air as she leaves the kitchen.
12
C HARLIE AND I USE up about five minutes splitting the custard, so that we each get exactly equal shares. Then we have a speed-eating contest that gives me a stomachache. After dinner, feeling full as two stuffed potatoes, we sit in the den and play a round of Clue, but it’s too easy to guess the murderer with only two of us playing.
“We need a third,” Charlie mumbles. I think of my letter to Emily resting unfinished on my desk.
“Mom said she and Dad were coming home from the change of command at seven-thirty.”
“When’s the last time Mom and Dad ever played Clue?” Charlie tosses down his cards. “Mr. Green,” he says sourly. “In the ballroom with the rope. Bore-ring.” He slides to his hands and the balls of his feet and starts pumping himself through a round of pushups.
“I have the ballroom.” I wag the card in his face. “So I win, I win. You guessed wrong.”
“Big deal. It’s not like you get a prize.”
“You shouldn’t exercise so soon after dinner.”
“I have to get in shape for later,” Charlie huffs. “But thanks for one more tip about what I’m not allowed to do, Miss Rules.”
“I swear I’ll tell Ted exactly where you are if you leave tonight.
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