ate two slices in four minutes.
“Mom,” I whispered. “Can we go home now?”
“In a few minutes, honey.”
“Really a few? Or a mother’s idea of a few?”
She raised her eyebrow in that mad-in-front-of-company way.
“It’s just that it’s a school night, Mom. Shouldn’t we be getting to bed?”
She felt my forehead, like I might have a fever. And then she said yes to more wine.
It was way past dark when we got back to our loft. I could tell Mom wanted to hustle us through the pajama-teeth-story routine, but I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I could not wait one more minute to have a look in the bag.
The zipper stuck a little when I pulled on it, but I held my breath and got it open without jamming.
Inside, it looked almost like my mother’s makeup pouch, but really used. There were three little black jars with pearly tops and aplastic case with three colors of eye shadow and a few Q-tips. The lid of the compact was cracked. There was a box of miniature soap, two lipsticks, and a sewing kit with
The Plaza Hotel
stamped on the side. There was also a bus pass and a Dr. Dingo’s Science Club membership card for somebody named Jody Greengard.
I opened one of the lipstick cases and rotated the bottom. It was bright coral.
“Billie?” my mother called. “Is everything all right in there?”
“I’ll be out in a minute, Mom.”
“Are you cleaning the bathtub with your tongue, by any chance?”
“Mom!”
“Jane has to pee, honey; could you hurry up?”
I stuffed the bag back into my pack and marched out of the bathroom. Jane crashed past me to the toilet.
“I’ll hang this up for you while you get into your jammies,” said my mother, scooping the pack from my shoulder.
“Uh, no, no, I’ll do it.” I grabbed toward my treasure.
“Billie Stoner, not one more word. Get ready for bed.”
I lay in bed, twitching. I could hear my mother brush her teeth and gargle a long gargle. I heard her drawers open and close and then the soft flap of her duvet.
Go to sleep. I was sending brain signals. I heard the click of the remote control and aburst of TV sound before she turned down the volume and watched the news, just to torture me.
I was trying to remember how many different things there were in the bag, counting them in my head. Trucks rattled by outside. Finally, the TV went off and her light went out. I practiced breathing like a burglar. I slowly counted to three hundred and then climbed down my ladder. I took eight steps. The floor creaked like in a haunted house. I took three more steps.
Suddenly the light flashed on and my heart jumped out of my ears. My mother stood in the doorway to her room with her eyebrows squeezed together.
“I’m thirsty.”
She glared. I hustled over to the sink and got a quick drink. I almost ran back to bed. My mother just stood there.
My bag might as well be in jail. I put a pillow over my head and begged for sleep.
3 • The Routine
M y mother wakes us up in the morning, singing a cheery little song about greeting the sun. Jane likes it, but I think it is as annoying as the kitchen timer.
I slept through it this time, and she had to shake me awake. As soon as I was conscious, I had one goal in mind: Get alone with the bag.
Monday is early chorus rehearsal. We have to be there by 8:15.1 dragged on my jeans and purple sweatshirt in two minutes and combed my hair in two seconds. I snatched my bagel from the counter to eat on the way.
I took my backpack from its hook and quickly checked inside. Then I slid it onto my shoulders like an enchanted cloak, ready for anything.
“Come on, you guys!” I was already in the elevator while Jane was still nibbling her threebites of Cheerios. And she couldn’t just put on a jacket. She had to add a scarf and a bandanna and a purse full of rubber mice.
“Jane, that’s enough. You are a fashion disaster!” Even my mother was impatient today. She was taking a group of second-graders to the Central
“Mom,” I whispered. “Can we go home now?”
“In a few minutes, honey.”
“Really a few? Or a mother’s idea of a few?”
She raised her eyebrow in that mad-in-front-of-company way.
“It’s just that it’s a school night, Mom. Shouldn’t we be getting to bed?”
She felt my forehead, like I might have a fever. And then she said yes to more wine.
It was way past dark when we got back to our loft. I could tell Mom wanted to hustle us through the pajama-teeth-story routine, but I went into the bathroom and closed the door. I could not wait one more minute to have a look in the bag.
The zipper stuck a little when I pulled on it, but I held my breath and got it open without jamming.
Inside, it looked almost like my mother’s makeup pouch, but really used. There were three little black jars with pearly tops and aplastic case with three colors of eye shadow and a few Q-tips. The lid of the compact was cracked. There was a box of miniature soap, two lipsticks, and a sewing kit with
The Plaza Hotel
stamped on the side. There was also a bus pass and a Dr. Dingo’s Science Club membership card for somebody named Jody Greengard.
I opened one of the lipstick cases and rotated the bottom. It was bright coral.
“Billie?” my mother called. “Is everything all right in there?”
“I’ll be out in a minute, Mom.”
“Are you cleaning the bathtub with your tongue, by any chance?”
“Mom!”
“Jane has to pee, honey; could you hurry up?”
I stuffed the bag back into my pack and marched out of the bathroom. Jane crashed past me to the toilet.
“I’ll hang this up for you while you get into your jammies,” said my mother, scooping the pack from my shoulder.
“Uh, no, no, I’ll do it.” I grabbed toward my treasure.
“Billie Stoner, not one more word. Get ready for bed.”
I lay in bed, twitching. I could hear my mother brush her teeth and gargle a long gargle. I heard her drawers open and close and then the soft flap of her duvet.
Go to sleep. I was sending brain signals. I heard the click of the remote control and aburst of TV sound before she turned down the volume and watched the news, just to torture me.
I was trying to remember how many different things there were in the bag, counting them in my head. Trucks rattled by outside. Finally, the TV went off and her light went out. I practiced breathing like a burglar. I slowly counted to three hundred and then climbed down my ladder. I took eight steps. The floor creaked like in a haunted house. I took three more steps.
Suddenly the light flashed on and my heart jumped out of my ears. My mother stood in the doorway to her room with her eyebrows squeezed together.
“I’m thirsty.”
She glared. I hustled over to the sink and got a quick drink. I almost ran back to bed. My mother just stood there.
My bag might as well be in jail. I put a pillow over my head and begged for sleep.
3 • The Routine
M y mother wakes us up in the morning, singing a cheery little song about greeting the sun. Jane likes it, but I think it is as annoying as the kitchen timer.
I slept through it this time, and she had to shake me awake. As soon as I was conscious, I had one goal in mind: Get alone with the bag.
Monday is early chorus rehearsal. We have to be there by 8:15.1 dragged on my jeans and purple sweatshirt in two minutes and combed my hair in two seconds. I snatched my bagel from the counter to eat on the way.
I took my backpack from its hook and quickly checked inside. Then I slid it onto my shoulders like an enchanted cloak, ready for anything.
“Come on, you guys!” I was already in the elevator while Jane was still nibbling her threebites of Cheerios. And she couldn’t just put on a jacket. She had to add a scarf and a bandanna and a purse full of rubber mice.
“Jane, that’s enough. You are a fashion disaster!” Even my mother was impatient today. She was taking a group of second-graders to the Central
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