by Barbara Dee
She got up from her chair. “Call me if you need anything, girls.” She frowned, then left.
“Yeah, like if we desperately need to be interrogated,” Miranda snorted. “Hand me those paper towels, Cassie.”
We both started cleaning up the sudsy mess. By now so much fresh air was blowing into the kitchen that it was practically freezing. But we were working so hard to dry up the oven and the floor that it actually felt pretty good.
After a while I broke the silence. “How did you know Mom was on her way home?” I asked Miranda.
“I didn’t. She is?”
“I wanted to warn you, but I didn’t know where you were.”
She didn’t answer.
“Mom asked where you were,” I said.
She stopped cleaning. “Oh? And what did you say?”
“I said you were here.”
She tossed a sudsy wad of paper towel into the trash. Then she sighed. “Well, you certainly got me into big trouble now,” she said.
“What?”
“Mrs. Patella knows I was out. She’ll tell Mom.”
“Maybe, Miranda. But if she does, that’s not my fault! I was trying to cover up for you.”
“Yeah? Well, thanks, but I guess you’re in trouble too, then.”
I stared at Miranda in disbelief, but almost immediately realized she was right. Of course Mrs. Patella would tell Mom that I was the one incinerating the potatoes. Of course Mom would know that (a) Miranda wasn’t here, and (b) I lied to her about it. Of course Mrs. Patella would tell her that I frantically ran out of the house to go back to school for some mysterious “special project,” leaving her to babysit for Jackson. But if Miranda had been here, like she was supposed to be, I could have gone back to school, and Mom wouldn’t even have had to know. It wasn’t fair, none of it!
“Cassie? Miranda?” Jackson was standing in the kitchen in his bare feet. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like, goofball?” Miranda grinned. “Get over here and give me a big hug.”
Jackson did. Why was he always so glad to see her when she was such a rotten big sister?
“I’m hungry,” he announced. Sheesh. It was like his theme song.
“Me too,” Miranda said. “Tell you what. I’ll order in some pizza. My treat.”
I stared at her. “But Mom told you to make hamburgers, remember?”
“Of course I remember. But let’s just give the kitchen a rest now, okay, Cass? Anyhow, I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night once Mom gets home, so let’s just treat ourselves, okay?”
About an hour later Mom walked in the door. The kitchen was spotless, and the air was still chilly. Mom stood in the kitchen for a few seconds, hands on her hips, not saying anything, but definitely sniffing the air once or twice. Then she looked at me with laser-beam eyes.
“All right, Cassie,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
We sat down at the table. Mom took off her coat. “Miranda and Jackson, please go to your rooms,” she said.
That set me off. “So, I’m in trouble and Miranda isn’t?”
Mom smiled grimly. “You first.”
They left the kitchen. I looked at Miranda to see if maybe she was celebrating, because I was the one in trouble for a change, not all wrapped up in my—what did she call it? My perfect little planet. But instead of grinning evilly, she mouthed Good luck and gave a quick thumbs-up. That was certainly weird.
Mom clasped her hands and leaned forward. I could smell her work perfume, which was different from her weekend perfume. More serious, somehow. “Cassie, I can’t conceal my disappointment,” she said. “I’ve always expected such good judgment from you, but I’m so upset right now, I barely know where to start.”
I stared at her. Maybe this wasn’t about Miranda, or the stupid baked potatoes, after all.
“I spoke to Jackson’s teacher today,” she said. “First of all, did you write a book report for him about Farmer Joe?”
I snorted. “Yes, I did. But, Mom, it was a completely stupid assignment! You weren’t home, Jackson was all upset, I tried to help him, but he didn’t have any ideas. None! He could barely read the stupid book, so how was he supposed to write a report? So I dictated something a little silly, so maybe his teacher would pay some attention to him.”
Mom looked shocked. “Mrs. Rivera? Not paying attention? What are you talking about?”
“But Jackie said—” Then I stopped. What had Jackson said, exactly? That his teacher sounded out words with him “maybe once”? Or that he just remembered his teacher sounding out words with him “maybe once”? Jackson wasn’t always so clear about things, I had to admit.
But Mom wasn’t waiting for me to figure this out. “Mrs. Rivera is paying a huge amount of attention to him, Cassie. She has him in a special reading group, she gives him special books and projects, she talks to me on the phone every week about his progress. I couldn’t ask for a better, more devoted teacher. So you can just imagine how horrified, how embarrassed, I was when she called to tell me that Jackson turned in a book report calling Farmer Joe a ‘total psycho’!”
I winced. “Mom, it was supposed to be funny.”
“Well, Mrs. Rivera wasn’t amused. At all. I know you have a great sense of humor, Cassie, but whatever it was you dictated was entirely inappropriate. And then, Cassie, she said you told her that I wanted Jackson tested for a learning disability?”
I swallowed. “Yes, but—”
“Yes, but what?”
I sighed. “I tried to talk to you about it. I tried Miranda, too. But you both just acted like it was no big deal, like it was normal that Jackson couldn’t read or write and was crying all the time.”
“Cassie, I told you, not every kid is as precocious as you were. Lots of kids struggle in first grade, and it’s not because they have a learning disability.”
“Yes, Mom, okay, but he should at least be starting to read. He isn’t! Do you even know this?”
Mom looked really, really angry. Her eyebrows shot up, and her brown eyes flashed. “Cassandra. Watch what you’re saying. Of course I know this. I read with him every single chance I get. Even when I come home from work after a long, stressful day and all I want is to crawl into bed, I sit with him and practice word lists and play alphabet bingo. And yes, of course I wish I had more time to work with him. Of course I wish I was around more. But you’re old enough to understand that somebody in this family has to be out earning a paycheck. So don’t go blaming me for Jackie’s problems with reading!”
“No, Mom, listen! I know it’s not your fault that you aren’t here. It’s not anybody’s fault. Not even Dad’s.”
She flinched. “We’re not talking about Dad right now.”
“Okay, fine. We won’t discuss Dad. We’ll never, ever discuss Dad, if that’s really what you want!”
“Don’t say that, Cassie,” she murmured, shaking her head. “It isn’t fair.”
“You mean it isn’t fair to you?”
“I mean, it isn’t fair to anyone.”
“But why?”
She paused. “Because Dad should talk to you himself. He has something very difficult to say, and he should be the one to say it.”
“Fine! Great! So when will that be, exactly?”
“I don’t know, honey. I wish I could give you an exact day and time, but it isn’t in my control. You understand that, right?”
I gave a half-nod, which meant my head went down but didn’t come back up.
“Look at me, Cassie,” she said. “It’s going to happen. It’s awful not knowing when; I feel as terrible about that as you, but all I can promise is, it will definitely happen. Sometime soon.”
“This week? This millennium?”
“I don’t have a specific date. Just soon.”
“But how can you promise if you don’t even know anything?”
“Because Dad told me he would, and I believe that,” she said very quietly. “Sometimes you just have to believe things, Cassi
e.”
Neither of us said anything. The kitchen clock sounded like a magician flipping over cards: Was it this one? Was it this? Finally I took a sharp breath. “So, what’s going to happen, Mom? I mean, with you and Dad. Are you getting a divorce?”
“I really can’t talk about that,” she answered automatically. There must have been an insane expression on my face, because she added, “Nothing’s settled. I don’t know anything for sure right now. But—well, probably we will be, honey, yes.”
She sank back into her chair then, pale and limp, as if a dragonfire arrow had pierced her heart. My dragonfire arrow. I wanted to hug her, I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but I was definitely at war, and I wasn’t finished. I took another breath.
“Listen, Mom, I’m not blaming you. For anything. Really! I know how hard you’re working. I know how tired you are when you get home.”
“Well, thank you.”
“But the truth is, Jackson isn’t getting enough attention, and I had to do something.”
She sat up a little straighter now. “So you lied to Mrs. Rivera. You told her I said something I never said. We spent two days trading phone calls just to iron it out.”
I didn’t answer.
“You lied. And when I called you today and asked where Miranda was, you lied about that, too, didn’t you?”
“That’s a completely different thing!”
“Is it?”
“Yes! I was just trying to help Miranda. I didn’t know where she was, and I didn’t want to get her in trouble.”
“Really? You lied to protect her? Why?”
“I don’t know. You were at work. I didn’t want you to worry.”
She shook her head. I could see the color creeping back into her cheeks. “Cassie, I’m really shocked by your bad judgment. If Mrs. Patella hadn’t called me at work, I wouldn’t have known that Miranda wasn’t here, or that we almost had a fire, isn’t that right?”
My throat was getting tight. Cassie, whatever you do, don’t cry. “It wasn’t a fire, it was just a smoky oven! And you’re so busy, Mom, you have other things to worry about. I was only trying to protect you.”
“Protect me? From what? Listen, Cassie, I’m the mother around here, you’re the kid, and it’s my job to protect you.” Then she reached across the table to touch my arm. “I may not be here very much, but that’s exactly why I need to know what’s going on.”
I looked at the table. There were two Cheerios left over from breakfast. I squashed them with my index finger. “Okay,” I said.
She let out some air. “Good, then. So? Is there anything else I don’t know about? While we’re on the subject? Anything about school, for example?”
I poked the Cheerios dust. Was this a trick question? Did she know something about the journal? Had Sir Mullvo called her about my trips to fantasyland, like he’d threatened to?
I swallowed hard. “No,” I said. Lying.
“All right. From now on, I’m going to ask Mrs. Patella to check in with you kids every day after school. Just to make sure everyone’s accounted for.”
“Oh, great,” I said. “Miranda’s going to love that.”
“I’ll deal with Miranda,” Mom said firmly. “And as for you, Cassie, I’m sure you understand that I need to give you a punishment. I wish I didn’t, but this is really serious, so I’m grounding you for a month. Maybe you can use the time to work with Jackson on his reading.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “You’re grounding me? For what? Trying to help Miranda? Sticking up for Jackson?”
“For lying. To Mrs. Rivera and to me. Listen, Cassie. I understand that you did what you thought was right. You actually thought you were taking care of everyone—Jackson, Miranda, somehow, in some strange way I still don’t understand, even me. But nothing is worse than lying, sweetheart.”
That “sweetheart” thing just did it. I knew if I sat there any longer I would burst into tears, which I definitely didn’t want to do. So I ran into my room and slammed my door and started punching my pillows. And yes, it was incredibly babyish of me, but I was just so furious and humiliated and exhausted. After this long, long day, it seemed incredible that I was the one being punished. And for what? For defending everyone. For thinking about their feelings. For being responsible. For being here. And how was I being punished? By being grounded, when the truth was that I was grounded anyway, every single day of my stupid life.
A few minutes later it was Miranda’s turn to get yelled at. I couldn’t hear very much—just an occasional “selfish” and “serious.” By the time they finished I was 98 percent asleep, curled up in bed with Buster and Fuzzy, the best, and maybe the only, friends I had on the planet. Which, incidentally, was light years away from perfect.
At breakfast the next morning I was still so mad I couldn’t talk. Mom and Miranda kept trying to catch my eye, but I refused to look at either of them. As far as I was concerned they were equally guilty: Miranda for going “out” and forcing me to lie for her, and Mom for completely missing the point of my whole existence. How could she ground me? What sense did it make? It was what you did to someone who actually had privileges worth taking away. Only what privileges, what freedom, did I have, thanks to Miranda, who could just go “out” all the time and smoke stupid cigarettes and not buy cat food, while I had to stay behind in the ratty little “unit” to write book reports for Jackson and burn potatoes.
Not only that, but the whole idea of being grounded made me want to barf. It was such a teenage word: “grounded.” No trips to the mall, no Saturday-night dates for you, Muffy, because you’re grounded. Mom (or Dad, for that matter) had never grounded me before in my whole life. I mean, I remember a long time-out once for poking Miranda with a chopstick in a Chinese restaurant. And when I was eight, I didn’t get my allowance for three weeks (when we got allowances, before Dad was “out of the picture”) because I cut the hair off my cousin Nell’s Barbie. But this was the first time I’d been punished in centuries, and how was Mom doing it? By grounding me, like I was this careless, selfish, misbehaving teenager. Like I was Miranda. It was disgusting.
I went to school in the worst mood possible.
And when I got there, three terrible things happened.
First: The strap of my backpack broke, so I had to carry it in my arms like a big fat squirming baby.
Second: Lindsay Frost decided to have a bowling party on Saturday night, and invited the whole class. Not just the cool kids like Brianna and Hayley and Danny and Noah—but everyone, including the groupless losers, including people like Zachary Hairball and Bess Waterbury.
Oh yeah. And including me.
Only I couldn’t go. And why? Because I was grounded.
Third: At the very end of fourth period English, Sir Mullvo handed back the journals. Didn’t say a word, didn’t announce my page total to the class. Did, however, write this on the inside cover:
Cassie Baldwin:
63 pages.
See me during next lunch period.
See him? See him do what? Combat scurvy? Lance a repulsive pustule? Kiss a slobbering ogress? Why in the world would I want to see Mr. Mullaney?
So, the following period, when it was time for lunch, I grabbed a pretzel in the lunchroom, then hid out in the library. Way in the back near the National Geographic magazines, where nobody ever went.
I unzipped my squirming backpack baby and took out my journal. Then I flipped back sixty-three pages. Where had I left off my Cat story? Oh, right: Cat was giving Daeman target practice, and the lovely Gloriana was shrieking her head off. Just another fun-filled day in fantasyland, I guess.
I uncapped my black extra-fine-point Rolling Writer. Then I wrote.
Cat carefully packed her three precious arrows in her (whatchamacallit), then laced her riding boots.
“Cat! Where are you going?” cried Daeman.
“Out to slay beasts,” Cat replied. “My work here is done.”
“What are you talking about?”<
br />
“Sorry, Daeman. But I can’t just sit here with you day after day shooting feather pillows.”
“But the Queen told you to!
“Yes. But this is not the best use of my Gift. I need to get out there in the kingdom and fight. The King is counting on me to hold the fort.
“But the Queen punished you for letting Valdyk go, remember?
“Of course I remember, Daeman! It’s a mistake I regret, believe me. And I can’t promise you I won’t make the same mistake a second time. But I need to get out there and look right into his evil eyes! I can’t just sit around in the castle forever!
“But Cat! The Queen needs you!
“I know. But she needs me to fight for her, not to waste my Gift.” Cat’s little cousin began to cry. “Don’t worry, Daeman. Cheer up. You’ll be just fine.
Okay, so I was a bit rusty. But it sure felt good to be writing something meaningful, something important (well, at least to me), even if it didn’t fill up the right number of pages, even if it didn’t get an A. Yes, even if I was the only one who would ever actually read it. And when the bell rang, and it was time for Math, I carried my fat, squirming backpack baby down the hall, not even caring how pathetic I looked, or that I was sure to be in even worse trouble when I got home.
“Cassie? There was a male caller” Miranda teased as I dumped my backpack baby on the kitchen table.
I froze; I forgot to be mad at her. “Did he ask to talk to Mom?”
She snorted. “No, goofball! To you.”
“Mr. Mullaney wanted to talk to me?”
Now she laughed. “Mr. Mullaney? Where did you get that? No, Casshead, some boy called. Danny Abbott?”
“Oh.”
“Oh? What, don’t you like him?”
“No, I do.” Immediately I felt like kicking myself. Telling Miranda was not what I’d planned.
Weirdly, though, she didn’t seem surprised. “So, what’s he like?” she asked.