Ten Page 3

  “What if Henry was his mother mouse’s only living child, and now he’s dead, and her mouse husband is dead, too, and now she’s a poor childless widow?” I said.

  “Poor Henry’s mom!” Amanda said.

  “We have to bury him. It’s our duty.”

  Amanda nodded. “I’ll go get you a shovel. Or a spoon, a big-sized spoon.”

  She dashed off, and I thought it was a little funny—not ha ha funny, but more growly hmmmph funny—that Amanda automatically assumed that I’d be the one to dig Henry’s grave.

  But I did. I dug a hole with the spoon Amanda brought me, and then I used the spoon again to nudge Henry in. Henry’s body moved—of course it did, because I moved it—but it was freaky-creepy-gross, and we both squealed and jumped away. Then I had to go back and push all the dirt back on top of him, which made me squeal and do the shudder dance again.

  “You are so brave,” Amanda said when we were inside washing up.

  “I know,” I said, panting.

  “No, really,” she insisted, as if we’d both barely escaped with our lives.

  “I know. Really.”

  “Girls, that was very nice of you to bury that mouse,” Amanda’s mom said, clicking into the kitchen in high heels. “And Amanda, I told your father that he should have taken care of it himself.”

  “I did take care of it!” Mr. Wilson called from their den. “Do you want mice having babies in your pillow, Theresa?”

  Theresa—otherwise known as Mrs. Wilson, or Mrs. Amanda’s Mother—ignored him. “I would like to take you two out for a ladies’ lunch to thank you. How does that sound?”

  “Yay!” I said.

  “Yes!” Amanda said.

  “You’ve both washed your hands?” Mrs. Wilson said. “On the backs, on the sides, under your fingernails?”

  We nodded.

  She grabbed her purse from the counter, along with her jingly key chain with the jeweled butterfly dangling from it. “Then let’s go.”

  We went to the mall, and we had the best time. We had chicken salad at a fancy restaurant called the Tea Room, and actually I didn’t like the taste of it, because I don’t like chicken salad. Or any kind of salad. Or anything involving mayonnaise.

  I did like sitting with Amanda and her mother and using nice posture, however. And we had mango sorbet for dessert, and it was just plain delicious.

  Then we went “window shopping,” as Amanda’s mom called it, and all the shop ladies smiled at us and told Mrs. Wilson what adorable daughters she had.

  “Are you twins?” the lady at Tiffany’s said. Tiffany’s was an extremely fancy jewelry store. It scared me to walk in there, it was so fancy.

  “No,” Amanda said, while at the same time, I said, “Yes.”

  We looked at each other and giggled.

  “This one’s mine,” Mrs. Wilson said, claiming Amanda with a hug. Then, with her other arm, she hugged me. “This one’s a loaner. But I love them both.”

  My heart sang. I was Amanda’s twin, almost!

  I felt so happy and proud that when we went to the next store, I did something embarrassing. We were smelling perfumes when a salesclerk approached us with a smile. My eyes happened to latch onto hers before anyone else’s did, so she aimed her words at me.

  “Hello there,” she said. “And how are you today?”

  “Oh, I’m beautiful,” I replied sunnily.

  “Winnie!” Amanda said. She looked at me with a shocked face, and I realized what I’d done. Instead of answering the saleslady’s question, I’d basically said, Hello there, pleasant saleslady. I sure am beautiful, aren’t I?

  I made a shocked face back at Amanda, with an added layer of horror since I was the one who said it.

  “I mean . . . I mean . . .”

  Amanda started giggling, and it turned into a full-out giggle fit, and soon her giggling set me off. My giggling got so bad that I could hardly breathe, only I had to breathe, because I was a human and not a sea creature.

  I inhaled a great sucking breath, and Amanda slumped helplessly against the perfume counter.

  “You sound like a dying walrus!” she managed.

  “I do not!” My stomach muscles hurt from laughing so much. “Anyway, how do you know what a dying walrus sounds like?”

  I tried to wind down, but as I did, I exhaled really loudly—which, of course, made me sound like a dying walrus again. Which made me think of poor dead Henry, which made me clutch Amanda and say, “Poor dead Henry!”, which made the whole cycle start all over again.

  For the rest of the day, all either one of us had to do was mention the name Henry, or say pitifully, “Poor little fella,” and off we’d go, back into Crazy Giggle Land.

  It was the most fun I’d ever had at the mall, especially since Mrs. Wilson didn’t get fed up with us or anything. Instead, she took us to Amanda’s favorite store and let us both pick out “a little something.”

  “To buy?” I said.

  “No, to steal,” Amanda said.

  I felt a blush coming on, so to cover for it, I made puppy-dog eyes and said, “Poor, poor Henry. Then he’d have to go to the jailhouse.”

  It made no sense, but say la vee, as people on TV shows sometimes said. Which also made no sense. Say la vee? Why would anyone say “la vee”? What was a “la vee,” even?

  At the end of the day, Mom came to get me. I said good-bye to Amanda, and I told Mrs. Wilson thanks for having me, just like Mom had taught me.

  “Anytime,” Mrs. Wilson said. To Mom, she added, “Your daughter is a delight. I just love the friendship our girls have, don’t you?”

  I floated all the way out of the Wilsons’ front door, loving life. I loved Amanda, and I loved my new bracelet with a peace sign on it, and I loved Mrs. Wilson for buying it for me. More than that, I loved Mrs. Wilson for just being so nice.

  Waiting in the car was a grumpy Sandra. “What took you so long?” she complained.

  I ignored her. Ty was across from me in the backseat, asleep in his car seat, and I grabbed his warm little hand and held it. His fingers were sticky, but holding his hand helped keep my glowy feeling going.

  “I love Amanda’s mom,” I said as Mom turned on the car.

  “Awesome. Thanks for sharing,” Sandra said.

  “She’s so nice,” I went on. “She’s the nicest mom I know, and she never uses a sharp voice.” I sighed. “I wish she was my mom.”

  Sandra craned her neck and looked at me. She looked at me hard, as if to say, Really? Really, Winnie?

  At first I didn’t get it. Then I did, and my heart skipped a beat.

  “So you’d give Mom up for Mrs. Wilson?” Sandra said, just to drive the point home. “Nice. Bet that makes Mom feel really good.”

  “Wait, I just said that accidentally.” I gulped. “Mom?”

  “I know,” Mom said. She paused. “But sweetie, you do know that Amanda is an only child.”

  I drew my eyebrows together. What did that have to do with anything?

  “I like Theresa, too,” Mom continued. “You know what, though? I bet even she uses a sharp voice every so often. Just not when you’re there, perhaps.”

  I tried to imagine Mrs. Wilson speaking sharply. I couldn’t.

  “Anyway, you’re part of this family,” Mom said. She glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and my heart hurt. She smiled, but her eyes had a smidgen of sad-Mommy in them. “What would I do without my Winnie?”

  That night I told Mom again that I really and truly didn’t mean what I’d said. I couldn’t stand the thought that I’d hurt her feelings. I would never want to hurt her feelings!

  She kissed my forehead and said, “I love you, Winnie, and I know you love me. Don’t worry, baby.”

  But I did.

  The next day was a Sunday, and I made her a bookmark that said, “To the Best Mom Ever.” On it I drew a picture of her reading a book, because she loved reading just like I did, and I laminated it using lots and lots of Scotch tape.

  “I
t’s beautiful,” she said. “I’ll keep it forever.”

  On Monday, as Sandra, Ty, and I were eating breakfast, I complimented Mom’s blouse.

  “Thank you, Winnie,” she said from the sink, where she was rinsing dishes. She rarely sat down and ate with us kids on school mornings. Dad left for work before we even woke up, which meant Mom was on her own to get us up and dressed and fed and have time to run upstairs and “throw a little makeup on,” as she put it.

  “You really are the best mom in the universe,” I said. “And the prettiest. And the nicest.”

  “Laying it on pretty thick,” Sandra remarked. “Are you feeling guilty about something? Is that why?”

  I glared at her. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You just hush.” I took a big bite of sausage biscuit as if somehow that would silence her, but all it did was keep me from being able to say anything when she kept right on talking.

  “It’s just that you said something totally different two days ago,” she said. “It was after we picked you up from Amanda’s. We were driving home, and you said . . .” She tapped her lower lip. “Hmm. What was it you said?”

  “Sandra,” Mom said in a warning tone.

  Yeah, I tried to say, but my mouth was too full. I chewed and chewed, while at the same time giving Sandra an eyeball thrust to say, Shush, AND I MEAN IT.

  Finally I was able to swallow. I washed everything down with a long swig of orange juice, which I sucked up using a shorter-than-normal plastic straw. A full-length straw would have been too tall for my glass, so Mom had snipped an inch off the bottom to make it fit.

  Mom did that because she knew how much I loved straws. She kept a whole container of them on the kitchen counter, and she made sure we never ran out. She always remembered to plunk one into my glass, and if the glass was on the small side, she always cut the straw down to size.

  She did all that for me.

  Suddenly it was hard to make my throat work, even with my orange juice right there.

  I needed to think about something else. I plucked my straw from my glass and held it between two fingers, pretending it was a cigarette. I inhaled, then exhaled with a loud puff. I did this several more times.

  “You’re going to turn your lungs black, you know,” Sandra commented.

  “Smoking is disgusting,” I said. “Don’t you think, Mom? I’m so glad you’re not a smoker.”

  Mom smiled as she put a plate in the dishwasher. “I agree, and I’m glad you’re not a smoker, either. I hope you never will be.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  “Does Amanda’s mom smoke?” Sandra asked.

  I wanted to kick her. Instead, I turned very deliberately to Ty and said, “Ty, my darlingest brother, would you like a bite of yummy sausage?”

  “Trying to change the subject,” Sandra sang under her breath.

  I pinched off a piece of sausage and held it out. Ty frowned.

  “Do I like yummy sausage?”

  “Yes, Ty, you love yummy sausage, just like you love me, because I’m your favorite sister.”

  Sandra snorted, and I wished she would turn into smoke and disappear. Then I truly would be Ty’s favorite sister, because he’d only have one to choose from. He’d have one sister—me—and I would have zero sisters. And guess what? I would be fine with that.

  It hit me that if Mom wasn’t my mom, Sandra really wouldn’t be my sister, and Ty wouldn’t be my brother. My ribs tightened, because the possibility of no Ty wasn’t allowed in my world.

  As for Sandra . . .

  Usually I felt lucky to have her for a sister, because she was so much fun. Like when she pretended to be a witch for my birthday party, or when we did bottom-bouncing from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and she went “ow ow ow” to the exact beat of the bouncing.

  But sometimes? When Sandra did things on purpose to upset me? I almost hated her.

  Ty leaned toward me and touched the piece of sausage with his tongue. “Yuck,” he said, batting it out of my hand and onto the floor. “I do not love yummy sausage.”

  “See?” Sandra said. “Ty doesn’t love yummy sausage, just like you don’t love—”

  “I said hush!” I cried. Tears stung my eyes, and I did hate her. I really and truly hated her, and if that made me a horrible person, too bad.

  “Girls,” Mom said, leaving the dishes and striding to the table. “Sandra? Drop it.”

  “But—”

  “Drop it,” Mom repeated.

  I blinked and dug my fingernails into my palms. I would dig my fingernails into Sandra if I could.

  Mom placed her hands on my shoulders. “Winnie, would you come with me to the den, please?”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Just for a chat.”

  My heart hammered. I kept my gaze on my plate.

  She squeezed my shoulder. “Come on, baby. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I got up, and Mom and I walked together across the kitchen. At the doorway, I spun on my heel.

  “No listening,” I warned.

  “Like I’d want to,” Sandra said.

  “Eat your breakfast, Sandra,” Mom snapped.

  Sandra flinched. I was glad.

  “You too, Ty,” Mom said. “We need to leave for school in ten minutes.”

  In the den, Mom took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. I sat next to her. At first I stayed rigid, like a statue, but when she touched me, I melted and let her pull me close. She stroked my hair. I took a shuddery breath.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” she said gently.

  I let my gaze go blurry, so that what I saw was Mom plus sofa plus a strand of my own brown hair, only all jumbled together. It was like one of those paintings made up of dots and lines and squiggles, so that when you looked at it, you didn’t see a farmhouse or an apple or whatever. All you saw was a smeary mess.

  “Sandra is mean,” I said. “She was trying to make me say something when she knew I didn’t want to. And the thing I didn’t want to say . . .”

  I didn’t finish. I shut my eyes and pressed against her.

  “Sandra’s not mean,” Mom said, because she had to. “But she did take things too far.”

  “Will you give her a talking-to?”

  “Yes, I’ll give her a talking-to.” She paused. “What about you and me? Do we need to have a talk?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Not a bad talk,” Mom clarified. “Just a clear-the-air talk. What do you say?”

  I said nothing, that’s what. We sat on the couch, and Mom played with my hair, and for several seconds she let me be. Then she gave me a squeeze and nudged me back into a sitting position.

  “Will you look at me?” she said.

  I didn’t want to, but I made myself.

  “Winnie, I love you,” she said, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand. “You are my ten-year-old girl, and you are growing up beautifully, and I am so glad you’re my daughter.”

  “And I’m so glad you’re my mom,” I told her, my chest swelling up like a balloon. I flung myself on her. “You’re the best, most perfect mom in the whole world, and I’m not just saying that.”

  She smiled. “How about this: I’m the perfect mom for you, and Theresa is the perfect mom for Amanda. How does that sound?”

  I nodded, which meant yes, yes, and yes.

  She eased me out of the hug. “In that case, I think we better get going. You and Sandra have school, you know.”

  “Or we could stay home and watch movies all day,” I said.

  She laughed. “Sorry, but no.”

  “Or you and I could stay home and watch movies all day. We could drop Sandra off first and just not tell her. It would be mother-daughter bonding time.”

  “Oh, would it? And what would Ty do?”

  “Um . . . master the ancient art of Japanese flower arranging?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Take a nap?”

&nb
sp; She laughed again. “Get up, you goofy girl and go tell your brother and sister it’s time to go. I’m just going to pop quickly into the bathroom.”

  Of course she was going to pop quickly into the bathroom, because she popped quickly into the bathroom before we went anywhere. Because she was Mom. My mom. And it wouldn’t be a quick pop, but a medium pop. Daughters knew these things about their mothers.

  “Fine,” I said. “But don’t stay in there forever, lady.”

  I stood up, and I felt so light and happy that I dashed to the kitchen and slid in on my sock feet.

  “I’m baaaaack!” I announced. “And it’s time to go, so get up, you lazy bums!”

  Ty giggled. I touched the tip of his nose and said, “Beeeeep!”

  Sandra, I ignored. Except not really, because how could I? I could sense her presence whether I wanted to or not.

  “Sorry, Winnie,” she mumbled.

  I allowed myself to look at her, and there she was: my big sister who was sometimes annoying, but more often funny. Who said it was okay to be weird. Who apologized on her own without waiting for Mom to make her.

  Just like that, I liked her again, and in my head, I said sorry to her for wishing (even for a second) that she wasn’t my sister.

  “Good, because you should be,” I said. I went ahead and grinned. “And . . . apology accepted.”

  May

  MY MOM’S SISTER, Aunt Lucy, was my favorite aunt in the universe. Not because she was my only aunt, either. She was my favorite aunt not just in my universe, but in the entire universe of all aunts, everywhere.

  Why?

  I made a list:

  The first reason was because she was pretty. “Pretty Aunt Lucy,” we called her, because that’s what Sandra had called her when she was little. Sandra had been confused about who was coming to visit one Thanksgiving, never mind that we had just the one aunt Lucy, and she said to Mom, “You mean pretty Aunt Lucy? That one?”

  Maybe the name wouldn’t have stuck if Aunt Lucy had a zillion moles and each mole had a zillion hairs sticking out of it. Mrs. Lumpkin, who taught third grade, had a mole like that. It was on her cheek, and Amanda and I named it “Lumpy.” We didn’t call it that out loud, though. We never ran up to Mrs. Lumpkin on the playground and waved at her mole, saying, “Hi there, Lumpy! How’s life, Lumpy?”