THURSDAY NIGHT I LIE IN MY bed waiting and waiting to not be awake. The sooner I go to sleep, the sooner I will wake up. And the sooner I wake up, the sooner I will see Mom.
I already got to see Dad, ’cause he was home from Singapore and showing Grandma how to download pictures of Jack and me onto her laptop after school.
He gave me a thousand hugs (even though I had dried mud all over me) and then he gave me a great big box of candy and a slingshot that could put my eye out if I’m not careful. I showed him my Friend-of-a-Farmer badge.
I was really, really glad to see Dad.
But I have to wait even longer to see Mom. ’Cause she gets in past my bedtime. Past an eleven-year-old’s bedtime, too, and that means you, Jack.
Every time I close my eyes, I think about my mom’s face. I think about her blue eyes and the fact that she knows how many kisses to hand out.
Then I think about Kookamut Farm. Someday when I grow up, I might be a farmer. I’ll grow apples and cucumbers and Jack will come and ride the horses. I’ll ride a horse, too. A white one. Or maybe a zebra.
I fall asleep and I dream that Mom is home, sitting on my bed. I can smell her lotion for tired hands and a little whiff of laundry soap. I can hear her voice.
“I think she grew while I was gone,” Mom whispers. “Is that possible?”
I realize I’m wide awake. But I keep my eyes squeezed shut. I missed Mom when she was gone but now I don’t want to talk to her. I want her to talk to me. I want her to miss me so much she wakes me up with a kiss on my forehead, one on each cheek, and one on my nose. But she doesn’t.
“Sure it is,” Dad whispers. “Mom said the kids ate a lot.”
“Really?” Mom whispers.
“I think she figured out how to order Chinese food in alien territory,” Dad whispers with a laugh tucked in it.
I feel Mom’s hand on my forehead.
“My little girl,” she says quietly.
My eyelids flutter like butterflies.
“Lola?” Mom whispers. “Are you awake?”
I keep them squeezed shut.
Mom leans down and kisses me on my forehead and my cheeks and right on my nose.
I hear Jack’s elephant feet pound into my room.
“MOM!” he yells.
I pop my eyes open. Jack grabs Mom with a hug.
“I’m awake!” I yell. “And I grew!”
Mom laughs and tries to hug us both. Dad wraps in there, too, and we’re like a big cinnamon roll.
Grandma swishes through my door with her leopard robe and her fuzzy socks and white stuff all over her face and we squeeze her also. And after everyone piles out, I ask Grandma to snuggle with me and tell me one more Lola the Chicken story. And she does. This one’s about Zelda the Zebra and Lola the Chicken going to Paris.
“Can we go to Paris?” I ask Grandma.
“Why, Lola,” Grandma says. “You have the best ideas.”
