That’s what Sweet Caroline says on the phone. She never calls in the middle of the day—or any time of day for that matter. That’s why I pick up. I excuse myself from math class by holding up my phone, and then I take the call out in the hall.
Tragedy has its privileges.
“How am I killing you?” I whisper.
“Do you know what it’s like here—”
“Wait a minute, how are you calling me? You can’t have cell phones in school.”
“I’m in the bathroom,” she says, “and I smuggled my phone in.”
I sometimes forget that Sweet Caroline has it even worse than me. She’s at a superstrict all-girls Jewish school. At least my school is coed so there’s something to look at besides the Torah.
“They’re asking about Mom,” she says.
“How is that possible? You don’t even go to my school.”
“It’s Jewish geography, like Dad says. They all talk.”
“Who’s asking?” I say.
“The head of school. The teachers. Everyone.”
“Crap,” I say. “How bad is it?”
“They want to know what they can do, how they can help, how I’m holding up. You know the deal.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them to send a gift basket to the house.”
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Great minds think alike,” I say, even though I never considered Sweet Caroline to be in that particular club.
“It’s not funny, Sanskrit. I have to walk around looking sad all day, and it doesn’t come naturally. I’m a happy kid.”
A happy kid with a psychologist. But I don’t say that.
I say, “If it helps at all, I told them Mom is at a hospital in Orange County. So nobody can come to visit her.”
“You’re making my life miserable, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would get out of school.”
“How sorry are you?”
“What does that mean?”
“Are you twenty dollars sorry?”
“Lord’s name—” she says.
I stop myself. Not because I don’t want to take the Lord’s name in vain, but because if I go off on Sweet Caroline right now, I could be in big trouble.
“Twenty dollars?” I say.
“A week.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“It should be more,” she says. “But we’ll start with twenty. Remember, I’m keeping the secret, too.”
I think about ways to come up with twenty dollars a week. I’ll have to break into my book fund.
“Deal,” I say. Anything to keep Sweet Caroline on board.
“I can lie for a while,” she says, “but Mom better have a spontaneous recovery before Passover. We’re supposed to show up for the seder, right?”
Passover. Next week.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say.
I hear the toilet flush over the phone.
“Were you peeing while you were talking to me?” I say.
“I’m multitasking,” she says, and hangs up.