Reflection is when you do serious thinking about things that have happened. I had a lot of thinking to do. What had happened in the basement? Was it magic? A dream? I lay down on my bed to try to figure it out. Serious thinking and beds do not go together. The next thing I knew, Mom was shaking me by the arm to wake me up, and it was morning.
“Ash, wake up! Hurry. Claire will be here in ten minutes. Her dad called. They’re coming a day early.”
My brain felt fuzzy. I jumped out of bed. I had to get dressed. I staggered to my dresser and suddenly remembered the basement. It made me shiver; I pulled on sweat pants and a sweater over my T-shirt. The doorbell rang just as I was brushing my teeth. I finished up and spit in the sink. On the way downstairs I went over the list of things Mom had already told me about Claire:
• Seven years old
• Needs lots of attention because of her mom
• Is an only child
• Likes fashion
It wasn’t a big list, but Mom had said she’d tell me more before Claire got here. Now that she was here, it was too late for that. I guessed I’d find out more on my own. When I got to the last step, I could see that the front door was open. I walked over slowly and stood next to Mom.
“Are you sick?”
Those were the first words Claire said to me. She was standing in the open doorway looking in. A man, probably her dad, was hanging back. He was younger than Dad, but more tired and kind of grungy looking. He reminded me of the people on those TV shows who go off into the wilderness with only a tent and the clothes on their back. I glanced at Claire—no, she didn’t look like she’d been camping. He saw me staring and nodded. I looked down, embarrassed.
“Do you think you might be sick?” asked Claire.
I looked up, forced a smile, and shook my head. Why was she asking that? Maybe I had toothpaste on my mouth. I wiped it and checked my hand. No, it was clean.
“There was a girl in my school who was sick, and she had to wear sweaters and scarves all the time,” said Claire. “We had to be nice to her. It was a rule.”
Mom leaned toward me. “Are you feeling okay?”
Now everyone was staring at me; suddenly I felt hot. Why was I wearing this outfit? It was the middle of summer.
“I’m fine.” I waved my hand in front of my face and pulled off my sweater. “I forgot it was summer.”
Mom still looked worried, but Claire seemed relieved. She smiled at me. “Oh, good, because when you have an illness, you mostly have to do quiet things, and I like moving around better.”
Mom frowned, looked down, and shook her head, like she was trying to jiggle the pieces around to make them fit. We all stood there uncomfortably for a few seconds.
“Ash, that’s Mr. Bardwell, and this is Claire.” She smiled and patted Claire’s shoulder.
Claire held out her hand and repeated her name. I nodded, and we shook hands. I looked over at her dad; he didn’t move from where he was standing, but he gave me a half wave. Suddenly Claire turned, ran back to her dad, and gave him a quick hug. A minute later she was standing next to me, her big panda bag by her side. Mom motioned for me to pick up the bag and take Claire inside. She closed the door behind us so she could talk to Claire’s dad in private.
“I couldn’t wait to get here,” said Claire. “I made a whole list of stuff we can do.” She pulled off her backpack. “Do you want to hear it?”
I shook my head. “Uh, maybe later.” I was still sleepy, and not a big fan of other people’s lists. Plus, this whole thing was too sudden. I wasn’t ready to be babysitting.
“Why did you come a day early?” I asked. “Was there some kind of emergency?”
Claire fiddled with her backpack. “Daddy has to work. He’s pretty busy.” She looked up and smiled, but I didn’t know her yet, so I couldn’t tell if it was a real smile or not.
Mom opened the door and came back in. I thought Claire’s dad might come in too, but she closed it behind her. I guess he was gone.
Mom tapped Claire on the arm. “How about some breakfast. Are you hungry?” She was using her superfriendly voice. The one she uses for pets.
“What are we having?” asked Claire. “I hope it’s pancakes.”
Mom smiled. “Perfect—let’s have pancakes!” I followed them to the kitchen.
I was thinking three things: I forgot that Mom had that voice, pancakes did sound good, and Claire dresses kind of stylish for a seven-year-old. I couldn’t remember the last time Mom made pancakes. We used to have them all the time, but now we didn’t. I don’t know why. I still liked them. It’s funny, endings are different from beginnings—beginnings are easier to remember.
“Do you want to help me crack the eggs?” asked Mom. For a second I thought she was talking to me, but she wasn’t; she was looking at Claire.
“I love cracking eggs,” said Claire. “My mom taught me.” She leaned over the sink to wash her hands. Mom helped her reach the soap. For half a second I could almost imagine it was me and Mom standing there. We used to do the exact same thing. Suddenly I had the feeling that Claire’s visit was going to be a big trip down memory lane. I watched Claire with the eggs—she could crack them with one hand. How did she do that? I was almost envious, but I caught myself.
“Wow, Claire, you’re good at that.” I stepped closer to see if there was any shell in the bowl. There wasn’t. “How did you learn that? Is your mom a chef or something?”
Mom gave me a look, but I couldn’t read it. I ignored her.
Claire threw the shells into the garbage. “My mom was good at making breakfasts,” she said.
“Do you always have big breakfasts?” I asked. I was happy with how things were going. It’s not always easy to talk to a seven-year-old, and I wanted her to like me. Especially since we were stuck together for three weeks. Claire cracked another egg.
“We used to have special breakfasts all the time, but now that my mom’s gone, we don’t anymore. Sometimes Daddy takes me out for an egg sandwich, but I like pancakes and other stuff better.”
It took a few seconds for me to understand what she was saying. That can happen when someone surprises you. I looked over at Mom for help. But she didn’t give me any—she was shaking her head. What did she mean? Slowly my brain put the pieces together.
Her mom gone + Mom shaking her head at me = OH, NO! Something happened to Claire’s mom. Did her mom die?
Suddenly I felt sick. I shot Mom an angry look. Why hadn’t she told me?! What was I supposed to say? I wasn’t ready for this. Mom leaned over and gave Claire’s shoulder a squeeze.
“We’re so excited that you’re here having pancakes with us,” she said. “It’s an extra-special treat, right, Ash?”
Mom was patting Claire’s shoulder but looking at me. I had to say something.
“I CAN’T WAIT FOR PANCAKES! PANCAKES ARE GREAT! I LOVE PANCAKES!”
It was too much enthusiasm, but I couldn’t help it. I was relieved. And then I was sweating—burning up—crazy hot. Who wears sweat pants on a summer day?
“I’ll be right back.” I pointed to my legs. “I need to put on some shorts.”
Mom mumbled something, but she had her head in the cupboard looking for syrup, so I couldn’t hear it. I gave Claire a wave and ran upstairs to change.
The second I stepped into my room, I gulped for air. I hadn’t noticed it, but I’d been holding my breath all the way up the stairs. I flopped onto my bed and stared up at the ceiling. I just wanted to lie there quietly, resting, thinking of nothing, but that didn’t happen. Within seconds, thoughts were spinning in my brain:
Claire must be so sad.
Could I help her?
How did her mom die?
How would I feel if Mom died?
Suddenly there were too many thoughts. It was uncomfortable and confusing. I forced myself off the bed and got changed.
There is a song I know with the words “You came into my heart with candy-coated sweetness.” I don’t like the song that much, but for some reason it was stuck in my head. Maybe that’s why it happened—why I made the promise. I stopped in the middle of the stairs on my way down to the kitchen. I put my hand on my heart, and in a whisper I said, “I promise to be sweet to Claire, for as long as she is here.” I’d never made a promise like that before—hand on heart, out loud for the universe to hear; it felt important.
There’s a difference between the promises you say in your head and the promises you say out loud. The out-loud ones are harder to break.