Mom only puts high heels on twice a year, apart from when she takes me to the doctor. She wears them on her and Dad’s wedding anniversary, which they usually celebrate at home with a special meal that she cooks, and on New Year’s Eve, which is today.
I hear her tip-tapping around the kitchen, laying out glasses and the snacks she has just made with Dad. They gave me a sparkling apple cider, then sent me to my room to get changed. Mom has left me out two sparkly hair ribbons and some of her perfume—it’s too strong for me, but I like it because it’s hers.
Standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom, trying to bury the sparkly ribbons in my hair, I realize that Mom and Dad are talking about something they don’t want me to hear—they’ve lowered their voices and are whispering to each other. I want to eavesdrop, although I know I’m not supposed to. I tiptoe silently over to the door. Mom’s heels are still tapping around the kitchen. I listen hard to pick up what she’s saying and understand why she’s speaking so quietly.
“It’ll be difficult at first.”
A chair scrapes on the floor. Dad must have stood up. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. We have no choice.”
“Can’t you just take leave?”
“Why bother? Things are only going to get worse. I’ll have to be with her all day.”
That will be me.
I hear them sigh, standing still. There can’t be any more dishes to sort.
“Have you spoken to your boss yet?”
“I mentioned it. He says he can’t change my hours because I already have permission to be absent for Mafalda’s appointments. He suggested I hand in my notice and he’ll give me a decent payoff.”
Her notice? What does that mean?
“Let’s hope so. When would you stop?”
“Okay. Maybe it’s for the best. I’ll take extra hours at work. We also need to start thinking about the house.”
I don’t understand. My head fills up with worrying thoughts, like the white butterflies that flutter around the cherry tree.
“The agency has given me some contacts. On Monday we start viewing apartments beside the school.”
“Did you explain we can’t have stairs?”
“Yes. And that we have a limited budget.”
A sneeze squeezes out—I can’t stop it in time—and everything goes quiet in the kitchen. The whole house falls quiet for a second.
“Mafalda, are you ready?”
I go into the hallway. “Yes, Mom.”
“Let’s go, then.”
* * *
It’s a quarter to one in the morning, and I’m sleeping in my aunt and uncle’s bed while the grown-ups drink from tiny glasses and speak in hushed tones in the living room.
I’m not actually asleep. I keep thinking about the conversation I overheard earlier. If they’re seriously thinking about moving to a new house, what happens to me? What will I do if we get a house where I can’t see the moon from my bedroom window? And I wouldn’t be able to see Grandma’s house anymore, even though the new neighbors who never say hello live there now. And what about Ottimo Turcaret? What if he doesn’t like the new house? He’s used to this one, and I don’t know if he’ll want to move somewhere else.
I have to do something. My backpack with my clothes for tomorrow is sitting by the bed. It’s also got my pencil case, some paper to draw on, and the iPod Mom gave me for Christmas. I feel around for the iPod in the dark, put my earphones in, and press the round play button. I’m listening to Dad’s favorite book. The story resumes in the powerful voice of a man who sounds old.
“Where are you going?”
Through the glass door we saw him in the hall, picking up his three-cornered hat and his small sword.
“I know!” He ran into the garden.
Shortly afterward, through the windows, we saw him climbing up the holm oak.
I press stop and sit up with a jolt. I know what to do. I’ll go and live in a tree, like Cosimo. If I move to the school cherry tree, I can watch lessons through the window and no one will see me hidden in the branches.
I need to get organized because I’ll be in the dark soon and I won’t be able to go up and down the tree with all the things I need. I should make a plan. I get a sheet of paper and my pencil out of my backpack and start playing the old man’s voice again.
He was dressed and coiffed with great propriety, as our father wanted him to come to the table, thougwh he was only twelve: hair powdered and ponytail tied with a ribbon . . .
I make a note on my list to look up what “powdered” means, but at least I have a ribbon. So, what’s next?
