Mom is vacuuming the window blinds when I get home later that afternoon. She stops when she sees me. “Halle’s mom called to tell me where you were,” she says, trying to catch my eye. “She didn’t want me to worry.”

I shrug and head for my room. The silent treatment is the least she deserves.

There’s a letter waiting for me on my desk. I recognize the handwriting right away. It’s from Mom.

Dear Kit-Kat,

I can’t apologize enough for my disgraceful behavior this morning. I was upset and took it out on you. I am so, so sorry.

I know you’re not ready to forgive me, but maybe after you’ve had time to think things over, you could consider accepting my apology? Again, I am so sorry for how I acted and for taking your belongings. It will never happen again.

Love,

Mom

P.S. Your rug is at the dry cleaner’s. I promise to return it.

Mom is right about one thing. I don’t feel like accepting her apology. Not now, and maybe not ever. Thank goodness I left my Snapple caps with Halle. At least I know they’re safe.

I get out my laptop and see two emails in my inbox. One is from Jane, reminding us to bring in our Harriet questions on Monday. The other is from Olympia. I’m surprised she wrote back on a Sunday, when teachers have better things to do with their time.

TO: Kat.Greene@VillageHumanity.org

SUBJECT: Re: Coming clean

DATE: October 8 12:07:16 PM EDT

From: Olympia.Rabinowitz@VillageHumanity.org

Dear Kat,

Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings about your mom’s problem. I’m sorry to hear that she tried to throw out your things. This couldn’t have been easy for you.

I don’t mean to push, but again, if you ever want to come by for a chat, my door is always open.

All my best,

Olympia

“Kat?” Mom is standing at my door with a takeout menu. “I was thinking of ordering sushi for lunch. Is that okay?”

Ordering takeout—i.e., accepting food from strangers with potentially unwashed hands—is Mom’s way of saying sorry. I’m not in a forgiving mood, but resisting my favorite food is not something I’m willing to do, no matter how mad I am. “Sushi’s great,” I say, snapping my laptop shut.

Mom inches closer. “What are you working on?”

I search my mental hard drive for a little white lie. If Mom sees Olympia’s email, I’m toast. “I’m doing, uh…research. For school.”

“Oh?” Mom adjusts the strap of her overalls. “What kind of research?”

“For um…the Harriet project. I want to be prepared.”

“Good strategy.” Mom goes over to my bed and starts smoothing down my comforter. When she looks up, her eyes are sad. “I need to tell you why I was so upset this morning.”

I’m listening…

“I’m dropping out of the show.”

“What?” This is not the confession I was expecting to hear. “What happened?”

Mom leans over to plump up my pillow. “Well, in exchange for the grand prize, the winning contestant is required to appear in national advertising campaigns and TV commercials. It says so in the contract—and there’s no getting out of it. I tried.”

“Why would you want to get out of it?” I ask. “Being in a commercial sounds like fun. It’s better than cleaning the house all day, that’s for sure.”

Mom frowns.

“That’s not what I meant.” I start again. “I mean, you shouldn’t quit because you’re scared. You and Dad tell me that all the time.”

“I know.” Mom brushes some lint off my comforter. “I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into. It’s a huge responsibility and I’m not ready to commit to so much.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Besides go into the kitchen to order our sushi?” Mom gets up from the bed. “I wish I knew.”

I wish I did too. The one thing that got her excited for the first time in ages is now a no-go.