“THEN PRINCESS MAYONNAISE POINTED HER MAGIC wand of power at the bad guys and turned them all into erasers. The end.”
Betsy somersaulted out of her beanbag chair and came over to the computer where Megan was typing. “Can you put ‘The End’ in those fat letters?”
Megan backspaced and pressed the BOLD key. “Okay. Anything else?”
Betsy pointed at the screen. “See where it says ‘erasers’?”
“Yup.”
“I need some room there so I can draw a picture, in case anyone thinks she changed those guys into shape erasers or neon erasers or sniff erasers. She didn’t. She just changed them into dirty old pink erasers. All the same.”
“Right,” said Megan. “Now we can save.” The computer started to zip and bleep.
Betsy hung over the back of Megan’s chair. “Did you like that story?”
“Yes, it’s good.”
“Did you like it better or worse than ‘Princess Mayonnaise and the Tooth Fairy’?”
Megan switched on the printer. “Um, I think I like it a bit better.”
“Did you like it better or worse than ‘Princess Mayonnaise and Her Magic Wings’?”
Megan sighed. Giving a compliment to Betsy was like throwing a stick for Bumper. Once was never enough, and you always got tired of it before they did. “A bit better. Hey, while this is printing, do you want some juice? I’ll go get it.”
“Sure.”
Megan stretched and went upstairs. As she crossed the hall to the kitchen she glanced through the open door into the living room. Mum and Dad were sitting on the couch, their backs to her. Mum’s head was bent over a piece of paper.
In the kitchen the dishwasher was draining, doing its swamp monster impersonation, glug, glug, swish. Megan opened the refrigerator and took out a box of juice. The dishwasher clunked to a stop and Dad’s voice fell into the silence, “Well, if you look at it that way, everything is a risk.”
Megan closed the refrigerator door quietly and grabbed two glasses from the cupboard. She stood at the living-room door and peeked in at Mum and Dad. Their heads were together now, outlined against the paper.
The printer stopped zipping and Megan went on down to the basement. Betsy was holding a long sheet of computer paper in the air. “Five pages! How many is that all together, Megan?”
“Thirty-eight plus five is forty-three.”
“Forty-three! That’s way better than Kevin Bindings. He’s only got twenty-seven. I’ve got the longest book in grade two. Is it really good, Megan?”
“It’s a great book, Betsy.”
“Is it as good as Mary Poppins?
There was only one possible answer. “Yes. Now, you tear off the edges and do the drawing. Don’t talk, okay? I’ve got homework.”
Megan turned off the computer and pulled out Betsy’s “Mayonnaise” disk. She opened the drawer and filed it away, beside all Dad’s stuff, disks marked “West Coast Foundation Proposal” and “Carswell Mining Annual Report.” Dad wrote things for businesses. Some days he put on a suit and went downtown to talk to people in offices. When he came home he usually pretended to hang himself with his tie, and then he would say, “Dynamic and innovative, dynamic and innovative, they all want to sound dynamic and innovative.” But most days he stayed home and worked on the computer, writing and making graphs and diagrams.
Megan closed the drawer and picked up her science notebook. Betsy lay on the floor and colored. She held the crayon tight in her fist and scrubbed at the paper. Megan stared at the bright splashes of color. Betsy didn’t care about staying inside the lines. Megan pulled her attention back to putting the causes of acid rain into her own words.
Half an hour later Betsy pulled on her sleeve. She made strangling noises through tight-shut lips.
“Okay, okay, you can talk. What is it?”
Betsy pointed to the clock and whispered, “Look! Quarter to nine. They’ve forgotten to send me to bed.”
“You’re right. Wonder why.” Megan listened carefully and heard the rise and fall of Mum talking upstairs. She realized that Mum and Dad had been talking all evening. It was like becoming aware of a clock ticking. Why wasn’t Mum studying? Since she had started college in January she spent most evenings reading and making notes at the kitchen table.
“Let’s just keep quiet,” said Betsy. “Maybe they won’t remember until midnight.”
The trouble was that after fifteen minutes of keeping quiet, they were both yawning, and midnight seemed a long time away. “Come on,” said Megan, pulling Betsy up out of the beanbag chair. “If we’re too late, Dad won’t read to us.”
They made their way upstairs and stood in the doorway of the living room. Mum and Dad were now at opposite ends of the couch, facing each other. Mum’s voice had crying in it, “But, Jim, what if it doesn’t work out? What if it’s a big mis —
Megan coughed. Mum stopped midword, as though her voice had been snipped with scissors.
“Um, we’re going to bed now.”
“What?” said Dad. “What time is it? Betsy! You’re still up? Come on. We’ll have to have a short chapter tonight.”
“There aren’t any short chapters in Sherlock Holmes,” said Betsy with satisfaction, “I looked.”
Megan leaned over the back of the couch and kissed Mum. “Good night.”
Mum blinked and hugged Megan around the neck too hard.
“Aagh, you’re strangling me.”
Later, as they were lying in bed listening to Dad read how Sherlock Holmes could tell all kinds of things about a man just by looking at his hat, the front door banged shut.
“What’s that?” said Megan.
“Mum must be taking Bumper for a walk,” said Dad.
“But she already took him for a walk after dinner.”
“Megan!” Betsy bounced up and down on the bed. “Be quiet. It’s getting to the part about the diamond.”
A few paragraphs later Betsy went from wide-awake to fast asleep, and Dad left Holmes parked in a pub. But Megan coasted along in half sleep for nearly an hour before the front door opened again and Bumper made his way upstairs. Three turns and a snuffle, and he settled down on the rug beside her bed. Everyone home.
The next morning Megan’s hair decided to be stupid. By the time she fixed it with mist and the hair dryer she was the last person down to breakfast.
When she walked into the kitchen Betsy was in the middle of a temper tantrum. Mum was standing at the sink washing the porridge pot, ignoring the scene. Dad was being reasonable.
“Betsy, you have to change. You just put your elbow in your porridge bowl. You won’t be able to wear your Brownie uniform today.”
“But I want to wear it.” Betsy’s face was bright red.
Megan reached into the cupboard for the cereal.
Dad tried adding a suggestion to being reasonable. “Look. We can wash your uniform this evening, and you can wear it tomorrow.”
“I want to wear it today.”
Where was the cereal? Megan tried the pantry cupboard.
Dad tried switching to humor. “Anyway, what would happen if you went to school with porridge on your elbow. People would want to come up and nibble it.”
Betsy gave a roar of rage and banged her mug on the table. Humor never worked with Betsy.
“Mum, where’s the cereal?”
Mum didn’t answer.
“Mum.”
Mum turned around and blinked. “What?”
“Where’s the cereal?”
“The what?”
What was going on? Did Mum have an exam today or something? Megan spoke slowly and clearly. “The ce-re-al. Cornflakes. In a box.”
Betsy was now down on the kitchen floor, sobbing and hiccuping.
“Oh,” said Mum, “isn’t it in the cupboard?”
“No! I looked there. Never mind. I’ll have toast.”
Megan put two pieces of toast into the toaster and went to the refrigerator for peanut butter.There was the box of cereal, wedged in between the milk and the juice.
“Hey! Who put the cereal in the refrigerator?”
Betsy jumped up and her tears stopped, like a tap being turned off. “Let’s see.”
“Oh,” said Mum. “I guess I put it there. Sorry.I’m not very with-it this morning.”
Dad walked over to the sink and kissed Mum on the neck. They stood there quietly for a few minutes, Dad’s blond hair touching Mum’s brown, Mum’s hands floating quietly in the dishwater. Something was definitely up.