Staying home isn’t so bad.
Timothy brings my schoolwork every night,
and Papa takes it back to school the next morning,
all done.
I haven’t talked to Stacey in three days,
ever since we got suspended.
I miss her, and I hope she misses me.
I hope she forgives me
for getting her in trouble.
Tonight, Timothy comes when I’m washing the dishes.
He says, “Miss Whittaker said you can make three balanced meals
at home—but no pizza or hot dogs. Then
you’ll be caught up, except for some quizzes
that you can take when you go back.”
Then he picks up the dishcloth and washes a plate.
“Did you know there’s a system for doing this?”
he says, and hands me the plate to rinse.
“No—how does it go?”
“You wash the glasses first,
then the silverware, then the plates.
You do all the pots last.”
“Did your uncle teach you that?” I ask.
“I heard Miss Whittaker tell your class.
It was like discovering a secret new world.”
“So that’s what I’m missing,” I say. “But
what if you have a dishwasher?”
“You mean, like . . . yours?”
We both look at the cinnamon-colored machine
that Mama never uses
and laugh.
“Mama likes to wash dishes by hand
so she can think.”
We finish the dishes without talking.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I put the dishpan under the sink
and hang the dishcloth on the cupboard door,
and then ask, “Do you think what Stacey and I did
was wrong?”
“Wrong? You’re kidding,
right? Mimi, it was the coolest thing
anyone ever did.
And brave.
What you did made me feel like I
can do anything.”
What he says makes me happy.
“I’m not sorry I did it,
but I am sorry that Stacey did.
It’s my fault she’s been suspended.
Her mom didn’t raise her like that.”
“Stacey’s smart
and she can make up her own mind.
But . . .”
Now Timothy’s thinking,
and I ask “What’s wrong?” with a little push.
“Nothing. I gotta go.”
And two seconds later
he’s gone.