ALLI

How many ways can you spell S-T-U-P-I-D? And still get it wrong?

Why, why, why, why, why had I asked for an allowance? All it did was get Mr. Porter riled up. He was supposed to do grocery shopping this morning because we were out of cereal and orange juice and bread. But he was already out on a golf date when I came downstairs. I licked my peanut butter jar clean and then there was nothing.

Hunger gnawed at my stomach and I’d get nothing at home. Miss Porter was out working, as usual. And as soon as Mr. Porter left for golf, I left, too. Eliot had better come through for me.

But no one was home. No one.

Pumpkins and pots of fall flowers—yellow, bronze and burgundy – sat on the front porch. Why had Mrs. Winston dolled up the place? She had done nothing earlier that fall and nothing for Halloween. Why now?

I sat on the front porch and leaned, wrapping one arm around the column and one around my tight stomach. And waited.

Finally, thirty minutes later, Mrs. Winston and Eliot arrived home. I walked around to the garage to talk to Eliot. His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed—Eliot was mad about something. He glanced at me and stormed toward the back yard.

I didn’t care. I grabbed his arm and made him stop.

“What?” Now he was mad at me.

Looking back to Mrs. Winston, who was watching us, I whispered. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you want?”

My stomach answered with a loud rumble.

Eliot did a tight shake of his head. “Not now.”

“Eliot, I’m hungry.”

He looked away, toward the back yard.

“Mr. Porter left me with nothing to eat. I’ve had nothing at all today.” Well, he didn’t have to know about the spoonful of peanut butter; that was barely anything. “You promised.”

Eliot’s shoulders sagged, and he said. “Okay. Come on in.”