Chapter 16

I was in a terrible mood for days. I wasn’t nice to anybody, not even Mia—maybe, especially Mia. Wednesday, we went over to the mall after school and we couldn’t agree on anything. No, the truth is, I couldn’t agree on anything. This is the way the whole afternoon went.

Mia: “Did you see those new shoes in Edward’s? They’re adorable. Let’s go in and try them on.”

Ami: “Bo-ring!”

Mia: “Oh. Okay, want to check out the makeup at Flah’s?”

Ami: “Blaaaagh.”

Mia: “Mmmm. Let’s see if the vitamin store is giving away anything good.”

Ami: “Sssss!”

Mia: “We could get some cheese samples at Hickory Farm.”

Ami: “Ssssssss!”

Mia: “Is there something on your mind?”

Ami: “Huh?”

Mia: “What do you want to do?”

Ami: “Noth-ing!”

Mia: “Want an ice cream cone?”

Ami: “Don’t care.”

Mia: “I suppose that means yes. I’ll buy. Basic chocolate and vanilla today? Or do you want something exotic?”

Ami: “Whatever.”

Mia got the cones and we sat down on the railing by the fountain. The grumpier I was to Mia, the grumpier I felt. We always trade cones halfway, but instead of taking her ice cream and giving her mine as usual, I scarfed mine down. It was just a mean thing to do. Mia looked at me and slowly finished her ice cream.

After that, we went into a bookstore to read. We started reading books together in the bookstore a long time ago. We were ten years old and nobody would let us have a copy of a best-selling book called Her Flaming Wicked Ways, so we read it in the store, little by little. And we’ve gone on doing that.

Mia took the book we were reading now (Beach Towels), and we sat down behind a table full of marked-down books. But even before she could open to our page, I said, “This is dumb.”

“What’s dumb?” Mia said. “The book?”

“No! The book is good, but we should buy it if we want to read it. We’re not still ten years old. At least, I know I’m not.”

“Ami,” Mia said, “are you mad at me or something?”

“Or something,” I said, in a very sarcastic way. I didn’t know I was going to say it like that.

Mia got up and put the book back on the shelf. Then she came back to me and said very, very quietly, in a voice just like her father’s, “I’ll tell you something, Ami. I’m not talking to you again, until you get out of your negative mood.”

“That suits me fine,” I said.

And Mia said in that same quiet, quiet voice, “If you don’t get out of that negative mood, I might never talk to you again.”

“Excellent,” I said, even more sarcastic than before.

So then we left. We rode the bus to Mia’s stop without saying a word to each other. When Mia got off, I pretended to be looking out the window.

The next day in school, we still weren’t talking. After school, I went down to the gym to practice an exercise I read about in the newspaper. You get up on a box or a chair, jump down into a crouch, and then immediately jump into the air. That’s all, but it’s supposed to improve your reflexes, especially for basketball jump shots. I did that for a while, then I hung around shooting baskets with Bunny Larrabee, until the custodian told us to leave.

At home, there were two notes on the bulletin board, a long one from Dad and a short one from Fred. Dad’s note said, Kids, I’m eating supper with Forrest. Then all about what we should eat and how it was my turn to do the dishes, et cetera, et cetera. At the bottom, he wrote, See you later. Dad.

Fred’s note said, Out with Bill. Back early. Fred.

“Thanks a lot, everybody,” I said. First the fight with Mia, now nobody home. I opened a box of coconut spirals and started eating. I ate them all, with a quart of milk. I felt sort of sick after that, so I drank the rest of a can of peach nectar and ate a couple of apples. Then I felt sicker, and I still had to feed Alcott his slimy, smelly, raw liver.

I threw the meat down on a piece of newspaper. “Why don’t you become a vegetarian like Bill?” I yelled. Poor Alcott. He sort of slunk over to his meat and just licked it for a moment, looking up at me to see if I was going to yell again.

I refused to even look at the dishes. Maybe I’d wash them later. And maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d just leave a note. Fred and Dad, I’m not washing any more dishes. We need a dishwasher. And I don’t mean me.

Unccy and I walked around for a while. I clattered down the stairs and up again. I can’t do that when Dad is home, because he’s always correcting papers or making up tests, and he says loud noises destroy his concentration. “Tooo baaad for you, Daaaad.” Clatter. Clatter. Clatter. Then I went into my parents’ room and walked across their bed with my shoes on. It was like being mean to Mia. It made me feel better, in a kind of awful way.

“Sweetheart, you’re in such a bad mood,” Unccy Bernard said. “Tssst. Poor Ami. Some days, it seems like everything goes wrong. They all just go off and leave you … and your best friend doesn’t want to speak to you. Tsssst!”

We went downstairs into the kitchen. “And they always expect me to do the dishes.” I wiped my eyes on his fur.

“Dishes! Tishes! Fishes! Who cares about the dishes!” Unccy put his paws to his forehead. “My little sweetheart, you tell Daddy everybody has to wash their own dishes.”

“Okay, Unccy.” My voice wobbled.

“You need me to take care of you. Next time you visit Momma, you take me with you. You won’t even notice I’m there. I’ll sleep with you and Momma. Or maybe I’ll sleep in the sink.”

“I wouldn’t let you sleep in the sink.”

“Well, my little sweetheart, a sink can be very comfortable if you’re the right size. Put in a little pillow and you’ve got a bed.”

Just then the phone rang. I was sure it was Mia to make up. “Hello! Mia?” I said.

“Ami?”

“Mom?”

“It’s your mom.”

“I know.”

“You sounded a little unsure.” She laughed.

“I knew who you were.”

“Well … how are you?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay? Or good? Or really good?”

“Okay.”

“Ah. Just okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve been thinking about you all week.”

I sat down on the cupboard and clipped the phone against my shoulder. “You have?”

“I always think about you.”

“You do?”

“I think about you a lot.”

I don’t know why, but I started crying. And then Mom started crying, too.

“Oh, oh, we have to stop this,” Mom said, in a really weepy voice. “Ami? Are you still there? What I really called about—we didn’t part too happily on the weekend, did we?”

“I guess not.”

“I hope you didn’t let it get to you.”

I said, “No,” but my voice went all funny.

“Oh, honey! That’s what I was afraid of. I think we had a bad misunderstanding. I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have let you get on the bus until we talked it out.”

“That’s the only bus I could take.”

Mom sniffled. “My practical little duckling. I could have driven you home.”

“Then you would have been tired the next day.”

“Who cares? I don’t want us to be unhappy with each other.”

“I hate fights.”

“I know, sweetie, but listen, people fight all the time. The thing is, if you, underneath, love each other, then it’s okay, you make it up and go on from there.”

“I guess so.”

“You know I love you, don’t you, honey?”

“I guess so.”

“No! No guessing. That is a fact of life. That is something that will never change.”

“You loved Daddy, too. Did you think that would never change?”

“Oh.” She went silent. Then she said, “Yes. I did think we would love each other forever. But that doesn’t make me wrong about you. The love I have for you is entirely different.”

“Why? What if it isn’t?”

“Oh, but it is, Ami. The way I love you—nothing in the world can shake that.”

“Nothing? What if you decided you didn’t like me?”

Mom laughed. “Why shouldn’t I like you?”

“You don’t have to like me just because I’m your kid. I’m not always a very nice person.”

“Oh, come on, you are.”

“No, I’m not. I can be mean and sarcastic. I can be really nasty, I’m not kidding.”

She was quiet for a moment, then she said, “Well. Even if you are a mean person—which I don’t think for a minute—even so, I still love you and I always will. A lot of things change, but not that.”

“Why does anything have to change?”

“That’s like asking why do leaves fall.”

“It’s sad.”

“Sweetie, life is sometimes sad.… I love you a whole lot, Ami.”

“I love you, too, Mom,” I said.

Then we hung up.