CHAPTER 8
On Sunday, in the middle of page ninety-two of my new book, the doorbell rings unexpectedly.
It makes me jump. Dad too. We’re both sitting on the sofa. He gives me a quick reassuring smile. Mom goes to answer the door.
“Hi, Sue!” she says, greeting Deb’s mom.
“Do you have two eggs we can borrow?” Sue asks. “We’re making muffins, and we’re out.”
“Of course!” Mom leads Sue into the kitchen, the two of them chattering.
Dad folds the newspaper on his lap and closes his eyes. I can tell he’s waiting for their conversation to end, because there is no concentrating on anything until it’s over.
I flip a few pages in my book. I can’t read either, so I might as well listen. It’s impossible not to listen, anyway.
“I heard Amelia’s in flute class now! How great.” Deb’s mom sounds like a TV announcer, cheerful even when they don’t want to be.
“Yes,” Mom says. “We think it’s a better fit than choir.”
“Deb just loves it. She is such a natural!”
Guilt rushes through me. I haven’t told Mom and Dad that I want to quit flute, and now Sue and Mom are talking about music class.
The two return from the kitchen and stand in the living room. Mom hands her a plastic container with two eggs snug inside so they don’t break. “Maybe Deb and Amelia can practice together,” Mom says.
“I heard they already did, after school last week.” Deb’s mom glances in my direction. I look down quickly at my page again. The words float meaninglessly.
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” I can sense that Mom is looking at me too. “Amelia didn’t mention it.”
I keep pretending that I’m reading. Deb and I will not practice together again, but I can’t say that without admitting my plan to quit the flute. I wish Mom and Sue would hurry up and finish talking so I can go back to my book.
“I better get back to muffin-making. Before you know it, we’ll be carving pumpkins,” Sue says. “Deb is going as a princess.”
“That’s nice,” Mom murmurs. “We haven’t talked about costumes yet.”
The thought of Halloween makes me sink deeper into the sofa. I glance at Dad, who now has his eyes open and is taking deep breaths. He winks and inhales, lifting his hands and dropping them on the exhale. I know he wants me to breathe too. But I don’t feel like breathing or counting.
At last, the door closes. Dad breathes out one last time, hugely, and drops his hands dramatically, which makes me giggle.
Mom looks at the two of us. “What?” she says. “Can’t I have a friend come over to chat?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Dad says mildly.
“You could try to be more friendly,” she says, “instead of sitting there, making a show of breathing. Both of you.”
“It’s hard to read when people are talking,” I say. I don’t know why she is impatient with us today. We just like quiet more than she does. Is that so hard to understand?
“I needed a break anyway,” Dad says. He holds the newspaper up and begins to read again.
Mom heads into the kitchen, muttering, “Most people don’t think social visits are interruptions. Most moms don’t hear news about their child from someone else.”
Dad pats my arm, as if I shouldn’t worry about Mom’s mood. “Any costume ideas?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” Last year, my dinosaur tail was trampled by the crowds. And without noise-canceling headphones this year, all the shouting and door-belling will be loud. “Maybe I’m too old for trick-or-treating.”
“Better go now before you’re a teenager,” Dad teases. “I’ll help.”
I’m not fooled. He always likes an art project. I think some more. The best thing about turning ten has been getting my CharlieCard, and I love the story of Charlie on the T. I say, “What about as a CharlieCard?”
“Yes! I could buy two large poster boards for us to paint.” Dad is excited.
I like the idea too. I’ll be an original.
Dinner is soup, and we’re so busy slurping and dipping bread that it takes me a while before I notice that Mom is not talking tonight, even when Dad brings up my costume idea. I’m quiet too, thinking about school tomorrow and how I’m going to quit flute.
“I’ll let you two tackle the kitchen tonight.” Dad excuses himself to go fold the laundry.
Mom begins putting away leftovers. Earmuffs on, I start washing the dishes. They help me concentrate on my thoughts, which are running like water from the faucet.
“It’s great you are in flute class with Deb,” Mom says, suddenly talkative. “Why didn’t you mention that you two are practicing together?”
I wipe away soup on the inside of the pot. “Only once. And Deb is friends with Kiki now.”
“Deb can have more than one friend,” she says.
“Just because we live in the same building doesn’t make us instant friends.” Mom is forgetting that Deb and I have only been sort of friends since third grade.
“You can try, Amelia.” She hands me the serving bowl to wash. “And it would be nice to hear about it from you instead of from Deb’s mom.”
Warm water runs over my soapy hands, and I concentrate on cleaning as if that were the most important thing. The truth is, it’s impossible to explain why I didn’t tell her about practicing with Deb. Mom would first have to understand about Deb-and-Kiki and shrieking flutes and lunch tables.
“Why don’t you invite Deb over this week to practice again,” Mom says. “And don’t wear those earmuffs so much.”
I don’t answer. I am thinking about cold cheese sandwiches and banana chipmunk cheeks. What if pretending to like an instrument is as bad as pretending to like someone?
Mom stands too close. “Amelia, did you hear me?”
I shift away, placing the last pot into the drying rack.
“Amelia, take off your earmuffs when I am talking to you!” Mom yells right next to my head.
“Stop!” I shout. My wet hands press on my earmuffs.
“What’s going on?” Dad appears in the kitchen.
“Mom is bugging me,” I say. “And now my fluff is wet.”
Mom turns on Dad. “I can’t believe you gave Amelia those earmuffs!”
“They’re temporary,” Dad says in a low voice, but I hear the frustration behind his words.
“Now Amelia has a new fixation,” Mom fires back. “Mr. Skerritt said—”
“I am quitting the flute,” I announce, desperate to distract them and put an end to their angry voices.
They stop speaking and stare at me.
“Now, Amelia—” Mom says.
“Amelia Mouse—” Dad says at the same time.
“I am not a squeaky mouse! And I’m not friends with Deb!” I shake water off, run to my room. I close my door hard. Without slamming.