A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [83]
“Forty-six pencils,” she told him, “all colors. And a sharpener.”
He said, “Anybody ever make any money from drawing?”
“Some do,” she told him, and had to admit, honestly, “most don’t.”
He turned back to the wheelbarrow. “Then what’s the point?”
She shrugged and put the pencil box and sketch pad on her chair. “Suit yourself. I’ll get your money.”
But when she returned, he was raking the flower beds, and the pencil box and sketch pad—including her drawing of the deer—were gone.
“Mommmm . . .”
Cici could practically see Lori’s long distance eye roll. She closed her own eyes and drew in a silent calming breath in response.
“You really just don’t get how different college is today,” Lori went on. “I mean, it’s not like you only get one chance at it. So I bombed out on a few courses. I’ll take better ones next semester.”
Cici’s hand tightened around the paper in her hand. “Lori, this letter is from the Dean of Students, who is very concerned about how seriously you’re taking your academic obligations. I’m not sure how many more semesters there will be for you.”
“Oh, that,” Lori replied airily. “They send those out to everybody. It’s a form letter.”
Cici’s voice was tight. “I assume your father got one of these form letters, too?”
“I guess.”
“And what did he have to say about it?”
“Oh, you know Dad. He’s cool.”
“Lori, you can’t just—”
“Anyway, Mom, it’s really no big deal, because I switched my major and none of those stupid courses matter anyway.”
Cici blinked. “Switched your major? To what?” “Anthropology.”
“You switched from business to anthropology?” She tried not to sound incredulous. “How do you even do that?”
“I’m going to Italy in the spring,” she went on excitedly, “for six months! Jeff says I might even be able to go on a dig, if he can work it out with the archaeology prof who’s—”
“Jeff ? Who’s Jeff?”
“The Culture of Man,” she responded happily. “That’s the name of his book. Also the name of the course.”
“That he’s teaching in Italy,” Cici supplied, keeping her tone very carefully even. “In the spring.”
“Right.”
Cici started to say something, changed her mind, took another tack, changed her mind. Finally all she could say was, “We’ll talk about this at Christmas, okay? In the meantime—”
“Oh,” said Lori. “About Christmas . . .”
“You are coming home?” Now it was almost impossible to keep the distress out of her voice.
“It’s not that I don’t want to see you,” Lori said, and, to her credit, she sounded as though she meant it. “And your house, and Aunt Bridge and Aunt Lindsay, and I know we’ve always had Christmas together and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but that’s just it, you see? We always have Christmas together, and Dad was—well, he was counting on me spending this Christmas with him.”
Cici said, “You spend every weekend with him. You can have lunch with him whenever you want. I see you twice a year!”
“Now, Mom, you know that’s not true. Besides, he’s gone to so much trouble, arranging the trip to Aspen—”
“Aspen?”
“At Christmas. He’s got this great condo there, and he’s going to teach me how to ski, and we’ve got invitations to all the A-list parties. Say!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I’ve got it! Why don’t you come, too? No kidding, Mom, this condo is huge, and there’s plenty of room. That way I’d get to spend the holidays with both of you!”
And not miss a single A-list party, Cici thought, but didn’t say. She couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of her voice, however, as she replied, “I’m sure your dad would love that. Isn’t he bringing his girlfriend?”
Lori hesitated. “Oh,” she said, slightly subdued. “I guess that wouldn’t work.”
“No, I guess it wouldn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I really will miss you. But you understand, don’t you? If he hadn’t gone to so much trouble . . .”
Cici swallowed hard. “Yeah, sweetie. I understand.”
“And don’t be mad at me about school, okay? I promise to buckle down next semester.”
“I love you, baby.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
Cici punched out another set of numbers while she pushed