Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [39]
I glanced over my shoulder, then back at Wally. “Mom says – ”
“Yeah, I heard.” He closed On the Road and laid it on the bed.
“Well?” I asked.
Tucking his hands under his head, he stared up at the ceiling. “Where I’m going a person doesn’t need school.”
“Where are you going?”
“Like I said, Roz, that’s none of your business.”
Mom’s voice came up the stairs again, “Wallace Franklin Sanderson! Don’t make me come up there and get you!”
Wally sighed heavily, rolled off the bed, and pushed past me on his way to the bathroom. I stared after him, wondering if he’d be different somehow if Frank Sanderson hadn’t been gunned down in Korea. But then, if Frank Sanderson hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be here and neither would Valerie. I didn’t care to think about which of us Mom and Wally would rather have around. I was afraid of the answer.
Mara was waiting for me in front of the school, where the buses unloaded. She looked schoolgirl fresh in a white blouse and plaid skirt, a pair of Buster Browns on her feet. She wore a light brown cardigan against the morning chill, a color that matched exactly the creamy brown of her skin. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight braid and held with clips. I thought she looked pretty and almost said so, until I remembered Saturday.
She strode up to me quickly, clutching her books in her arms. “You’re finally back, Roz,” she said. “You feeling better?”
“I’m all right.” I diverted my eyes and kept on walking.
“Listen, about Saturday . . .” Her voice trailed off as she rushed to keep pace with me.
“What about it?” I had to speak loudly over the chatter of dozens of kids moving up the walkway toward the school.
“I wanted to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Listen, Roz, I know you think I lied. About my daddy, I mean.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. It matters. Won’t you hold up just a minute so I can talk to you?”
We were inside the front hall now, where she would turn one way and I would turn another.
“We’ll be late for homeroom,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “So you just want to be mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Yes you are.”
“Your daddy is a mechanic who writes books on the side.” I shrugged. “I get it.”
We stood there a moment, an island in the stream of restless kids. Her face registered hurt, but I couldn’t bring myself to back down.
She exhaled slowly, loosening her grip on her books. She fingered the locket she always wore around her neck, as though rubbing it gave her comfort. “Never mind, Roz,” she said quietly. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter.”
She turned and headed down the hall. I almost called after her, but even as I opened my mouth the morning bell rang. I rushed to class, my penny loafers adding to the tap-tap-tapping of a hundred footfalls against the polished floor. When I told Mara I wasn’t mad at her, I had spoken the truth. I was mad, but not at her. At Wally, yes. At Daddy, yes. At the world. At life itself. But not at Mara. Why, then, had I treated her like that?
When I reached my homeroom, Miss Fremont greeted me kindly, her eyes shining behind her white cat-eye glasses. “Good morning, Roz. Welcome back. Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m fine now.”
A smile from Miss Fremont was a rare thing, but this morning she was all smiles. “I’m glad to hear that, Roz. I’m sure your whole family is glad you’re feeling better too.”
“Um, yeah. I guess so.” The room had quieted, and I had a feeling all the other kids were curious about our teacher’s sudden interest in my health. There’d been plenty of sick kids before me, but none of them had been welcomed back. It made me uncomfortable.
“Well,” Miss Fremont said, “go ahead and hang up your sweater, then take your seat.” She nodded at my desk and smiled again – strangely, I thought, as though she and I shared a secret.
I did as I was told, and as I moved about my tasks, my thoughts returned to Mara. Sliding into my seat, I promised myself I would somehow make things right. I would think of a way to apologize to her at recess.