The Hole in the Wall - Lisa Rowe Fraustino [13]
My teachers always act surprised when I do bad in English. They think I’m supposed to be some kind of verbal genius from the way I talk and draw stories and use my imagination. And apparently I actually scored high on some test once. Which I don’t remember taking. Back in first grade the teacher told Ma that I was “gifted and talented,” just like Barbie. Ma told Pa, and he said, “Don’t let that genius malarkey go to your head, son. If you can use your hands you’ll be better off.” I believed him then, my wonderful Pa who could build a castle in the yard. But now that things had changed, I wondered if maybe he was wrong. Maybe I ought to put my mind to learning why is is a verb even though it’s so lazy.
I thought about all that on the Rust Bus ride home. While ducking Rico’s rattle and digging little shreds of yellow foam out of the ripped seat. Barbie didn’t want to talk; she was busy doing her math. I didn’t have a pencil, but I wouldn’t have done any schoolwork anyway. It was Friday afternoon for crying out loud. I would rather spend the time talking to Cluster, but she’d stayed home from school.
“Maybe the baby is sick with something contagious, and Cluster came down with it too,” Barbie had suggested that morning after Miss Rosalie gave up waiting for her to float out of the woods. We waited a long time because it was unthinkable that Cluster would miss school. She hated weekends and vacations—they kept her off the Internet.
Too bad Cluster was indisposed healthwise that day. I wanted to find out the results of the tests Odum’s goons did on the Zenwater.
Normally when I kicked my way in the front door of our house and the musty smell hit me in the face, it felt like I’d just lost a fight. But that day an unbelievable sweet smell greeted us when Barbie and I got off the Rust Bus. It smelled so beautiful I could hardly stand it, like being stuck behind the Perfume Lady in church. Every time she sits in front of us it makes the sermon seem twice as long. Grum says she must be hiding something.
Friday was Ma’s early day home from the dress factory. She looked up from the bills spread out on the table and said something about my clothes. I don’t know what, because I was intent on looking around for the smell so beautiful it could drown out Odum’s M&M’s and Ma’s cigarette smoke.
Barbie leaned over to look in the oven window. “Ooo! Cookies! What kind are they? They look like swirling rainbows.”
“Homemade cookies!” Usually we got the expired store brand cookies on clearance sale. “I love you, Ma!” I was overcome with feeling. Homemade cookies could mean only one thing—dough in the refrigerator! I loved raw cookie dough almost as much as art rocks. I pushed past Barbie to get at it. A big blob of dough went straight in my mouth and another fingerload was on its way when Barbie shut the door on my arm.
“Sebby!” said Ma, Grum, and Barbie in unison. “No eating dough.”
“I know, I know, raw eggs can kill me,” I said, chewing. Man, that dough tasted like heaven.
“I don’t care about that, but your dirty hands will kill us,” said Barbie.
“Seb, go wash up, please, and put on those pants of Jed’s I took in for you,” Ma said. “You and Barbie are going to bike into town and deliver eggs to Boots Odum, and you need to look presentable. Can you believe that man? All these years he’s never bought a single egg from us, and now all of a sudden he wants dozens, two days in a row. And delivered by the kids! What does he think we are, Domino’s Pizza? I told him delivery’s five dollars a dozen, five! And he didn’t even hesitate!”
From the living room couch came the sound of a throat clearing. I looked Pa’s way and saw the keep-your-big-mouth-shut look in his eyes. No wonder Ma seemed surprised that Odum thought her eggs were worth so much. Pa must have pocketed Odum’s tip yesterday without telling her!
“Do I have to go? Can