Mason hurdled over the chain rope and ran up behind Pops. “What happened? Where was she going?”
I turned around to search for my guardian angel, the one who called me his sister.
He had disappeared.
Flavor of the Week: Freedom
“Okay, Chipmunk. Tell me what’s what.”
Thursdays were my favorite. On Thursdays, Dad picked me up from school and took me to Pops’ ice cream shop. Today, as usual, Pops held out three small spoons with blobs of ice cream on them. Perched on a stool at the counter, I took the pale blue sample first and slid the creamy spoonful into my mouth while Pops looked on.
Pops turned to Dad. “Root beer bubble gum. Don’t think that one’s a winner. I can tell from her eyes. Try another, Chipmunk.”
Pops could read my face about as well as Dad could. Why would anyone ever put those two flavors together?
I took the next spoon and let the frosty bite slide onto my tongue.
“Even worse than the last,” Pops said, wiping his forehead with a napkin. “So, chocolate avocado is a definite NO.”
He held out the last spoon. I bit and swallowed. This one had a nutty and cinnamon flavor, like Gram’s pumpkin pie.
Pops nodded.
“Whew, there it is—sweet potato-walnut. That’s gonna be our new flavor of the week. This girl can always pick ’em.”
At Pops’ ice cream shop, I felt like one of those celebrity chefs at a cooking competition. The unspoken rule was no one tells Mom they’re spoiling my dinner.
I looked up to see Aunt Kiki emerge from the back room. “Will that be a cup or a cone, sweetie?” She wore a lace blouse under her blue-striped apron. This was her new job while she adjusted to her new life.
“She’ll have a small shake,” Dad said. “Less chance of spilling any evidence on her shirt.” He winked at me.
Aunt Kiki struggled to scoop the ice cream, her gold bangle bracelets not making it easy. Then she fumbled getting the scoop into the shiny metal mixing cup. I watched the ice cream drop to the floor.
“Oops. There goes another one.” She shrugged and then so did I.
Shrug. Shrug. Shrug.
Pops raised both eyebrows and whispered to Dad and me, “Third time today.” Then he turned to Kiki. “You need some help, dear?”
Kiki smiled, “No, no. How will I learn if I don’t practice?”
After slurping down every drop of my shake, I rose from the counter and wandered into the back room.
“Can I help you get something, sweetie?” Aunt Kiki looked nervous, but I knew what to do. I picked up a big package of napkins and brought them to the counter next to Dad. While Dad and Pops chattered, I lined up the napkin dispensers on the counter, all ten of them in a row like an army of silver, rectangular robots. I stuffed just the right number of napkins in each one. Not so much that the napkins stuck out and made the robot too fat. The right amount. Then I put all the dispensers back on the tables where they went. The whole time, Aunt Kiki stared at me in amazement, like I was an Olympic ice dancer doing back flips and camel spins.
“What in the world? How did she learn to do that?” Kiki asked Pops.
Pops seemed surprised by the question. “I taught her how. She’s a smart cookie, you know.” He put his hand on one of my robots. “Filling napkin holders, that’s nothing. Last week, she helped me sort coins to take to the bank. She arranged them in piles faster than I could count.”
“But I thought . . . I thought . . .” Aunt Kiki’s eyebrows squished together so tightly that a line appeared on her forehead.
Pops put his hand on her shoulder. “Well, dear, you thought wrong.”
The bell on the door chimed, and Mom stumbled in with teary eyes, walking like she were in a dream. She rushed toward me and wrapped me in a tight hug, a mommy cocoon. “I’m so sorry!”
My sixth sense felt a surge of sorrow churning inside her.
Dad put an arm around her shoulder. “Gail, what’s wrong?” He led her to a stool.
Mom sat at the counter, and Aunt Kiki brought her a glass of water. Mom took a sip with shaky hands and swallowed hard. She looked at me. “I went to Borden after school today to talk to your teacher, Mr. Toll.”
Mr. Toll was officially my teacher, but he never spent much time in the classroom. He was always off doing “administrative duties,” which must be code for reading the paper and eating powdered donuts in the lounge, which is what I saw him doing every time I walked by.
I squeezed my fists tight, fearing the worst. Did he tell her I was a failure? List all the dumb “assessments” I could not pass? Did he describe my “uncooperative behavior”? I was 100 percent sure he did NOT tell Mom about Miss Marcia stealing my lunch money or locking me in the time-out closet or leaving me to sit outside on the blacktop for hours at a time. Anything Mr. Toll had to say about me would be diagnosis: disaster.
Pops’ sweet potato-walnut shake churned in my stomach.
“I didn’t have an appointment,” Mom continued.
She spoke like a person in shock, like someone who had just witnessed Bigfoot battling the Abominable Snowman in the middle of Main Street.
Did Mr. Toll say I was too special even for Borden? What could be worse than Borden? Maximum security prison?
My body shivered.
“I wanted to talk to Mr. Toll . . . ask about Charity’s behavior in school . . . tell him about her mood changes.”
My heartbeat doubled.
He LIED to you! They are hiding the TRUTH!
The ice cream shake flip-flopped in my stomach. I pressed my lips together and willed it to stay down.
“When I got to the school, no one was at the front desk, so I walked directly to the classroom.”
What? Did they stop you?
