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Saturday, September 6th
I didn’t get a chance to write anything yesterday because I stayed at Kylie’s house. It was pretty uneventful, like she had promised. Her parents were nice enough, but kind of boring. Her mother mostly just smiled and talked about how glad she was that Kylie had a new friend. Her father ate dinner in silence and then went to his bedroom. Kylie’s parents sleep in different rooms, which I find odd. Kylie says it’s because her father snores and has to inhale medicine all night. The medicine isn’t good for babies, so her mother sleeps in the room they plan to make into the nursery.
I asked Kylie if he was still upset about the baby. She just shrugged and said he never really talks to her. When I told her how much me and my dad talk, she couldn’t believe it. Anyway, after dinner we went to her room. Her mother had brought home some makeup they were experimenting with at the pharmacy. It’s supposed to clear up acne. I don’t really have too much of a problem with zits. I mean I get them now and then like anyone does, but Kylie has them pretty bad. So we made each other up and then we went to the Grill on the Hill for a milkshake. Some guy I’d never seen before kept looking over at us. I asked Kylie if she knew him and she said, “That’s Adam Tucker. He’s home schooled.” She leaned over across the table to whisper. “They say his parents used to be terrorists. And they might still be.”
I started to say I’d met Mr. Tucker and didn’t think he was too dangerous, but I didn’t want Kylie to drop me as a friend so I said nothing. But I did give Adam Tucker a smile when I left. He looked lonely and, truthfully, he’s kind of cute in skinny, impish way. Hopefully Dad will make good on his promise and introduce me. Or maybe I’ll get brave and introduce myself if I run into him when I’m not with Kylie.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Zucchini Fritters
September 4th, after dinner
Dad came home from work alone tonight, carrying a canvas bag. My mother raised her eyebrows and asked “What do you have there?”
“Vegetables,” my Dad said. “Homegrown and healthy.”
My mother took a zucchini from the bag and swiped her finger across it. “Dirty. Where did you get it?”
“I bought it.”
“You spent good money on filthy vegetables?” She took the bag from him and put it in the garbage can. “I don’t eat dirt.”
Dad took the vegetables and put them in the sink. “You wash them first, like anything you buy.” He turned on the water as high as it would go and spoke above its torrential din. “But this way, all you’re washing off is dirt instead of God only knows what the government treats them with.”
“It’s not hygienic,” she yelled. “I won’t eat them and neither will Amanda.”
“I’ll eat them,” I spoke up. I’m not usually too fond of vegetables, but I liked the idea of eating something a person had grown and wondered if maybe the vegetables would taste different.
“You don’t even like vegetables,” my mother scolded, her voice ending too loud because my father had turned off the water.
“I might like these.”
“Well I won’t cook them.”
“I’ll cook them.” Dad winked at me and pulled out the grater.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Something my Dad did. I’d almost forgotten.” He sliced the zucchini in big chunks and put it into the grater. Thin segments came out the other end. I watched as he mixed the segments with flour, egg, and water. He placed oil in a pan and came to sit across from me at the table. Mom busied herself making a fruit salad from store-bought fruit, flash frozen for freshness.
“I didn’t get a chance to come back last night,” he said. “Did the milk help?”
I nodded. “Did you buy the vegetables from Mr. Tucker?”
“Who else?” Dad asked. “I’m glad you’re willing to try them.”
“Can I talk to him again sometime?” I asked in a whisper.
“Sometime,” Dad said quietly. “He’s got a boy about your age, I think.”
“He has kids?” I asked.
“Six of them,” Dad said. “But I don’t want to let you mother know that just yet.”
I nodded.
“I’d better check the oil,” Dad said. He stood up and flicked a small bit of batter into the oil. I heard it sizzle. I watched as he dropped spoonfuls of zucchini-laced batter into the oil and brought out golden puffs. When they were finished, he put them on the table between Mom’s fruit salad and the roasted chicken she’d bought from the deli.
I lifted a golden fritter to my mouth and took a bite. I fanned my mouth with my hand and swallowed. “Good, but hot.”
“Your granddad’s zucchini fritters were better,” Dad said. “But give me a chance. By the time we grow our own zucchini next year, mine will be even better.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mother scowling.
Dad came home from work alone tonight, carrying a canvas bag. My mother raised her eyebrows and asked “What do you have there?”
“Vegetables,” my Dad said. “Homegrown and healthy.”
My mother took a zucchini from the bag and swiped her finger across it. “Dirty. Where did you get it?”
“I bought it.”
“You spent good money on filthy vegetables?” She took the bag from him and put it in the garbage can. “I don’t eat dirt.”
Dad took the vegetables and put them in the sink. “You wash them first, like anything you buy.” He turned on the water as high as it would go and spoke above its torrential din. “But this way, all you’re washing off is dirt instead of God only knows what the government treats them with.”
“It’s not hygienic,” she yelled. “I won’t eat them and neither will Amanda.”
“I’ll eat them,” I spoke up. I’m not usually too fond of vegetables, but I liked the idea of eating something a person had grown and wondered if maybe the vegetables would taste different.
“You don’t even like vegetables,” my mother scolded, her voice ending too loud because my father had turned off the water.
“I might like these.”
“Well I won’t cook them.”
“I’ll cook them.” Dad winked at me and pulled out the grater.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Something my Dad did. I’d almost forgotten.” He sliced the zucchini in big chunks and put it into the grater. Thin segments came out the other end. I watched as he mixed the segments with flour, egg, and water. He placed oil in a pan and came to sit across from me at the table. Mom busied herself making a fruit salad from store-bought fruit, flash frozen for freshness.
“I didn’t get a chance to come back last night,” he said. “Did the milk help?”
I nodded. “Did you buy the vegetables from Mr. Tucker?”
“Who else?” Dad asked. “I’m glad you’re willing to try them.”
“Can I talk to him again sometime?” I asked in a whisper.
“Sometime,” Dad said quietly. “He’s got a boy about your age, I think.”
“He has kids?” I asked.
“Six of them,” Dad said. “But I don’t want to let you mother know that just yet.”
I nodded.
“I’d better check the oil,” Dad said. He stood up and flicked a small bit of batter into the oil. I heard it sizzle. I watched as he dropped spoonfuls of zucchini-laced batter into the oil and brought out golden puffs. When they were finished, he put them on the table between Mom’s fruit salad and the roasted chicken she’d bought from the deli.
I lifted a golden fritter to my mouth and took a bite. I fanned my mouth with my hand and swallowed. “Good, but hot.”
“Your granddad’s zucchini fritters were better,” Dad said. “But give me a chance. By the time we grow our own zucchini next year, mine will be even better.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mother scowling.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
A Bit of Sweetness
September 4th
Dad wasn’t too surprised last night when I joined him in the kitchen. I tried to be calm, walk in, sit at the table and wait until he had finished cooking the milk. But when I saw him in his old flannel robe and slippers, standing in front of the stove, stirring slowly, gazing into the steam that was just starting to rise off the milk, I ran to him and wrapped my arms around him. I leaned my head against the soft spot right beneath his shoulder blade.
“I’m sorry we woke you up, Mandy girl,” he said softly.
“I don’t want to go back to the Addicted Cities, Daddy.” I blurted out my worst fears.
He turned around and held me against his chest. “You won’t have to, honey. Your mother’s just tense because of her pregnancy. It’ll pass.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“It will, don’t worry.” I could tell he was trying very hard to keep the worry from showing in his own voice.
“Does the warm milk really work?”
“It used to when I was a kid. Want to try some?”
“Yes.” I released my hold on him and sat down at the table.
He reached into the cupboard and brought down my hot chocolate mug. “Personally, I don’t like the taste much unless you add a little sugar and cinnamon. So let me know.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
“What did you think about our guest?” Dad asked as he ladled milk into the three cups.
I shrugged. “He smelled kind of funky.”
“He smells the way your grandfather smelled back before we gave up the farm and moved to the city.” He had stopped dishing out the milk. “I miss that smell.”
“Want me to take a cup to Mom?”
“I’d better do it,” he said. “You go ahead and try yours. If you don’t like it, add some sugar and cinnamon until it tastes right.”
“Are you putting some in Mom’s?”
Dad reached for the sugar and paused. Then he put our cups on the table. “Why don’t we get ours right first and then I’ll take the sugar and cinnamon back to her so she can decide?”
I sipped the milk. It did taste kind of funny. I added a little sugar and cinnamon and tasted it again. It reminded me a little of the melted ice cream left after you finished your apple pie. “It’s good now.”
“OK. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll talk some more.” He put the two cups of milk, the sugar, and the cinnamon on a cookie sheet and walked back down the hall.
I sipped my milk and waited for him to return, but he never did. After I finished my milk, I went back to my own room. My mother’s sobs had stopped and I could hear my father snoring gently.
Dad wasn’t too surprised last night when I joined him in the kitchen. I tried to be calm, walk in, sit at the table and wait until he had finished cooking the milk. But when I saw him in his old flannel robe and slippers, standing in front of the stove, stirring slowly, gazing into the steam that was just starting to rise off the milk, I ran to him and wrapped my arms around him. I leaned my head against the soft spot right beneath his shoulder blade.
“I’m sorry we woke you up, Mandy girl,” he said softly.
“I don’t want to go back to the Addicted Cities, Daddy.” I blurted out my worst fears.
He turned around and held me against his chest. “You won’t have to, honey. Your mother’s just tense because of her pregnancy. It’ll pass.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“It will, don’t worry.” I could tell he was trying very hard to keep the worry from showing in his own voice.
“Does the warm milk really work?”
“It used to when I was a kid. Want to try some?”
“Yes.” I released my hold on him and sat down at the table.
He reached into the cupboard and brought down my hot chocolate mug. “Personally, I don’t like the taste much unless you add a little sugar and cinnamon. So let me know.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
“What did you think about our guest?” Dad asked as he ladled milk into the three cups.
I shrugged. “He smelled kind of funky.”
“He smells the way your grandfather smelled back before we gave up the farm and moved to the city.” He had stopped dishing out the milk. “I miss that smell.”
“Want me to take a cup to Mom?”
“I’d better do it,” he said. “You go ahead and try yours. If you don’t like it, add some sugar and cinnamon until it tastes right.”
“Are you putting some in Mom’s?”
Dad reached for the sugar and paused. Then he put our cups on the table. “Why don’t we get ours right first and then I’ll take the sugar and cinnamon back to her so she can decide?”
I sipped the milk. It did taste kind of funny. I added a little sugar and cinnamon and tasted it again. It reminded me a little of the melted ice cream left after you finished your apple pie. “It’s good now.”
“OK. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll talk some more.” He put the two cups of milk, the sugar, and the cinnamon on a cookie sheet and walked back down the hall.
I sipped my milk and waited for him to return, but he never did. After I finished my milk, I went back to my own room. My mother’s sobs had stopped and I could hear my father snoring gently.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Warm Milk
Middle of the night, September 3rd
Mom and Dad are arguing and have been for the last half hour or so. I was sound asleep when the yelling started, but I know I won’t be able to get any more sleep tonight. I hope I can keep my eyes open in school tomorrow. I haven’t seen anyone doze off during class, but in my old school dozing off was a sure way to get sent to the nurse’s office and shot up with something.
Anyway, they are arguing about Mr. Tucker. The gist of the argument is that Mom thinks he’s a terrorist because he’s always lived outside the safety net. She accused Dad of endangering the life of her, me, and especially Providence. Dad said he’s not endangering any of our lives and that Mr. Tucker is just a nice old guy who happens to have a lot of experiences we can all learn from. Mom’s response was that she had no need to learn to make bombs or fire a gun, or any of the other things he might know because she, for one, has no intention of becoming a terrorist. Dad said that’s not the kind of stuff he meant. Mr. Tucker knows things about growing your own food and living off the land. Mom said she finds the food at the grocery store suitable for all her needs, so why would she want to grovel in the dirt to grow it? And now Mom’s threatening to report Dad to the police for associating with a terrorist. She says she’ll take me and go back to the safety net.
I won’t go with her, though. I like it here. I didn’t think I would at first, but I do. And I agree with Dad. Mr. Tucker just seems like a nice old guy.
Their screaming stopped and now Mom’s sobbing. When Dad reminded Mom that only one child was allowed to a couple in the safety net, she let out a scream like I’ve never heard before, not even in the movies. And then she started crying. I can hear Dad now, talking to her softly, asking her if she wants him to make her some warm milk.
“Why would I want warm milk?” she’s asking.
I hear Dad whispering, “It’s just something my mother would make us to calm us down when we had a nightmare.”
“Old wives tale,” she mutters. “I want my pills.”
“I threw them away,” Dad says softly. “For Providence.”
And now Mom is shrieking again. I hear Dad step out into the hallway. He closes their bedroom door behind him. Mom’s shrieks have dissolved again to sobs and I hear the clanking of pots and pans in the kitchen. I wonder if warm milk really works. I’m going to put on my robe and go out to the kitchen to see if Dad might be making enough for two.
Mom and Dad are arguing and have been for the last half hour or so. I was sound asleep when the yelling started, but I know I won’t be able to get any more sleep tonight. I hope I can keep my eyes open in school tomorrow. I haven’t seen anyone doze off during class, but in my old school dozing off was a sure way to get sent to the nurse’s office and shot up with something.
Anyway, they are arguing about Mr. Tucker. The gist of the argument is that Mom thinks he’s a terrorist because he’s always lived outside the safety net. She accused Dad of endangering the life of her, me, and especially Providence. Dad said he’s not endangering any of our lives and that Mr. Tucker is just a nice old guy who happens to have a lot of experiences we can all learn from. Mom’s response was that she had no need to learn to make bombs or fire a gun, or any of the other things he might know because she, for one, has no intention of becoming a terrorist. Dad said that’s not the kind of stuff he meant. Mr. Tucker knows things about growing your own food and living off the land. Mom said she finds the food at the grocery store suitable for all her needs, so why would she want to grovel in the dirt to grow it? And now Mom’s threatening to report Dad to the police for associating with a terrorist. She says she’ll take me and go back to the safety net.
I won’t go with her, though. I like it here. I didn’t think I would at first, but I do. And I agree with Dad. Mr. Tucker just seems like a nice old guy.
Their screaming stopped and now Mom’s sobbing. When Dad reminded Mom that only one child was allowed to a couple in the safety net, she let out a scream like I’ve never heard before, not even in the movies. And then she started crying. I can hear Dad now, talking to her softly, asking her if she wants him to make her some warm milk.
“Why would I want warm milk?” she’s asking.
I hear Dad whispering, “It’s just something my mother would make us to calm us down when we had a nightmare.”
“Old wives tale,” she mutters. “I want my pills.”
“I threw them away,” Dad says softly. “For Providence.”
And now Mom is shrieking again. I hear Dad step out into the hallway. He closes their bedroom door behind him. Mom’s shrieks have dissolved again to sobs and I hear the clanking of pots and pans in the kitchen. I wonder if warm milk really works. I’m going to put on my robe and go out to the kitchen to see if Dad might be making enough for two.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Visitor
Wednesday, September 3rd
I’m not the only one who made a new friend. Dad brought his friend home to dinner tonight. Mr. Tucker is his name and he’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. He has thin grey hair that stands up in strange angles. His face is reddish brown with deep lines and I didn’t touch it, but it looks rough. I did touch his hand when he extended it to shake. It was like touching the bark of a tree. He smelled strange too, musty like the old house and sweet smelling too. After he left, Mom said he smelled like a brewery. But the strangest thing about him is that he’s never even been inside the safety net.
Mom wasn’t too happy when Dad walked in and said we were having a guest for dinner. She muttered something about giving her some notice and that all we were having were leftovers anyway. Dad said it didn’t matter, that Mr. Tucker wasn’t picky. And it seemed that Dad was right. Mr. Tucker ate every bit on his plate.
He didn’t say much during dinner. And after dinner he and Dad went outside and walked. I stood up to go along too, but Dad waved me back. “Mr. Tucker and I have things to talk about, Mandy girl. How about if we go for a walk tomorrow night?”
“Sure,” I said, but I was disappointed. I wanted to learn more about Mr. Tucker. If he’d never been inside the safety net, he might know what had happened to the writer.
I’m not the only one who made a new friend. Dad brought his friend home to dinner tonight. Mr. Tucker is his name and he’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. He has thin grey hair that stands up in strange angles. His face is reddish brown with deep lines and I didn’t touch it, but it looks rough. I did touch his hand when he extended it to shake. It was like touching the bark of a tree. He smelled strange too, musty like the old house and sweet smelling too. After he left, Mom said he smelled like a brewery. But the strangest thing about him is that he’s never even been inside the safety net.
Mom wasn’t too happy when Dad walked in and said we were having a guest for dinner. She muttered something about giving her some notice and that all we were having were leftovers anyway. Dad said it didn’t matter, that Mr. Tucker wasn’t picky. And it seemed that Dad was right. Mr. Tucker ate every bit on his plate.
He didn’t say much during dinner. And after dinner he and Dad went outside and walked. I stood up to go along too, but Dad waved me back. “Mr. Tucker and I have things to talk about, Mandy girl. How about if we go for a walk tomorrow night?”
“Sure,” I said, but I was disappointed. I wanted to learn more about Mr. Tucker. If he’d never been inside the safety net, he might know what had happened to the writer.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Varnish
Tuesday, September 2nd
The two boys who passed out yesterday were not in class today. Our homeroom teacher told us they suspected the boys had inhaled too much varnish in wood shop and that they had been sent to a hospital within the safety net until they recovered. Kylie invited me to sleep at her house Friday night. I told her I’d have to ask my parents. I’d like to spend time with her, but I can’t get the image of her father cracking the lobster claws, his face red and swollen with anger, out of my head.
After dinner
Wouldn’t you know it? Mom and Dad see nothing wrong with me going to Kylie’s house Friday night. They think it’s great I made a friend so fast. Now I just have to convince myself.
The two boys who passed out yesterday were not in class today. Our homeroom teacher told us they suspected the boys had inhaled too much varnish in wood shop and that they had been sent to a hospital within the safety net until they recovered. Kylie invited me to sleep at her house Friday night. I told her I’d have to ask my parents. I’d like to spend time with her, but I can’t get the image of her father cracking the lobster claws, his face red and swollen with anger, out of my head.
After dinner
Wouldn’t you know it? Mom and Dad see nothing wrong with me going to Kylie’s house Friday night. They think it’s great I made a friend so fast. Now I just have to convince myself.
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