November 12

Things seem more or less back to normal today. I have caught up with my homework. My phantom alarm clock wakes me at a reasonable hour. Dad gets bagels for breakfast.

When I get to school, Joanne and Scott are arguing. Scott is not thrilled that Joanne is leaving next month. Melanie spots them, too.

"I bet she'll break up with him before she leaves," Melanie says, a venomous smile spreading on her face.

In English, Mrs. Randall passes out Shakespeare's Sonnets.

Chelsea talks to her after class. Mrs. Randall doesn't seem uneasy that Chelsea is protesting the teacher's decision to switch material. In fact, she seems willing to help Chelsea with the article. It occurs to me that maybe the switch wasn't Mrs. Randall's idea, but that of the higher ups.

"So have you decided?" I ask Chelsea. "Is it censorship?"

Chelsea looks startled, possibly because I've been so evasive the past couple of days.

"Actually," she proclaims, "I'm letting my readers decide."

"What?"

"This issue, I'm asking students to write in with their opinions of the subject. Then next month, I'll print several of the responses."

"And the editor is okay with that?"

"Yup. I told him that this issue deserves more than one opinion. I think he's relieved that the article is not just me ranting off. So has Ben asked you out yet?"

"No." I don't repeat that he's not going to. "Are you going to ask me that every day now?"

"Boys are such dumbasses. You want to know what Richard Connolly said about you."

Oh, right. That kiss. I shrug.

"He said you were weird. But he said it in a good way. I wish I were in your shoes," Chelsea sighs. "When did you become such a guy magnet?"

II

After school, I bounce on to the couch, ready for some mind-numbing TV. The phone rings.

It's Mrs. Wallace. She desperately needs a sitter today.

When I hike over to the elementary school, Lindsey is already outside. Her face casts over when she spots me. She hitches her backpack higher on her shoulders and tromps over to the fence.

"Where's Mom?"

"She had to go to Winoker again," I tell her. At least, that's what Mrs. Wallace told me.

Lindsey storms off for home. This time, she doesn't wait for me to catch up with her.

After we are safely sheltered in her house, Lindsey is willing to speak.

"I bet Mom has a new boyfriend."

"Oh." I'm not sure what to say that doesn't sound stupid. "A boyfriend in Winoker?"

"A boyfriend away from here," Lindsey says bitterly. "So he doesn't find out she has a kid."

"We don't know she has a boyfriend," I stammer, feeling utterly useless.

"Do you really think she went to Winoker for a job?" Lindsey asks.

"She said 'business.' That could be anything."

Lindsey looks at me doubtfully.

"It's a boyfriend," Lindsey says. "That's the only thing that gets her off the couch during the day."

"If it is, it might be she hasn't fully committed to him yet," I offer. "It might not last."

I inwardly cringe, realizing I haven't presented a better scenario. If the alleged relationship fizzles, Mrs. Wallace returns to her couch and her bottles of scotch.

"You don't think she's a whore, do you?" Lindsey asks suspiciously.

"No." I can't figure out if she means do I think her mother is literally selling herself to strangers or if I disapprove of her sex life.

"Billy Larkin told everyone that my mom's a prostitute."

"Billy Larkin sounds like an idiot," I deduce. "Idiots say all sorts of stupid things that aren't true."

Lindsey gives me a humoring smile.

"He is an idiot," she pronounces. "He always spreads rumors about everyone."

The problem is resolved, at least for the day. Lindsey puts away her backpack, while deciding what to do this afternoon.

Mrs. Wallace pulls in at eleven, the latest she has been this far. Lindsey has put herself to bed an hour ago.

I watch her trudge in. She goes straight to the sink and soaps her hands.

"Hi, Stella," she says when I come in to greet her. "How's Lindsey?"

"Good," I answer. "Thank you again for the book."

"Oh, it's nothing. Just something I spotted in a used book store."

"Used book store?" I ask. I have not known her to show any interest in books before.

"Part of my networking."

I nod. Maybe Mrs. Wallace's new beau worked in that bookstore. Or maybe she was looking for a job.

"What's the name of the store?" I ask.

Mrs. Wallace tenses. Her eyes roam back and forth.

"The Page Master," she says finally. She grabs the dish towel. "But you should wait January to go there. That's when they carry the most stock."

"I'll remember that," I thank her and head home.

III

Mom and Dad have already gone upstairs to prepare for bed. I peek in on them to say good night and saunter into my room.

I raise my hand to suppress a scream.

There's a dead rat on my pillow.

Both the rat and pillow go out in the trash.