Authors: Anne Warren Smith

Tails of Spring Break (8 page)

BOOK: Tails of Spring Break

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I studied the face of the woman in the picture and looked again at Claire. “You look just like her,” I said.

Claire stared at me. Then she smiled. “That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me, Katie.”

I handed back the photo. “It’s true.”

“Can I see your mom?” Claire asked.

I paused, one sock on, one off. I could almost feel Mom’s poster, right under me, under my bed. But what if Claire said something mean about Mom?

I reached under my bed. Touched the rolled-up poster.

I pulled it out a little bit. Then, I pushed it back. “You won’t like her.”

“Why?” Claire asked.

“Because she’s still alive.”

“You
are
lucky. Your mother’s only gone to another state.” Claire jumped down beside me on the floor. She sat close to me, in her blue-and-white striped pajamas. “Show me, anyway.”

“I’m not lucky,” I said. “This is worse.”

Claire shook her head. “Nothing’s worse than dying.”

“My mother could be here,” I said slowly, “but she doesn’t want to be.”

Claire was silent, her blue eyes looking back at me. All at once, her eyes filled with tears.

I swallowed. “I don’t know why she likes singing so much,” I said, blinking back my tears. “She likes singing more than being my mom.”

There. I’d said it. Something I’d been thinking for a long time. I kicked at the foot of my bed. Ouch! I hunched over and rubbed my toe.

Claire hugged her knees to her chest. “I guess my mom liked going skiing. She could have stayed home with me that day.” She rubbed her tears away with her pajama sleeve. “If only I’d been sick. But how could I know which day was the one for getting sick?” She sighed. “We both lost our moms,” she said. “And both our moms made us mad. And sad.”

Both our moms. . . .

I reached again under the bed. This time, I pulled out the poster and unrolled it. I stared at Mom’s smile. I was still scared. What would Claire say?

“Wow!” Claire said. “Cute clothes.”

Giggles snorted out my nose. I should have known. Of course, Claire would love my mom’s sparkly vest.

Chapter 23
The Final Tail

B
Y SATURDAY AFTERNOON, MY
room looked like me again. Mom’s poster hung next to my dresser. Claire had rolled up her pale blue rug and filled her bags with her blue stationery, her projects, and her clothes. Her mother’s photo stood on the bedside table. She was writing in her notebook. Her face looked somehow softer; she was even smiling.

“Pen pals?” I asked.

She looked up and shook her head. “A list. I like those yellow-and-black striped ones, and I want those blue ones with the black eye things. And one of those flat ones. . . .”

“You’re getting fish?”

She nodded. “I think we ARE supposed to love things,” she said, “even if they might die.”

Ruby’s words. That made sense to me, too.

I looked at Claire. Had she changed? Or was I just getting used to her? “Thanks for being my business partner,” I said.

She hugged the notebook against her chest. “Thanks for letting me.”

The doorbell rang.

Claire started toward the door. “I hope it’s my father. I hope it’s not Sierra.”

We heard Dad open the front door. “How was Hawaii?” he asked.

Claire and I froze.

“Sunshine the whole time,” Sierra’s mom answered. “Look at my tan.”

“I got a tan, too,” Sierra’s voice said.

“Rained here almost every day,” Dad said.

I touched Claire’s arm. “We have to get this over with.”

In the hallway, we almost bumped into Tyler. “Come on, China,” he said. “Come see who’s here.”

“Mew,” China Cat said.

Claire and I stopped short. We stared at China.

“Mew,” she said again. She waved her tail at us. She wound herself around Tyler’s legs and pushed her head up for a pat as she passed in front of him.

“Nice kitty,” Tyler crooned.

China walked down the hall beside Tyler. Her hips swayed. She sang a deep, happy song. “There you are,” Mrs. Dymond said. “Why, you look great, China!”

I heard Dad drop something on the floor. “Huh?” he asked.

Claire and I went to stand in the front hall as China bounded into Mrs. Dymond’s arms and nuzzled her head under her chin.

Sierra grinned at me and handed me a box. “I brought a pretty shell for your collection,” she said. But then, her grin faded as she looked behind me. At Claire.

“I was at Katie’s house all week,” Claire said. “We’re business partners now.”

Sierra’s mouth dropped open.

“That reminds me,” Mrs. Dymond said. “We owe Katie forty dollars.” She passed China to Mr. Dymond and got out her checkbook.

I went to stand beside her. “Wait,” I said.

“I suppose you’ll split it with Claire,” Mrs. Dymond said, “since she’s your business partner.”

She began to write the check.

“No,” I said. “I mean, yes. But mostly, it’s Tyler’s.”

Beside me, Claire nodded. Dad cleared his throat and nodded, too.

Tyler shoved his hands into his pockets. All at once, he looked five instead of four. “China liked me the best,” he said proudly.

“I’ll write the check to Katie,” Mrs. Dymond said, “and the three of you can decide how to split it.”

While Claire and Tyler collected cat toys, Sierra and I carried some of China’s stuff out to her car. “Lots to tell you,” I told her as we shoved things into the back seat.

“Poor you,” Sierra said. “Claire was at your house all week?”

“It was an awful week,” I answered, “but not because of Claire.”

“What could be worse than Claire?” Sierra rolled her eyes.

I tipped my face up and tasted rain on my tongue. “A bunch of things are worse,” I said.

As Claire came up to us with a bag filled with paper fish and jingly toys, I began a list: “Piddle puddles. Green vomit. Monster cat. Yes, Sierra, your cat went crazy.”

“But Tyler did too,” Claire said. “And Harry Truman died. . . .”

Sierra put her hands over her ears. “Next year,” she said, “you guys have to get out of Oregon.”

I thought about vacations coming up. People going on trips. Pets left lonely and sad with no one to take care of them. Now that I thought back, the week hadn’t been
that
bad.

“Maybe I’ll stick around,” I said. “A lonely pet might need me.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

978-1-4532-7082-0

Published in 2005 by Albert Whitman & Company.

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