Her dad was in the kitchen. Simon and Garfunkel crooned on the speakers, accompanied by the clanking of pots. Over the music her dad called, “That you, Ollie?”
“Nope,” said Ollie, still a little shaky. “It’s the postman. Someone just sent me a puppy, a kitten, and a pony for my birthday.”
“Great,” came her dad’s voice from the kitchen. “The pony can mow the lawn, and I will personally feed the kitten to Mrs. Who.” Dad didn’t like cats. Mrs. Who was the great horned owl that lived in the dead hickory tree at the far corner of their yard. “But you can keep the puppy,” her dad added with an air of generosity. “Although I thought your birthday was in April.”
“Ha-ha,” said Ollie. She crossed the slate floor of the entryway, edged around the piano, stepped into the living room. As she did, some of that afternoon’s weirdness started to lose its grip.
Ollie’s dad sold people solar panels. He liked it fine. But what he really loved was making things. Ollie had never seen his hands still, not since she was a baby. In the long summer afternoons, he built birdhouses or furniture; in the evenings he cooked or knitted or showed her how to make plates out of clay.
That evening, her dad was baking. The whole house smelled like bread. Ollie sniffed. Garlic bread. There was tomato sauce. And Dad, seeing her come in, had just dumped a pile of noodles into a pot of boiling water. Spaghetti. Great. She was starving.
The living room and the kitchen were one big space, with a kitchen island separating them. Ollie dropped her backpack and threw herself backward over the couch.
Ollie’s dad stood behind the kitchen island, stirring, humming along with the music. His shirt was long sleeved and mustard colored. Dad liked colors on clothes like he liked colors on houses—the brighter the better. Sometimes they didn’t go together. Mom teased him for it.
Ordinarily her dad would have handed her a piece of garlic bread and while Ollie ate it, they would have argued over her drinking a ginger ale before dinner, and by thetime she’d worn him down, the pasta would have been ready, and it wouldn’t bebefore dinneranymore. But now her dad’s expression had turned serious and the garlic bread stayed in the oven. Ollie thought about staging an oven raid and then thought better of it.
She surveyed her dad upside down. It was possible the school hadn’t called.
Her dad pressed pause on Simon and Garfunkel. “Ollie.”
“The school called,” said Ollie.
“Brian Battersby’s mother called me first,” said her dad. He couldn’t maintain angry-dad voice even when he was trying; now he just sounded exasperated. “I got an earful, let me tell you. Andthenthe school called. You have to go to the principal tomorrow. Ollie, you could have really hurt that boy.”
“No, I couldn’t!” said Ollie, sitting up. “It was only a tiny rock. Besides, they were being mean to Coco Zintner.Youalways tell me I should stick up for people.”
Her dad quit stirring the sauce and came and sat down beside her. Now he was going to be understanding. She hated understanding voice as much as she hated sympathy face. Ollie felt her ears start to burn.
“Ollie,” he said. “I’m really glad you were trying to help someone. But don’t try that innocent face with me. There’s about a million ways to help a friend out without giving anyone stitches, as you know perfectly well. Idon’t care if Brian was being a little turd. Next time get a teacher, usewords, blind ’em with mathematics; God, use that imagination of yours.” He knocked playfully on Ollie’s forehead. “First thing tomorrow morning at the principal’s office, young lady. You’re going to be in detention for a while if Brian’s mother has anything to say about it.” He paused, added mildly, “Brian is fine, by the way. His mother seemed to think he wasn’t taking the incident as seriously as he should be.”
“Of course he’s not. His head’s about seven inches thick,” grumbled Ollie. “I could have thrown a brick and he’d be fine.”
“Please don’t,” said her dad. “As the caterpillar said to the blackbird. Also, Coco Zintner’s mother called. Coco says thanks for standing up to them. Apparently, no one else did.”
Ollie said nothing. She felt bad now about hitting Brian in the head with a rock, and also bad because she didn’t reallylikeCoco Zintner. Coco squeaked too much. Ollie just didn’t like watching someone get teased. She was also hungry, and she wanted to tell her dad about the woman beside the swimming hole, but it didn’t seem like the time. She didnotwant to be in detention until Christmas.
Well,Ollie thought,if they put me in jail for stealing a book, I won’t be.But that was hardly better. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
“If you want to throw things,” her dad said gently, “why not rejoin the softball team? They’d take you backin a heartbeat, I know, slugger. Remember your home run last—”
She stiffened. “Don’t want to.”
Her dad stood up. He didn’t look mad or exasperated. He just looked hurt, which was worst of all.
“’Kay, fine,” he said, heading back toward the stove. “You don’t have to. But, Ollie, you can’t hide in your books forever. There are all kinds of people, and good things, and life, just waiting for you to—”
She had known he was going to say that, or something like that. She was on her feet. “To what? Forget? I won’t, even if you have. I’ll do what I want. You are not the boss of me.”
“I am the dad of you,” her dad pointed out. He had gone pale under his beard. “I’m trying to help, kiddo. I’m sad still too, you know, but I—”
She didn’t want to hear it. Of all the things in the world, it was the last thing she wanted to hear. “I’m not hungry,” said Ollie. “I’m going to bed.”
“Ollie—”
“Not hungry.”
She grabbed her backpack, made for the stairs, in the entryway, scooped up her prize from the swimming hole in passing. The stairs were steep, the hallway to her room long and full of shadows. She sped down it.
