Auntie Minerva is a terrible cook. When I tell Auntie Bernadette this, she says, “That’s because Minerva doesn’t like to eat.” Auntie Bernadette has a magnet on her refrigerator that says never trust a skinny cook.

Sneaky

Frank shares the guest bedroom with Tata while Olivia and I share the sofa sleeper in the living room. We sleep with two folded towels beneath us because the night my mother died, Olivia wet the bed. She hasn’t had a dry night since. In the mornings I rise before anyone in the house. I hide the wet towels and Olivia’s nightgown in a sack inside my book bag, fill the bathtub for Olivia, and fold the couch into place.

Auntie Bernadette and I are like spies on a secret mission. She takes the towels and Olivia’s nightgown home and washes them, then gives them back to me after school. Auntie Minerva is always at church when I get home, so I can slip the towels between the sheets before she returns.

Olivia never looks at the wet towels in the morning or the clean ones Auntie Bernadette hands to me every afternoon. Maybe she’s pretending nothing ever happened.

Lunchtime at St. Cletus

Fish stew day.
Sit with Delia and Tonya day.
Eat sour mangoes and hot sauce day.
Pass notes in class day.
Tell secrets about naughty Lola and the boys day.
Nothing’s changed.

A Meal of Words

Frank hasn’t made any friends in Tamuning. After school, he does his homework at the kitchen table. He’s smart and makes the honor roll every year but hates to read. I love to read, but I haven’t been on the honor roll since third grade.

Today I sit across from him, trying to study for my science test. I reread the same page three times, but the words won’t sink in. I don’t like to read just anything. “You’d make straight As,” Tata says, “if they gave a quiz on romance.” I read love stories. I’ve read hundreds. I like happy endings.

Frank writes tiny letters in his notebook. I try to read them upside down. When he catches me looking at his notebook, he tears the paper away from the spiral and rips it into thin strips, wads them into pea-sized balls, and pops them in his mouth. He swallows each bite and frowns at me. After every word disappears through his mouth, every sentence slides to his gut, he announces, “Delicious!”

Wanted: One Knock-Knock Joke

Once Auntie Bernadette asked Frank why he was so quiet. Frank looked at her a long moment and said, “I’ll tell you when I have something to say.” He was eight when he said that and I remember thinking what a weird thing for a little boy to say. But Auntie said, “Frank, you are an old soul.”

When he did speak, he told a lot of knock-knock jokes.

“Isabel, knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Knock, knock.”

Sigh. “Who’s there?”

“Orange.”

“Orange who?”

“Orange you glad I didn’t say knock, knock?”