Free Moonlight on Butternut Lake by Mary McNear Page B

told him to have dinner without her. But Heather didn’t seem annoyed with her mom. She just gave her instructions about how to take care of Mila. Not in a bossy way, though. In a nice way.
    â€œIs that woman really the school nurse?” Mila’s mother asked her, as their old car rattled out of the almost empty school parking lot that night.
    â€œYep,” Mila said, thinking that cherry Popsicles were now her favorite food in the whole world.
    T wo years later, on a balmy spring afternoon, Mila came sailing through the door of Heather’s office. Heather was already sitting at the little table in the corner, unpacking her lunch.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” Mila said. “I was waiting for Ms. Collins togive back the spelling tests.” Mila was in the fifth grade now, but she still had lunch with Heather every Thursday, and she still had a spelling test every Friday.
    â€œHow’d you do?” Heather asked, as Mila sat down across the table from her.
    â€œOne hundred percent,” Mila said, handing the test to Heather with a little flourish.
    â€œVery impressive,” Heather said, looking it over. “I guess Ms. Collins doesn’t believe in gold stars, huh?”
    Mila shook her head. “She said fifth graders are too old for gold stars.”
    â€œWell, she may have a point there,” Heather said, taking the rest of her lunch out of an insulated lunch bag. “Would you settle for a homemade brownie instead?”
    And Mila, taking a peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of a brown paper bag, flashed a smile at her. “Only if I can still have a cherry Popsicle,” she said.
    â€œOh, definitely,” Heather assured her, nibbling on a carrot stick.
    Then, as they ate their lunches, Heather updated Mila on the various kinds of illnesses and injuries that had come through her office over the past week, and Mila talked about her life at home. Or rather, Heather asked her questions about it, and Mila answered them. It wasn’t Mila’s favorite topic of conversation.
    â€œSo how does your mother like her new job?” Heather asked.
    â€œShe says it’s all right,” Mila said. Her mom was cocktail waitressing at a new bar now, one where she hoped she’d get better tips. But so far, the tips had been just okay, and the bartender, her mom said, was a total jerk.
    â€œAnd what about Mrs. Rogers?” Heather asked. “How are you two getting along?”
    Mila frowned. Mrs. Rogers was the neighbor her mother paid to babysit Mila when she was working. “Mrs. Rogers,” she told Heather now, “is the worst babysitter on the planet.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?” Heather asked, peeling the foil lid off a yogurt container.
    â€œWell, for one thing, she doesn’t do anything,” Mila complained. “She just sits on our couch and watches TV. And she’s so old, she’s practically deaf, so she has to turn the volume up all the way. When I go to bed, I have to put my pillow over my head to fall asleep.”
    â€œAnd what does your mom say about that?”
    Mila shrugged. “She says Mrs. Rogers is all she can afford. She doesn’t charge a lot, I guess, just to sit there and watch TV.”
    â€œWell, I guess it’s better than having no one there at all,” Heather said. “I mean, at least you won’t be alone in an emergency.”
    â€œHa,” Mila said. “A whole army of zombies could march through our living room and Mrs. Rogers wouldn’t even notice.” She thought, but didn’t add, that her mom might not notice either. She was either working, or she was sleeping. And on those rare occasions she was at home, and awake, she was complaining. Complaining about her customers being lousy tippers, or their landlord raising the rent, or their car needing a new carburetor. Mila knew it wasn’t easy for her mom, but still, she couldn’t help but wish that they