Free Not the End of the World by Rebecca Stowe

be, stuck in that dark house with only her parents and that fat old nurse, who was about as friendly as Hans. I wished I could talk to her—I’d ask her what happened, straight out, and I bet she’d tell me. She’d probably just been waiting, all these years, for an opportunity to tell someone what happened but no one ever asked because they were afraid to hear. I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t afraid to ask and I wasn’t afraid to hear. I was only afraid of being locked up for the rest of my life.

D ADDY wasn’t home yet, which meant it wasn’t six o’clock. We had dinner every night at precisely six and the only one who was ever allowed to be late was Donald, and only on days when he had baseball practice. We didn’t wait for him, we’d start at six and Mother would keep his dinner warm in the oven. I missed him when he wasn’t at dinner; I adored Donald and I could usually rely on him to stick up for me, even if it was only by rolling his eyes and kicking me under the table. Sometimes we’d be through eating by the time he got home and I always felt sorry for him, having to sit at the table all alone to eat his crusty dinner, as if he were being punished, but Daddy said, “We eat at six and we don’t wait for anyone.” Even when we had company we started at six and if they were late we started without them, even though Mother cried and said it was rude and what would our guests think?
    “They’ll think they should have been on time,” Daddy would say, chuckling as if it were the funniest joke in theworld. He thought it was an insult to be late; it showed a lack of respect and it appeared as if you thought your time was more valuable than the other person’s. Once, when I was ten, we were going on a trip up north and I ran over to Ginger Moore’s to say goodbye and I guess I took too long because when I ran back, Daddy had already pulled out of the driveway and was rounding the corner. I could see Mother, straining around, looking out the side window, and I chased after them, feeling like a fool, shouting and waving my arms and pretty near crying. “Robert! Robert!” Mother was shouting. “Stop the car! What will the neighbors think?” He stopped and waited for me to run up before he answered. “They’ll think Maggie must have done something really bad to get left behind,” he said, giggling, thinking it was the funniest thing since whoopee cushions. “We were going to leave without you,” he announced as I climbed in and shoved Ruthie over. Mother said no, they wouldn’t really have left without me, but I suspected they would have, if I’d been two seconds later. They would have driven off to Sault Ste. Marie and left me all alone in the house without even Goober, who was imprisoned in some horrid kennel.
    When I got home, Mother was standing in the kitchen, looking at the pile of dishes left over from the Bridge Ladies’ lunch. Ruthie was sitting at the table, ready for her dinner, even though the place settings weren’t on yet. That meant we were having chicken and I’d have to sit next to her while she gobbled up the wings, getting covered in grease and making horrible slobbering noises. “You cannibal,” I’d say. “How can you eat your own kind?” but she’d just squawk and flap her arms and keep right on eating.
    I didn’t know why she was the only one who didn’t have to have table manners. If Donald or I so much as crunched our lettuce too loudly we’d get sent from the table, butRuthie was allowed to peck at her plate, like some kid bobbing for apples in a barrel, and it drove me crazy.
    “I can’t stand it!” I’d always say “I can’t stand all her noise!” and she’d start crying, saying, “I can’t help it! I can’t help it!” but of course she could and they just let her get away with it because she was a psychopath.
    She really was. She was only eight years old and yet she’d taught herself how to stuff birds. She had a regular little taxidermy shop in the