Free Bad Apple by Laura Ruby
Authors: Laura Ruby
stand for something?”
“Yes,” says Seven, who then smiles politely. My mom frowns.
“Pib fell in a pond and Seven found him,” I say. “He brought him back here for us.”
“You’re kidding,” my mom says. “A pond?”
“In my yard. We have koi.”
“That cat is crazy.” Mom looks at the coffeepot, at the mug on the table.
Seven holds up the mug. “Tola made me coffee. There’s some left, if you want it. Unless coffee keeps you up at night.”
My mom makes several strangled noises, all of which indicate she’s trying to figure out what to say to this.
“My mom’s always tired when she comes home from work,” Seven says. “Sometimes I make her coffee. I used to, anyway. She can’t drink it anymore. She says she won’t sleep.”
I recognize this tactic from cop movies and thrillers. People who talk about their families can sometimes convince the bad guys not to kill them.
Mom unwinds her scarf, takes off her coat. She’s torn. Yes, I am in Protective Custody, I am the Girl Locked in the Tower, but then here’s a guy who’s my age, and clean, andpolite, and maybe I’ll end up being normal after all, and I’ll stop having clandestine affairs with people old enough to be my dad. What’s a mom to do?
She knows what to do: “I appreciate you bringing back our cat, Seven, but now is not the best time for Tola to have company. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes. Right,” says Seven. “I should get going, anyway. Do you want the mug in the sink or the dishwasher?”
My mom looks at him strangely. “The sink is fine.”
I get his coat out of the dryer and walk him to the door.
“I’d really like to go to the movies or the art gallery or wherever you arty types go when, you know, hell freezes over,” he says, pulling on the coat.
“That could be a while.”
“I can wait.”
He calls up the stairs: “Nice meeting you, Ms. Riley!”
There’s a pause because my mother doesn’t like to be caught eavesdropping. Her voice wafts down the stairs. “You, too.”
I open the door. He turns. As if we really are a prince and princess in a fairy tale, he takes my hand and brings it to his lips. The kiss is warm and soft and longer than it needs to be. He keeps his spectacular eyes on me the whole time he does it. My breath catches in my throat and is trapped there, a solid thing. It’s almost as if he can sense it, that moist knot of breath, because I can feel his smile on my fingers.
After he’s gone, my mother appears at the top of the stairs again. She’s been working on her entrances and exits. They get more and more seamless, more and more dreamlike. Poof! Instant mom.
“He seemed like a nice young man,” she says, with an emphasis on the word young .
My hand tingles where Seven’s lips touched it; I don’t want to talk. I want to lie in my bed and replay that kiss in my head over and over and over again until I stop time.
She must know this. As she’s always telling us, she was once a teenager, too, even if we can’t imagine it. “I’m making that chicken you like for dinner,” she says, a truce. “The one with the apricot sauce and rice.”
“Okay,” I say. “Broccoli, too?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
This is more code, more nontalking talking. The rules: She won’t mention that she believes I’ve had an affair with a teacher. She won’t mention she’s trying to ruin his life forever. I won’t mention that I hate her for it.
Later, during dinner, a fight breaks out between Madge and Mom over Madge’s therapist, a fight in which Madge wants to know why I’m not seeing a therapist, too, if Mom’s so convinced I’m a victim of abuse. Madge wants to know if Mom still intends to “out” me at the school-board meeting,and how that would be abuse on top of abuse. Mom says that everyone knows who I am. And that it’s more important that she, Mom, fights for her daughter and everyone else’s daughters. Anyway, Mom says, the fight isn’t
“Yes,” says Seven, who then smiles politely. My mom frowns.
“Pib fell in a pond and Seven found him,” I say. “He brought him back here for us.”
“You’re kidding,” my mom says. “A pond?”
“In my yard. We have koi.”
“That cat is crazy.” Mom looks at the coffeepot, at the mug on the table.
Seven holds up the mug. “Tola made me coffee. There’s some left, if you want it. Unless coffee keeps you up at night.”
My mom makes several strangled noises, all of which indicate she’s trying to figure out what to say to this.
“My mom’s always tired when she comes home from work,” Seven says. “Sometimes I make her coffee. I used to, anyway. She can’t drink it anymore. She says she won’t sleep.”
I recognize this tactic from cop movies and thrillers. People who talk about their families can sometimes convince the bad guys not to kill them.
Mom unwinds her scarf, takes off her coat. She’s torn. Yes, I am in Protective Custody, I am the Girl Locked in the Tower, but then here’s a guy who’s my age, and clean, andpolite, and maybe I’ll end up being normal after all, and I’ll stop having clandestine affairs with people old enough to be my dad. What’s a mom to do?
She knows what to do: “I appreciate you bringing back our cat, Seven, but now is not the best time for Tola to have company. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes. Right,” says Seven. “I should get going, anyway. Do you want the mug in the sink or the dishwasher?”
My mom looks at him strangely. “The sink is fine.”
I get his coat out of the dryer and walk him to the door.
“I’d really like to go to the movies or the art gallery or wherever you arty types go when, you know, hell freezes over,” he says, pulling on the coat.
“That could be a while.”
“I can wait.”
He calls up the stairs: “Nice meeting you, Ms. Riley!”
There’s a pause because my mother doesn’t like to be caught eavesdropping. Her voice wafts down the stairs. “You, too.”
I open the door. He turns. As if we really are a prince and princess in a fairy tale, he takes my hand and brings it to his lips. The kiss is warm and soft and longer than it needs to be. He keeps his spectacular eyes on me the whole time he does it. My breath catches in my throat and is trapped there, a solid thing. It’s almost as if he can sense it, that moist knot of breath, because I can feel his smile on my fingers.
After he’s gone, my mother appears at the top of the stairs again. She’s been working on her entrances and exits. They get more and more seamless, more and more dreamlike. Poof! Instant mom.
“He seemed like a nice young man,” she says, with an emphasis on the word young .
My hand tingles where Seven’s lips touched it; I don’t want to talk. I want to lie in my bed and replay that kiss in my head over and over and over again until I stop time.
She must know this. As she’s always telling us, she was once a teenager, too, even if we can’t imagine it. “I’m making that chicken you like for dinner,” she says, a truce. “The one with the apricot sauce and rice.”
“Okay,” I say. “Broccoli, too?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
This is more code, more nontalking talking. The rules: She won’t mention that she believes I’ve had an affair with a teacher. She won’t mention she’s trying to ruin his life forever. I won’t mention that I hate her for it.
Later, during dinner, a fight breaks out between Madge and Mom over Madge’s therapist, a fight in which Madge wants to know why I’m not seeing a therapist, too, if Mom’s so convinced I’m a victim of abuse. Madge wants to know if Mom still intends to “out” me at the school-board meeting,and how that would be abuse on top of abuse. Mom says that everyone knows who I am. And that it’s more important that she, Mom, fights for her daughter and everyone else’s daughters. Anyway, Mom says, the fight isn’t