Free The Belief in Angels by J. Dylan Yates Page A

bring back dinner.”
    We had fun swimming and watching the TV in our hotel room, but Moses and I got sunburned, unlike David, who tans. When Wendy returned she carried in tons of bags with clothes she’d bought for herself, but she’d forgotten to bring dinner. She got mad at me for getting us sunburned and told me we’d better stay out of the sun the next day. Then she told us someone was coming to pick her up later for a date.
    This is the part where we started calling my mother Wendy.
    She told us to call her Wendy and pretend she was our sister—a practice I’ve continued since we got back from Florida. Calling her “Wendy” helps take the “mother” expectations away. She doesn’t usually mind it, and it fits us better.
    A very, very young man named Danny showed up a few hours later. I answered when he knocked. Wendy was still getting ready in the bathroom. When she came out she smelled like patchouli incense and was wearing a sheer, navy-blue blouse with a fringed vest made from a leather American flag. The miniskirt she wore barely covered her butt and her knee-high boots were a shiny, white plastic material. She wore her hair all curly-frizzy with a leather headband tied around her forehead.
    I behaved like an obedient sibling. “Wendy, could we have money to order a pizza for dinner?”
    David and I had already figured out how to charge food to the room, but they only accepted cash for pizza delivery. Wendy gave me a totally fake smile and handed me a fiver from her new purple-suede fringed pocketbook.
    The rest of the week of vacation went pretty much the same way. The boy/man was different every night, though. She came back late every night except for one night, when she didn’t come back until the next morning. Then she locked us out so she could sleep all day.
    My brothers and I ate more pizza that week than we’ve ever had in our whole life.
    Something interesting I discovered is that Florida has scads of elderly people. We met lots of grandparent types staying at the hotel who sneaked us forbidden food like Twinkies and Orange Fanta and slathered sunscreen on us. I got a splendid gift from one old lady, an art history book about Edvard Munch called
Things That Make You Want to Scream.
Her husband kept joking with me and asking if I was Veronica Lake’s granddaughter.
Sullivan’s Travels
is one of my favorite old movies. I was totally flattered.
    We made one trip to see downtown Key West—mostly the bars Wendy had been hanging out in, and she got mad when we slipped and called her “Mom” in front of the bartender.
    We also saw Hemingway’s home. I had just finished reading
For Whom the Bell Tolls
and it made a huge impression on me to see his home and especially hiswriting room. He left lots of inheritance to his cats, which had extra toes and ran around everywhere. I met a cat there named Rothko, who is pretty much my favorite artist. I especially love his painting
Blue, Green, Brown.
The strange thing is, that very day, the day we visited the Hemingway Home, Mark Rothko died. One of the guides at the Hemingway Home told me. I wondered if Hemingway and Rothko were friends.

    After about two hours of waiting, the final school bell rings and it’s the end of the school day. Mrs. Dougherty calls Wendy again. The music on the other end of the phone sounds even louder.
    “Hello, this is Mrs. Dougherty from the school. School is over now. We can’t keep Julianne here any longer. You need to come now.”
    Wendy shouts, “I can’t come. Let her walk home now. I’m sure she’s fine.”
    “I still can’t let her walk home. She’s been struck and as I said earlier, I think she may have a concussion. You need to bring her to your doctor to examine her. She’s got a large bump on the back of her head.”
    Wendy doesn’t say anything, but the music blasts through the phone.
    “Is there a problem, Mrs. Finn? Because I could have you talk with Mr. Bellami, our principal, if you would feel more