Free Penny from Heaven by Jennifer L. Holm Page B

window and peek out.
    Mr. Mulligan is walking around to the passenger side of the car. He opens the door for my mother and helps her out. He whispers something in her ear and she laughs. Then he leans over and . . .
    Kisses her! Right on the lips!
    At that exact moment, Scarlett O’Hara tinkles on the carpet.
    My sentiments exactly.

    A few days later, on Saturday, I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator and there’s a big plate of delicious-looking fried chicken just sitting there. It’s almost lunchtime and I’m hungry, so I take a leg and am about to bite into it when I hear my mother say:
    “That’s for later, Penny.”
    “For what?” I ask.
    “I know you’re a bit upset about Mr. Mulligan, but he’s very nice,” my mother says quickly. “Why, when I told him how much of a Dodgers fan you are, he offered to come over and listen to the ball game with you.”
    “What?”
    “So you can get to know him,” she says. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
    Wonderful? Is she
pazza?
    “But I’m supposed to listen to the game with Uncle Dominic,” I lie.
    “Just this once you can listen to it here,” she says.
    “I can’t. I promised him,” I say.
    She frowns. “You were over there yesterday and practically every day this week.”
    “So what? I like it there. They have fun. They laugh. They eat food that tastes good. Their toilet’s not always leaking!”
    “Penny,” she says.
    But it doesn’t matter. Some line has been crossed and there’s no crossing back.
    “They talk about my father!” I shout. “They talk about him all the time. Not like here. It’s like you’re embarrassed of him or something. Why won’t you talk about him? Why?”
    She stares at me and I think she’s going to say something, but then it’s like a shutter closes over her eyes, and she shakes her head.
    “Because there’s nothing to say,” she says.

    We sit in the parlor listening to the game. I don’t know what’s worse: having to wear a babyish ruffled pink skirt or listening to Mr. Mulligan.
    The whole game, Mr. Mulligan’s been trying to make conversation with me, asking me about my summer. There’s nothing worse than someone talking during a ball game. I’ve been doing my best to ignore him, but it’s already the eighth inning, and I swear I’ve only heard about two minutes.
    “And there’s the pitch,” the announcer says over the radio.
    “Say, Penny,” Mr. Mulligan says, a cheery little smile on his face, “you looking forward to starting seventh grade?”
    “Shh,” I say.
    “Pardon me?” he asks.
    “Can you be quiet? I can’t hear the game,” I say.
    “Penny,” my mother says. “Apologize immediately, young lady.”
    “Why?” I ask. “He’s been talking the whole time!”
    My mother shoots me a look.
    “Ellie, it’s fine. I’m sure this is all a surprise to her,” Mr. Mulligan says in a soothing voice, reaching over and clasping her hand gently.
    “Ellie?” I say. “You let him call you Ellie?”
    “Penny,” my mother says, “there’s no call to be so dramatic.”
    I look at Mr. Mulligan’s beefy hand on my mother’s slender one, and I see my whole life changing in the blink of an eye. No more uncles, no more Pop-pop and Me-me. It’ll be boring old Mr. Mulligan talking through the ball game. I can’t believe I ever thought he was funny.
    The next thing I know I’m leaping up from my chair and racing out the front door, Mother calling my name. I’m running down the street, my legs pumping fast, my skirt flying in the air. All I can think is Mr. Mulligan is going to end up being my father, and I can’t bear it. Everything’ll change; my whole life will be ruined.
    I run and run, like I’ve just hit a ball to left field and am rounding the bases. Mrs. Farro’s is first, and the Sweete Shoppe is second, and Falucci’s Market is third, and then I’m rounding third, heading for home, and I can see Uncle Dominic’s car—he’s in the front seat, the window down, the