Free A Friend at Midnight by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

knew it was because her pulse wouldn’t stop racing.
    Only in church did her heart slow down. The next Sunday, for his sermon, Dr. Bordon discussed a sentence Jesus had spoken.
I will not leave you comfortless.
In the original Greek, explained Dr. Bordon, “comfortless” was literally “orphaned.”
    It was true. Michael was comfortless and might just as well be orphaned. A sister wasn’t enough. A mother wasn’t enough. A stepfather was meaningless. Michael Rosetti had no father.
    Dr. Bordon implied that Jesus could fill the void. Lily thought probably you had to be a grown-up for that to work. No amount of church would comfort an eight-year-old for the loss of his father.
    In the course of the week, Michael had become, in military terms, a noncombatant: a person who didn’t—wouldn’t—couldn’t fight. All he was, was there. He didn’t fail in school. In fact, because he sat still instead of yelling and running and arguing and getting into trouble, he did quite well. Teachers liked him more. After all, half the boys in school were given Ritalin to calm them down, so teachers were trained to believe that a semicomatose boy was a good boy.
    Lily could hardly stand to look at her brother. He seemed middle-aged to her, as if any moment he would chair a committee or open a checking account.
    Lily raced home from school every day to intercept the mail. If Mom got home first, Lily had to follow her trail, because Mom started opening mail in the front hall and continued as she moved, chucking junk mail or ripped envelopes in any wastebasket or on any surface, dropping letters on any table, setting bills near any telephone, taping anything that caught her eye to the refrigerator.
    Day after day, the bill didn’t come.
    After school, Michael didn’t get on his bike anymore and ride over to Jamie’s. He didn’t start projects in the cellar or hide things in the attic. He didn’t talk about school and he didn’t listen when Lily and Mom did.
    On Wednesday of the second week, Mom and Nathaniel were in the kitchen arguing over snacks when Lily got home, and Michael was sitting at the table not taking sides.
    â€œI wanna duice box,” Nathaniel shouted. “I wanna sfig noonans.”
    â€œLily, darling, I have to practice,” said Mom, meaning, “You handle snacks.” She zoomed down into the cellar, where she practiced her trumpet. Kells had put foam tiles and insulation into the cellar ceiling to absorb the sound, but if you stood over where Mom was playing, your feet vibrated.
    When Nathaniel was born, Mom used to pop him into a baby backpack and take him down to the cellar with her, which was supposed to imbue his little baby heart with a love of music. Nathaniel now covered his ears whenever he saw a brass instrument.
    Lily gave Nathaniel a four-pack of Fig Newtons.
    â€œI wike sfig noonans,” Nathaniel informed them. His little fingers struggled with the cellophane wrapper. “Opennuh cookie, Wiwwy.”
    She opened the pack for him and threw the plastic into the garbage. There lay the credit card bill, unopened.
    â€œFrow it onna foor,” Nathaniel told Lily.
    â€œDon’t throw it on the floor! Eat it!”
    â€œNo. It’s onna foor now.”
    â€œIt’s on the floor because you threw it there. Don’t throw anything else on the floor. I can’t stand it when my shoes stick.”
    â€œFoos stick,” said Nate happily. “Foos stick foos stick foos stick!”
    A normal Michael would have licked it up off the floor. A normal Michael would have shrieked “Foos stick” for the next half hour too. This Michael wasn’t listening.
    Lily could not retrieve the bill while the boys were there. Searching through the garbage for interesting envelopes was not a habit she wanted Nathaniel to develop. “Michael, start Nate’s new video for him, okay?”
    The new video was a