Free Junonia by Kevin Henkes Page A

birthdays,” he muttered.
    Watching and listening to Mr. Barden hollowed Alice’s insides. He was like a spidery old sea creature washed up on the beach. Alice didn’t dare risk a movement, except to choke down the bite of cake already in her mouth.
    Time turned strangely elastic—seeming to flow in slow motion, but flowing faster than usual, too. How could that be?
    Kate plucked Munchkitty from the floor and followed Mallory, who had disappeared out the front door after her father.
    The Wishmeiers and Alice’s father were helping Mr. Barden. They mopped him up with napkins and moved the dripping edge of the tablecloth up onto the table, away from him. With paper towels, Alice’s father wiped the floor. “You’ll be fine,” Mrs. Wishmeier assured him.
    â€œI am fine,” said Mr. Barden, his voice thin and brittle. “I just want to go home.” His breath whistled in his nostrils.
    In a wordless shuffle, Alice’s father and Mr. Wishmeier ushered Mr. Barden out of the cottage. At the doorway, Alice’s father turned and winked at Alice. He raised his index finger and mouthed, “Be right back.”
    Without one bit of fuss, Alice’s mother cleared the table. She efficiently gathered the four corners of the tablecloth, bunched up the tablecloth, and put it in the sink. Her face was as serene and peaceful as ever. She approached Alice and placed her hands on her daughter’s tight shoulders, squeezing gently and rhythmically, a mini massage. “No big deal,” she said. She gave Alice an encouraging kiss on her head. “It’s hard to know what to clean up or how long to wait. I’ll put the ice cream in the freezer, then let’s enjoy ourselves, the three of us.”
    â€œGood thing the coffee hadn’t been served,” said Mrs. Wishmeier. “Then we really would have had a scene.” She was wiping off the table with a damp dishcloth in grand, sweeping arcs. Then she and Alice’s mother glided smoothly around the table, neatly replacing the cake platter, the pie plate, Alice’s half-eaten piece of cake, a new glass of milk for Alice.
    â€œBirthdays don’t happen every day,” said Mrs. Wishmeier. “I’m going to have just a sliver more of cake. And I could use a cup of coffee.” She helped herself.
    The room looked nearly the same as it had before the guests had arrived—except for the missing tablecloth—and yet Alice didn’t feel the same at all. She was sad and angry—a combination that was much worse than one or the other. More frustrating. She burned for things to be different. If her birthday were a drawing, the defining outlines that had been laid down throughout the day and the pleasing shapes that had formed would be breaking up, disintegrating, would be partially erased.
    The room was engulfed in uncertainty. Who was coming back to finish the party? When would they return? Would anyone be in a happy mood?
    Some things, however, were clear. Alice would have to wait a whole year for another birthday. She’d never turn ten again.
    â€œThis is still a very happy birthday,” her mother told her. “I’m sure Dad and Mr. Wishmeier will have more to eat when they get back. We can play cards or a board game. Something.” She paused. “Don’t be mad at Mr. Barden. And don’t worry about him, either.” She paused again. “Accidents happen. Mallory didn’t mean it. And hopefully she’s having a nice talk with her mother, right now.” Her voice was unconvincing to Alice. She spoke softly. “Remember, no big deal.”
    For her mother’s sake, Alice tried not to care or to feel sorry for herself, but it was impossible.
    Ten was a big deal. Even Helen Blair had said so in her letter. With a sinking feeling, Alice realized that her birthday had become a big deal, but in a bad way. And she blamed it all on Mallory.

 
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