Free Julia’s Kitchen by Brenda A. Ferber Page A

chocolate smeared on her cheeks and chin.
    I opened the oven and slid the brownie pan onto the shelf below the stuffed shells. But as I pulled my hand out, I accidentally brushed the top oven rack.
    â€œOw!” I yelled, yanking my hand back. The skin looked pink where it burned. I turned on the cold water and shoved my hand under the faucet.
    â€œAre you okay?” Marlee asked.
    My heart raced. The cold water numbed my skin and took away the pain. “I guess,” I said.
    Marlee put her arm around me. “You’re shaking,” she said.
    Just then the White Rabbit popped out of his clock and said, “Six o’clock! I’m late! I’m late!”
    I started to cry. I couldn’t help myself. I felt like such a baby.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Marlee said. “Mom!” she called.
    Mrs. Rosen ran into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What happened?”
    â€œCara burned herself on the oven.”
    â€œOh dear, let me see,” Mrs. Rosen said. She took my hand and turned it side to side. It already had started to blister.
    I tried to catch my breath.
    â€œThere, now. You’re going to be okay, Cara. Just keep it under the faucet.”
    After my hand was frozen numb, I sat at the kitchen table while Mrs. Rosen squeezed Neosporin onto the burn and covered it with a Band-Aid. I thought about Mom and Janie. In the house. In the fire.
    â€œI knew I shouldn’t have baked,” I said. Marlee looked hurt, but I didn’t care. “I want to go home.”
    Mrs. Rosen nodded. She looked close to tears, too. “Of course, honey. Let me get my coat.”
    â€œNo,” I said suddenly. “I’ll call my dad.” I didn’t know why, but I wanted my dad.
    *   *   *
    In the car on the way home, Dad listened to his sports radio station. I leaned my head against the window and looked out, but all I could see was my own reflection staring back at me. What had happened the night of the fire? How had Dad gotten out without Mom and Janie? The pain in my hand returned, throbbing.
    I felt the vibration of every crack in the street as our tires rolled over them, tha-thunk, tha-thunk, tha-thunk. And then I heard a voice. A small voice, like Janie’s. It said, Ask him, ask him, ask him.
    I sat up straight and looked at Dad. He hadn’t heard a thing. Had I imagined the voice, like the Sport look-alike? I leaned back against the window and listened hard. Ask him, ask him, I heard.
    No, I thought. I had tried that. It was too soon. Dad wasn’t ready. Unless, maybe … maybe I’d gone about it in the wrong way. I’d been angry because of the boxes. I’d shoved the articles in his face. Not a very warm invitation to a conversation. Maybe I could be calm, talk to him nice and easy, the way Mrs. Block talked to me.
    I felt butterflies in my stomach. But they weren’t butterflies. They were words. Words that bubbled up and finally spilled out of my mouth. “Dad, can we talk about the fire?” I asked quietly.
    Dad glanced at me, then went back to watching the road.
    I reached over and turned off the radio, surprising myself with my courage. “I need to know what happened.”
    Dad sighed and looked straight ahead. “You know what happened, Cara,” he said wearily.
    â€œNo, I don’t. Not really.”
    â€œThe fire started from the toaster oven.”
    â€œWell, I know that, but what happened? How did you get out of the house without them?”
    Dad shook his head and didn’t say anything for a minute. Then, “Cara, I can’t … I—I don’t want to … I’m trying my best to forget that night and to remember everything from before. That’s what you should do, too. Just be glad you weren’t there.”
    I felt as though he had punched me in the stomach. How could I forget about the fire when it was such a mystery to me? I always