Free How I Saved My Father's Life (and Ruined Everything Else) by Ann Hood

to try on platform shoes and black miniskirts. He had a realcareer where he could write about true things that mattered to the world.
    When I told my father that I was going to come and live with him if Mom didn’t let me take the bus to Boston like Mai Mai Fan, he said, “Madeline, I will convince your mother to let you take that bus. Don’t worry.”
    â€œBut if she says no, absolutely not, I can come and live with you, right?” I said.
    â€œThis may not be the most opportune time for that,” he said.
    My stomach got that queasy feeling again. “You mean I can’t live with you?” I said.
    â€œThis is a moot point, because you will be on that bus and back at Madame’s in no time.”
    â€œA what?” I said, wondering how I would ever learn all of these vocabulary words.
    â€œLook it up,” he said.
    I know that ballerinas and saints have to sacrifice a lot and suffer both physically and mentally. Maybe I would become the Patron Saint of Ballerinas and ballerinas from all over the world would leave me offerings of toe shoes and leg warmers.
    I decided to write another letter to the Pope. I told him about my idea. I told him I would be in Italy in June. I signed the letter, The Future Patron Saint of Ballerinas . Then, because that sounded a little too smug, I added a question mark. Then an exclamation point. Then I mailed it and waited for him to answer.
    When we lived in Boston, I had three best friends—the girls with flower names—and eight regular friends, which made eleven friends total. Eleven friends was the perfect amount. But when we moved to Providence I had exactly no best friends. Sometimes I got invited to someone’s house after school, but it never worked out. I would tell them about my miracles and they would want to watch reruns of Friends . I would discuss various saints; they would discuss Teen Vogue .
    For a while I thought Eliza Harrison would be my best friend. Her mother is my mother’s best friend—read: only friend—here. While our mothers sit in the Harrisons’ basement drinking white wine, Eliza and I go up to her room on the third floor. She has the whole floor, which sounds very fancy, but it’s really the attic of their house, so it’s just a big open space covered with stuff from Target. She pronouncesit Tar-jay , which is really annoying. Eliza should go and work at Target because she loves it so much.
    One day she said, “Have you seen the dollar bins at Tar-jay? I got all this stuff for pedicures there and it only cost thirteen dollars.”
    When I didn’t answer because I didn’t really know what to say to that ridiculous piece of information, Eliza said, “Duh, all of these things were only a dollar each.”
    I said, “I hate Target.” This wasn’t actually true. I am neutral about Target.
    â€œMadeline,” Eliza said, “why do you have to be so weird?”
    This was from a girl who wore peds with her sneakers, those strange little socks they make you use in shoe stores to try on shoes. Eliza also only read books on the summer reading list; she had no imagination. Also, she played field hockey all the time. In the summer she went away to field hockey camp and during the school year she played field hockey on about a thousand different teams. Her thighs looked like tree trunks. I could have told her that. I could have pointed out my own delicate legs, how ballet gave you grace and poise while field hockey only allowed you to runaround with a stick and get thick thighs. But I didn’t. Instead, I acted saintly.
    I said, “Eliza, when I am a saint we’ll see who’s weird,” which made no sense but it was the only thing I could say without crying from frustration.
    When my mother finally finished drinking wine with Mrs. Harrison and we went home, instead of giving me sympathy, she said, “Maybe she’s giving you a helpful