Free Dreamsleeves by Coleen Murtagh Paratore Page A

father got suspicious and followed me to the party? He started checking up on me like that last year after one of his drinking buddies said, “You’re gonna have to lock that one up, Roe. She’s gonna be a looker like her mother.”
    That stupid, drunk old jerk. Why did he have to make my life even harder than it was by saying that? I looked in the bathroom mirror and studied my face that night. I didn’t see what he was talking about. I looked the same as I always do.
    Last year the Keating twins up on Stowe Avenue invited me and Maizey to a double date matinee at Proctors. The Keating twins have been our friends since kindergarten, we all wait at the same bus stop together, so it didn’t even seem like a real boy-girl date or anything. Maizey’s father was going to drive the four of us and pick us up right after the movie. My mom said I could go, but “just don’t tell your father.”
    Even though Jackie Keating had really bad breath and he didn’t even try to hold my hand, it was an okay first not-real-date, I guess. But as I ate buttery popcorn and sipped cola, I couldn’t focus on the movie I was so nervous … what if my father found out?
    Sure enough, when the four of us walked out into the sunshine from the dark theater, waiting for Mr. Hogan’s car, eating the stash of candy Mrs. Keating sent for us to eat, my heart froze when I saw my father’s car pull up.
    He leaned across the front seat and yelled out the window. “Get in!”
    My whole body turned red with shame and my legs wobbled with fear as I walked to the car. Tires squealed as we pulled away. He drove fast and yelled, but he didn’t hit me, probably because it was a Sunday. “You’re grounded,” he shouted when we got home, which was a meaningless punishment because I can never go anywhere anyway. Then late that night he banged on my door with a broom in his hand. “Get out there and sweep the dining room.”
    But what if … just maybe … I can go to the pool party. Imagine spending all that time, three whole hours, with Mike.
    Dooley is still crying about his red car.
    â€œOkay, okay. I’ll go get it. Stay here.”
    I head down past the mailbox, following the path the little red Matchbox took. It’s not on the front steps, not on the sidewalk. I look out on the road, cars whizzing past.
    I see something red way over against the far curb, but it’s tiny as a measle. It could be anything, really. And there is absolutely no way to investigate except to cross four lanes of traffic, which is definitely not going to happen.
    When I come back empty-handed, Dooley cries even harder. “But that’s my best one!” he says. He runs to the couch in the living room and looks out the window, down toward the road, his forehead pushing against the thin screen.
    â€œDon’t do that, D!” I say. “You’ll fall out and kill yourself.”
    â€œPlease, A, please,” he cries. “I see it. There it is!”
    I kneel next to him and put my arm around him. I stare down but I don’t see even the measle anymore. “I’m sorry, Dool, but it’s gone. You’ve got lots of others.”
    â€œNo!” he says. “Please, A, go find it.”
    â€œYour blue car’s really sharp, buddy. And the black Corvette. I love that one.”
    â€œBut the red’s my favorite,” he screams. “It’s just like Daddy’s.” He runs to his bunk and cries as if he’s lost his very best friend.
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    After lunch, grilled cheese with cut-up green grapes on top, I read B and C three Curious George books on the couch and send them to their beds for “quiet time.” I put D down for a nap. He turns away so I can’t kiss his cheek.
    â€œI’m sorry, Dool. I’ll get you a new red one for your birthday.”
    â€œBut I want that one, A, that one .” He kicks the wall.