Free The Five Lives of Our Cat Zook by Joanne Rocklin Page A

sounds coming from my mother. My eyes fly open, and there she is, not choking, but trying her hardest not to laugh. The Villain has his head down, examining a strawberry stitched on his napkin.
    â€œHoney,” says my mother. “Not chicken with
chick
! Chicken with
chickpeas
. Garbanzo beans. You’ve had them before. And Riya’s
didu
puts chickpeas in so many of the Indian dishes you like.”
    â€œI love garbanzos,” says Freddy, popping one into his mouth with his fingers. Then he starts wolfing down that chicken like he’s in some sort of chicken-eating contest or something. And there are flecks of GREEN on top of the chicken, which he doesn’t even seem to notice.
    â€œOh, of course. Garbanzos,” I say. “Well, I’ve never eaten urb sauce before.”
    â€œOona, you know you have!” my mother says. “Since when are you such a picky eater?”
    The Villain starts talking about the garden he’s digging in his backyard and all the tomatoes and urbs he’s planting, rosemary and parsley and oregano, and I suddenly realizethat they mean “herbs”! Except they’re using a show-offy accent: dropping the “h” and calling them “erbs.”
    â€œYou mean ‘herbs,’” I say, wriggling my pointer fingers as I say the word.
    â€œErbs,” says my mother, wriggling her own fingers. “You’re not supposed to pronounce the ‘h.’”
    Well, how was I supposed to know that? I’m sure many people go around for years and years thinking the wrong things about words like
herbs
, words they’ve only read in books and never said out loud until they have a dinner dish with a title. Take the word
humiliated
, for example. It starts out “hyoo,” not “hum,” like I used to think it was. That’s exactly how I feel. HYOO-miliated, especially because he’s here. And there’s my mother, smiling at the Villain over my head.
    â€œFresh herbs are easy to grow,” the Villain says. “You could put some in those blue pots you have in the alley out back. Lots of sun there. You’d have yourself a nice kitchen garden. It could look really nice. You kids and I could do it as a project together.”
    â€œThat’s a great idea! Isn’t it, Oona?” my mother chirps, as if it had never, ever looked beautiful back there until life got in the way! As if no one had ever suggested planting something in those pots again. For example, me.
    â€œWe’d need to do a lot of watering for that,” I say. “We’re trying to conserve.”
    â€œRosemary doesn’t need much water,” the Villain says.
    â€œAnyway, I don’t have the time for extra projects,” I say.
    â€œI have the time!” says Freddy.
    I glower at my brother. My mother starts to say something, but the Villain holds up his hand and she doesn’t. “That’s OK, Oona,” he says. “Maybe another time.”
    My mother brings out dessert, store-bought chocolate graham crackers and Gramma Dee’s taffy. We all pop a piece of taffy into our mouths. We chew and chew. The taffy glues my teeth together. I count to seven in my head.
    â€œHooray!” my mom and Freddy and I shout at the exact same time, when that taffy finally melts. Just like we always do.
    The Villain, still chewing, looks perplexed. “Am I missing something?” he asks.
    My mom explains the Seven-Second Meltdown Theory, and he tells her his own taffy hasn’t melted yet.
    â€œIt only works for family members,” I say coldly.
    â€œI see,” mumbles the Villain, his teeth still stuck together.
    â€œOh, Oona,” says my mother.
    I suddenly feel ashamed. I look down and a couple of tearsplop onto my plate, salting those chocolate graham crackers. Nobody sees. The reason I feel ashamed is because I notice something different about my mother, something I noticed as soon as I walked