Free Pieces of Why by K. L. Going

closet, then set up the worn board I’d picked up at a yard sale. Ma drew the tile with the most points, so she went first. She took her time studying the letters, then placed them on the board.
    M-U-T-E
    I drew in my breath. Had she done that on purpose or was it a coincidence?
    My hand hesitated above my tiles. I had a blank one, which I used as a V to make E-V-A-D-E. The word had been on my vocabulary list last year in English.
    Ma pursed her lips, taking a long time before putting her next word down on a double letter score. E-A-R-N
    Earn? What the heck did that mean? A surge of fury washed over me. Didn’t make any sense to be angry about a Scrabble word, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t have good letters, so all I could do was place an O next to her N to make N-O.
    Ma made a huffing noise. “That’s not much of a word,” she chided. “You can’t do any better than that? Doesn’t leave me much to work with.”
    â€œThis is a game,” I snapped. “Why should I help you win?”
    Ma’s eyes shot up, and she raised an eyebrow at me. For a long moment, the two of us sat there with our eyes locked, and then Ma scowled and made M-A-D.
    To which I added N-E-S-S.
    M-A-D-N-E-S-S. “Double word score,” I said.
    Ma shook her head. I couldn’t decide if she was angry or not, but then she used my S to make Y-I-P-E-S
    â€œYipes?”
    â€œIt’s in the Scrabble dictionary,” Ma said. “You can check if you want to.”
    I stood up. “I don’t want to play after all.”
    â€œOkay,” Ma said, frowning. For a long time, neither of us said anything, but finally Ma sighed. “Maybe we could do something else.”
    â€œLike what?” I asked, sinking into our living room couch and crossing my arms over my chest. Right then, I didn’t want to do anything with Ma ever again, but then she said the one thing I couldn’t resist.
    â€œLike . . . maybe we could bake that woman some bread.”
    I looked up quick, sure that I must have heard her wrong.
    â€œWhat did you say?”
    â€œThe woman in the newspaper,” Ma said. “She and herhusband live around here. Sometimes when people are grieving, other people bring them meals.” Ma paused. “I suppose it’s awkward, but—”
    â€œPlease,” I interrupted. “Let’s do it.”
    Ma sat still, like she was already regretting her offer. “Bread takes time,” she warned. “It’s not quick and easy the way cakes and cookies are . . . not if you make it from scratch. You have to mix the dough, then knead it and punch it down, then let it rise, knead it and punch it down again. It’ll take us all day, and you know I’ve got to nap since I’m working the night shift tonight.”
    â€œYou can nap while the dough is rising,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.
    Ma walked into the kitchen, opening cupboards, searching for ingredients.
    â€œI don’t even know if they’ll want something from—well, if they’ll want it. But we could leave it in their mailbox if it would help you to stop dwelling.”
    I nodded. “It would.”
    Ma pulled items out, one by one. Flour, sugar, salt, baking powder.
    I walked over and hugged Ma tight.
    â€œThanks,” I said, but Ma just shook her head.
    â€œDon’t thank me yet. We’ve still got all the work to do.”

    Ma was right about baking bread. It really did take all day, but by evening our house smelled so good, I thought I might burst. We’d made three braided loaves: one for the baby’s family, one for us, and one for Ms. Evette. Plus, we’d made a dozen clover leaf rolls from the extra dough. Ma and I had eaten ours hot out of the oven with melted butter and a dusting of cinnamon, and I had more rolls wrapped in a dishtowel next to the braided bread we were taking to Keisha’s. I held the