Free A Hole in My Heart by Rie Charles Page B

house. I don’t know why. It doesn’t feel right. I check “choir” anyway on the list at the back of the room and I almost agree I’d do costumes, too, but change my mind.
    Tuesday at four, straight after announcements, I head for room 9A. I’m third there and find a desk by the window. With Mrs. Bramley on the autoharp, we stumble through “We’re Off to See the Wizard” and “Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead” about ten times each until I have them nearly all memorized. I wait until the others straggle out. The room’s empty, except for Trudy.
    â€œWhat’re you doing here?”
    â€œThe same thing as you, I guess.” I am definitely not happy to see her. Part of the reason for coming to practices is to be away from her and Dolores.
    â€œYou like singing?”
    â€œUh-huh. I used to be in a choir in Penticton.”
    â€œMe too. Not Penticton. But Prince George. In the school choir.”
    â€œWhere’s Dolores?”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    â€œI thought you were her best friend.”
    â€œOnly friend. Maybe not even that.”
    â€œStill, where’s Dolores?”
    â€œLook, I’d rather stay away from her.”
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œShe does mean things. But mainly I don’t like going to her house. It’s funny there.”
    â€œFunny ha ha or funny peculiar?”
    â€œFunny peculiar. It gives me the creeps. Don’t go there.”
    â€œI don’t even know where she lives.” Not really, anyway.
    â€œWell, if you want my advice, keep it that way.” I hold the school door open for Trudy.
    â€œHave you put your name down for a special role?”
    â€œNah, I don’t think I could.” We walk down the corridor together. It feels awkward. “Did you see that Jinx was at rehearsal too?”
    â€œJinx? Who’s Jinx?”
    â€œYou know, Jonathon. The guy at the café. That’s his nickname.” We cross over Grand Boulevard in silence.
    â€œGot to turn here.” I give her a half wave. “See you Thursday.”
    â€¢ • •
    The next day after school I just get in the front door when the back doorbell rings. It’s Stella with a smile on her face.
    â€œCome see the kittens.”
    I hop over the picket fence, barely missing the rhubarb. There on the porch, in the quilt-padded cardboard box, are four, mostly black, tiny rat-like creatures, two curled up asleep, the other two nursing. Carmody — in other words Fluffy — purrs contentedly.
    â€œCan we pick them up, Mrs. Taylor?”
    â€œOf course, dear. Fluffy will tell you if she doesn’t want you to.” Mrs. Taylor seems softer today. Maybe she likes kittens too. I wonder if she wanted babies of her own.
    I slip my hands under each kitten in turn, stroke their soft fur and explore their markings. One has white fur around his eye with black everywhere else, another has white boots only. A third is all black. They have cords dangling from their bellies. When I lift up the fourth, I know immediately she’s my favourite. She’s smaller than the others — teeny, teeny — and has a touch of white under her chin.
    â€œWhen do they open their eyes?” Stella asks her aunt.
    â€œI don’t know. Let’s wait and see.”
    The small warm creature wriggles in my hand and mews, her head moving, searching.
    â€œShe’s looking for her mother, for food.”
    I slide her in next to Carmody. The kitten immediately sucks away at her mum’s little nipple. Carmody licks the tiny body. It looks so peaceful. And comforting. “I wish I could keep her, Mrs. Taylor.”
    â€œIf your dad says you can have a kitten, you can pick whichever one you like.”
    â€œReally? Oh thanks, Mrs. Taylor. I’ll call her Juniper.”
    â€œMe too, Aunt Grace?”
    â€œThat depends on what your mother says.”
    â€¢ • •
    In Thursday’s practice