Free Dream With Little Angels by Michael Hiebert

said.
    â€œHey,” Uncle Henry said, “language.”
    â€œSorry,” Dewey said.
    But I kept thinking about what Uncle Henry had said, about there being maybe a connection between the roadkill disappearing and Mr. Farrow moving into the neighborhood. This thought continued long after Dewey had gone home for supper.
    My mother returned from work in time to cook dinner and, as she set a plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes on the table in front of me, all sorts of possible connections still tumbled through my mind.
    â€œYou’re awfully quiet there, soldier,” Uncle Henry said, picking up a drumstick.
    â€œThinkin’ ’bout stuff,” I said.
    He nodded, chewing.
    Carry’s attitude had made a strange about-face since we picked her up at the bus stop, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, she almost felt like the old Carry again. She dove into her dinner without any complaining. She even said please and thank you just as polite as could be. Of course I was immediately suspicious. Then, a few minutes after my mother finished serving and had sat down herself, I heard Carry twice catch her breath, as though she were about to say something and then, at the last minute, thought better of it.
    â€œMama?” she asked, finally. Now I was really suspicious. Carry never called my mother Mama unless she wanted something.
    â€œYes, honey?”
    Carry hesitated slightly. Then when she spoke, she did so quickly, as though she wanted to get all the words out onto the table in a single breath. “This Saturday mornin’, a bunch of my friends are getting together in Satsuma for pizza and an afternoon movie.”
    My mother swallowed, but didn’t say nothing.
    Carry took the opportunity to continue. “I was wonderin’ if I could go along with ’em. You know, on the bus and all that.” Her words kept speeding up. Pretty soon, I thought, she’d sound like the channel six weather guy. “I won’t be late,” she promised. “I’ll be home before supper.”
    â€œIs Jessica going?” my mother asked. Jessica Thompson had been Carry’s best friend since seventh grade.
    Carry paused, and in that second, I saw the doubt in her eyes. Without question, my mother and Uncle Henry saw it, too. “Yeah, sure,” Carry said. “I think so.”
    My mother and Uncle Henry gave each other a quick look. “Let me think on it,” my mother said. Carry gave her plate a frustrated frown.
    â€œOh!” I said. “Me and Dewey was wonderin’ if he could sleep over on Saturday. His mama already said it’s fine.”
    â€œI’m working the night shift on Saturday,” my mother said, “so I suppose it’s up to Uncle Henry.”
    Uncle Henry wiped his hands with his napkin. “Well, I guess if you soldiers promise to stay in line, I’m up to it.”
    â€œThanks, Uncle Henry.”
    Carry tossed the chicken wing in her hand back onto her plate. “How come he always gets everythin’ he wants?”
    â€œHe doesn’t get everythin’ he wants,” my mother said.
    â€œWhatever. I just asked to go to Satsuma and you have to ‘think on it.’ He asks for somethin’, and just poof, you say sure.” She made the poof motion with her hands. I thought she was getting a bit crazy.
    â€œHoney, it’s a bit different,” my mother said. “It’s not that I’m tryin’ to be mean or nothin’, it’s just . . . we still haven’t found Mary Ann Dailey, and until we do . . .”
    Carry burst from her seat. “What if you never find her, Mom? Do I never get to leave the house again? I am so sick of Mary Ann Dailey.” She stomped out of the kitchen. Her bedroom door slammed shut a few seconds later.
    My mother and Uncle Henry continued eating in silence, as though nothing had happened. I kept looking from one to the other, waiting