Free A Tinfoil Sky by Cyndi Sand-Eveland Page B

decided to wait until long after Gladys went to bed to look at the phone again. Her plan was to sneak into the kitchen, wipe the phone panel in the dark, turn on the light really fast, and memorize the number before turning off the light again. She could be back on the couch within seconds.
    Mel was sure the fan, humming away behind the door to Gladys’s bedroom, would cover any noise she made fumbling around in the dark. With the tinfoil blocking any light from the moon, or streetlights, or passing cars, the place would be pitch-black.
    Mel didn’t remember the step stool that sat just inside the kitchen doorway, and, before she knew it, she was on the floor. Her head hit the countertop on the waydown. Within seconds, Gladys was up.
    “What the …” Gladys’s door flew open, her flashlight swinging.
    Mel’s eyes strained to find Gladys behind the glaring light.
    “Whatcha doing snooping around in here?”
    Mel could feel Gladys’s words striking her chest.
    “You listen. You get off that floor and get outta here. Git!”
    Mel got herself up onto her hands and knees, crawled to the living room, and climbed up onto the couch. She wasn’t sure if Gladys meant for her to get out of the apartment or just out of the kitchen.
    She tried hard not to hear Gladys yelling, telling her that she was going to call the judge first thing in the morning. Instead, Mel gently lowered her head into the folds of the satin pillow, being careful not to put any pressure on the bump forming on her forehead. She closed her eyes and let her fingers slip toward the center of the cushion where all the tucks of satin met under the smooth button.
The judge had to have counted the first two days. Twenty-five days to go
.
    Mel made a mental list of all the songs she and Cecily loved to sing, and then she sang them silently to herself until she fell asleep.
    —
    “Get up!” Gladys yelled from the doorway to the kitchen.
    “Get yourself off that couch and in here right now!”
    Mel knew what she needed to do next. She needed to lie. She was going to look Gladys straight in the face and lie.
    “I’m sorry about last night, Gladys. I know I shouldn’t have gotten up. I wanted to sneak something from the fridge.”
    This, Mel knew, was critical. She couldn’t just say she was making her way to the bathroom, couldn’t just say she was getting a drink of water. She needed to confess to something that she knew Gladys would be angry about, but it couldn’t be about Gladys’s things and it couldn’t involve the library card.
    Gladys didn’t reply. Mel was relieved for the silence.
Twenty-four days
.
    When Mel came out of the bathroom, Gladys was finishing her tea. The key sat on the table next to the plate with the toast, as though waiting for Mel. Mel picked up the plate and ignored the key. Gladys walked to the door. Mel followed her out, then sat down in the corner of the hall, under the window. Gladys didn’t seem to notice the bruise on Mel’s forehead; Mel told herself that it didn’t matter. But what she also knew, though she didn’twant to think it, even to herself, was that it did matter: grandparents were supposed to care.
    “You don’t need to call the judge,” Mel said quietly. “I won’t do it again.”
    Gladys didn’t answer; the sounds of Gladys locking the door were deafening. Mel’s eyes fell to the floor and she let her fingertips follow the grain in the wood.
    The growth rings in trees tell you how old the tree is; that’s what makes the grain in wood. No two trees are exactly the same. The rings are like fingerprints
.
    Mel looked up again when Gladys had turned the corner. The shadow of the leaves coming through the window fell dark on the wall. The sun was shining. She finished her toast, slid the plate under the door, and left the building. Mr. Frohberger would know Gladys’s phone number.
    “Well, let’s see,” Mr. Frohberger said as he glanced down at a list by his telephone. “This is it right