I slide into a seat at the counter and rub my temples, too tired to defend myself even before Mom sends me alookover her shoulder.
“What’s this?” She turns off the stove and faces me.
“Frankie left.” I sigh.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Why? Where would she have gone?” With each question, Mom’s voice rises with concern.
“Back to L.A.” I’m one hundred percent stalling divulging everything.
Holding a wooden spoon dripping with oatmeal, Mom crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. She’s onto me.
“You let her drive the road out of here in the dark?” Oatmeal drops to the floor. Without taking her eyes off me, Mom tugs a dishtowel off the oven door and hands it to Junie. “Wipe that up for Jo-Joe, please Juniper.”
“I didn’tlether do anything, Mom. She left without telling me.”
“She just left? Without a reason?” Her eyes narrow again, digging deeper.
I look away from her questioning eyes just as Junie swipes the towel back and forth over the oatmeal, spreading it across the floor.
I rush to take the towel from her. “Let Daddy do it, Bug.”
“Help, don’t do,” Mom instructs.
I let out a long sigh. “Let mehelpyou, Junie.”
I wet the dishtowel and hand it back to Junie, then guide her in wiping up the oatmeal, taking my time to explain how to get all the oatmeal so it won’t dry on the floor. I go into a detailed description to make sure she understands, then go back over it again.
By the time I stand, the floor’s never looked so clean, and Mom’s never looked more skeptical about my motives for “helping” Junie do something. She’s still standing there, arms crossed, ready and waiting with more questions.
“Why did she go so suddenly? I got the feeling she planned to stay for a while,” she says.
“She has an audition or a callback or something. For a movie.”
“Can I see Frankie’s movie?” Junie asks, briefly perking up.
“It’s not for kids, Bug.”
Her shoulders sag again, and I resort to desperate measures. I hand the towel to her. “If you can put this in the laundry room and get dressed in ten counts, I’ll take you for a ride on the four-wheeler before breakfast.”
She sucks in her breath. “Okay. But I drive.”
Before I can dash her dreams again—no way am I letting her drive—she darts toward the hallway. I don’t make it to number one before she turns and comes back to yell, “Count slow!”
“Onnnnnnnne,” I start, planning to stay busy counting and avoid any more of Mom’s questions.
Mom has other plans. She hands me her spoon and turns the oven back on. “Stir this please, while I start coffee for your dad and the boys.”
Once she has me trapped with the oatmeal, her questions start again. “What kind of movie is Frankie auditioning for?”
“Some English thing with lords and ladies, and whatever, that some big-time director she’s wanted to work with is making.”
“A Regency film? I love those kinds of movies.” Mom’s expression softens into something less accusatory.
“Yeah, that’s what she called it when she auditioned. A Regency.”
