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“Like all the craziness about the police and the shooting and the demonstrations.”
“Well, what about them?” she says.
“No, ma’am. I’m not biting. I may be young, but I’m not that foolish. You and me are going to say good-bye.”
“Ali Cross,” she says. “You’re young, but you are anything but foolish. In fact, I can tell that you are one impressive young man.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I’m still cautious. I don’t think she’s about to knock me over and run inside. But this conversation is over.
“Thank you, Ms. Torres. Stay safe.”
“You, too, Ali,” she says.
She turns around and steps down off the front stoop. The she stops and faces me again.
“Just one thing I want to let you know.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m one determined, persistent, unstoppable reporter. So, like any good reporter, if there’s a story here, I’ll find a way to report it.”
I bite my lower lip. Then I speak.
“Great. See you then.”
THECROSS HOUSEon Tuesday night, 5:30 p.m. If you looked in on us, you would think that it was an ordinary American evening at home. But if you lived here, like me, you’d know this is a fairly special night, because this is one of the rare times that we are all together. Dad and Bree, who is also on the force, are not out on some police assignment. They’re actually both home. That may not seem like a big deal for most families. But for us, it doesn’t happen a whole lot.
The two of them are in the living room, probably watching CNN. Nana Mama, of course, is doing something beneficial for mankind. She’s at the dining room table tapping away at her laptop, filling out forms for her church’s immigrant assistance program. Meanwhile, Jannie and I are scrounging around the fridge and the pantry closet, filling our faces with what we can find, which includes stale graham crackers, stale salt-free peanuts, and semisweet chocolate morsels, which I’m sure Nana was saving for baking chocolate chip cookies.
“I got an idea,” I say.
“Go ahead,” she says. I can tell Jannie’s skeptical. She always is.
“How about you and I offer to make supper tonight?” I ask.
“Nana said that she was about to start making her chili-meatloaf. How about we stick with that? Everyone loves it,” she says.
“Yeah, but maybe you and I could do something nice for the family.”
Jannie is no fool. Now she turns suspicious.
“What exactly are you up to, Ali?” she asks. “‘Do something nice for the family’?”
“Okay. Forget it. I just thought it was a good idea.”
“Good idea, huh? Here’s my guess. One of the grown-ups is mad at you about something, and you want to suck up to them,” Jannie says. But she must be into the idea, because she decides to go clear it with Nana.
Jannie is chuckling when she comes back into the kitchen. “Nana says we can do what we want. But I’m not sure she really means that. Because as I was walking out she said, ‘Lord only knows what you and your brother are up to.’”
“Great,” I say.
“So what’ll we be cooking, chef?” Jannie asks.
I take a short survey of supplies. The only things in the fridge are ingredients for meatloaf: some chopped green peppers and a ton of uncooked hamburger meat. Okay, we’ll be staying away from that.
I have not inherited the cooking gene from Nana Mama. So I can’t juggle together the other ingredients I find in the kitchen—ketchup and American cheese and way too much broccoli—into something tasty. Then I do get an idea. And I share it with Jannie.
“There’s some salad and bacon and a lot of eggs and four big fat potatoes in the vegetable bin. So I was thinking—breakfast for supper! Good idea, right?”
