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“You were wonderful!” Mom said excitedly when Ash and I ran toward our parents.
It was our last game before school let out. I was, excited to see Shorty’s face light up with pride after each game, but a wave of disappointment hit me.
“Where’s Shorty?” I ask Mom, looking over her shoulder, hoping she is hiding and will jump out and say, “boo!”
But she wasn’t.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Her mom said she was sick and couldn’t attend the game.”
“But she never misses a game,” I say quietly, shoulders slumped.
“Can we get pizza now?” Ash asks as we follow Mom to the car.
“Yeah, baby. We can get pizza.”
“What about Shorty? She likes pizza.” Her favorite pizza is barbeque, and mine is pepperoni with sausage. The only food we both like is hot dogs and ice cream.
“It’s ok, Donnie. We can bring her a slice,” Ash says as we climb into Mom’s car.
“Yeah, okay,” I say sadly, buckling up.
* * *
I feel relieved when we pulled up to our house after the pizza shop. I jumped out of the car before Mom can put it in park.
I ran to Shorty’s house, but Mom’s voice pulled me back. “Donnie!” she yelled.
I turned around to face her.
“What?” I asked impatiently.
“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow to see her?” Mom grabbed the pizza box out of the car and shut her door with her hip.
“No, Mom. I need to see her now.” Irritation surged inside me.
“Donovan Jacob Reeves,” Mom warned. “You get in the house, take off your uniform, and shower.”
“But Mom!” I threw my hands in the air in frustration.
“Don’t make me tell you again. Get in the house,” she scolded, gesturing toward the house.
With a huff, I stomped up the stairs and down the hall to my bedroom.
After taking a shower, I stood in front of my bedroom window, looking out into Shorty’s window, but her shades were shut.
That’s weird. She never closed them, knowing it made me worry when I couldn’t see her—to know she was okay.
I try to keep myself busy by playing Mario Brothers with Ash, working on my 3-D Superman puzzle, and watching TV, but nothing works.
I’m getting more and more nervous.
Not able to wait any longer, I jumped off the couch and went into the kitchen. Mom was busy baking for the bake sale we’re having at school.
“Mom, can I go to Shorty’s?” I asked, trying to stay calm. Every second, minute, and hour felt like torture without being able to check on her.
Why couldn’t Mom see that?
“Sweetheart, it’s getting late.” She wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron.
