Alone at 90 Foot Read Online Free PDF Page B

26th.”
    â€œAnd how old will you be?”
    â€œPamela — have another piece of bread.” Dad shoves the bread basket in my face. “And stuff it in your mouth.”
    â€œNo thanks, Dad.” I smile sweetly.
    â€œOh, that’s alright, Ken. I’ll be forty. Sort of a big one. You know, lordy, lordy, guess who’s forty?” She kind of giggles.
    She’s real cool, Dad. Real cool. You picked a comedian. Lordy, lordy. Look who’s forty. Kind of, like, it’s all downhill from here ... one foot on the banana peel ...
    â€œYou mean, like, you’re not getting older, you’re just getting better?”
    This time, Dad’s look is accompanied with a firm foot applied to my shin under the table.
    Hey! It’s a lot better than what I was thinking.
    Jennifer clears her throat. “Something like that.”
    It’s pretty quiet for a while. Just the sounds of
phh, phh
and spoons clanking and Jennifer’s tidy little burp. Pat, pat with the napkin. “Do you like your teacher, Pamela?”
    Teacher? You mean the one I present a polished apple to every morning? Or do you mean orator-slash-dance-meister Mr. Bartell? Or, there’s Wally the Whiz, who can work through a quadratic equation in thirty seconds, yet can’t think to remember to zip up his fly. Or Ms. Lazarenko, dubbed the round mound of sound, who leads the choir from a chair.
    â€œI have more than one.”
    â€œOf course.”
    Dad pours another splash of wine. Careful, Dad, you might cause her embarrassment. She might loosen that tourniquet around her stiff white neck. Dad tries to introduce something we might actually be able to discuss.
    â€œYou might be interested in this, Jenn. Pamela likes to bead bracelets and belts and — “ Dad kind of looks to me for assistance. “What else, dear?” Because, as he suddenly realizes, he’s never paid much attention to that kind of stuff. So as not to embarrass him, I kindly help out.
    â€œI’ve done some blouses and purses — oh, and I beaded a cat collar once. For Nana Jean’s Prince.”
    Having done his part, Dad sits comfortably back. Until Jennifer Reid answers with an unenthusiastic, “Oh, isn’t that swell.”
    Swell? Swell?? What prehistoric language is that?!
    Well, anyway, Dad tried. But it doesn’t surprise me that that attempt fizzled out. I had her pegged for the non-handicraft type. We scrape the bottom of our bowls, once again to the tune of uneasy silence.
    I now know why Jennifer Reid is sliding into her fortieth year unmarried. The woman is a major drip. A geek. Therein lies her problem.
    After a while, Dad practically shouts, “Dessert?”
    â€œWhat is it?” I ask.
    â€œTiramisu,” Dad cheerfully announces. “Jenn made it.”
    Jennifer Reid does that silly giggle thing again, “I wish I had, Ken. But I have to fess up. I bought it.”
    Like, no duh. Wait a minute. Fess up? I’ve got to get out of here in case that language is contagious.
    â€œI think I’ll pass,” I say, standing up.
    Jennifer Reid gets this hurt sort of look, so Dad frowns at me.
    â€œI’ve got homework. I’ve got to read half a book.” Which was not true. It was more like the entire book. Let’s just say, I got a bit behind.
    A little while later, just as I’m about to start chapter three, there is a knock at my door. Jennifer Reid comes in to apologize.
    â€œFor what?” I have to ask. “I was the one that didn’t eat your dessert.”
    â€œFor asking you stupid questions.”
    Well, okay, I couldn’t argue with that. But I had considered the source. She then sits down on the end of my bed. “May I sit down?”
    â€œGo ahead.” I mean, since you already are.
    â€œYou see, Pam — ”
    I could tell this was big. Whatever was coming, was a definite problem.
    â€œI’m not very good with kids. I