Behind the Curtain Read Online Free PDF Page B

Saturday, except for soccer. “I’ve got soccer at two,” she said.
    “Is that ridiculous hardware store guy still the coach?” Chloe said.
    “Mr. Ringer’s still the coach,” Ingrid said. Maybe Mr. Ringer was kind of ridiculous, but she suddenly felt loyal to him.
    “We’ll make it for after the game then,” said Chloe.
    “Make what?” said Ingrid.
    “This invitation,” Chloe said.
    “What invitation?”
    Chloe’s tone sharpened. Ingrid had a pretty good ear for tones. This one was all about trying to keep impatience under wraps, like Ingrid was a little slow. “That’s why I’m calling, Ingrid. To invite you over for a swim. After the game. At your convenience. Whatever.”
    A swim. The Ferrands had an indoor pool lit by a huge crystal chandelier from France, installed by Mr. Rubino. Word was that Mrs. Ferrand swam a mile every morning in the nude. Ingrid made one of those quick decisions that felt totally right.
    “Oh,” she said. “I just remembered.”
    “What?”
    Ingrid searched her mind for some excuse she could have just remembered. And then out of the blue came a memory of something she should have remembered, namely MathFest. Oh my God.MathFest, Saturday morning, 8:30. What time was it now? She checked her watch—Fossil, bright red, red being her favorite color, the only one that said COLOR in capital letters. Twelve minutes till noon. Till noon? How could that have happened? By now MathFest was finished, all that wacky number fun a thing of the past. As for the future: Ms. Groome.
    “Well?” said Chloe.
    “MathFest,” said Ingrid.
    “What are you talking about?”
    What was that saying about if life hands you a lemon make lemonade? In this case, she’d handed herself the lemon. “A school thing,” Ingrid said. “Right after soccer till God knows when.”
    “They chose you for math?” said Chloe.
    “Crazy, I know,” said Ingrid. “But thanks for the invitation. Would have been great.”
    Chloe clicked off, no good-bye.
     
    Ingrid went downstairs, leaving her door open in case Nigel ever decided to get up. A very sharp kind of light filled the kitchen, making everything seem more real than real, like in some modern paintings Mom had dragged her to see at the museum in Hartford. Outside, the sky was a hard, cold blue,the trees in the town woods out back all bare now, winter around the corner. Dad was at the table, punching numbers on a calculator.
    “Hi, Dad,” said Ingrid. “Where is everybody?”
    “Mom’s got a showing,” he said, eyes on the calculator screen. “Ty’s gone for a run.”
    “Thought you had golf today,” Ingrid said. Dad belonged to the Sandblasters, a fanatical bunch of golfers at his club who played at least one round in every month of the year.
    “Work comes first,” he said, “as you should know by now.” Uh-oh. Some kind of mood. He jotted a few quick numbers on a yellow legal pad. “Who was on the phone?”
    “Chloe.”
    Dad looked up. “Chloe Ferrand?”
    What other Chloes did they know? Was there even another Chloe in the whole state? But Ingrid sensed it wasn’t the moment for an answer like that, and just said, “Yes.”
    “What did she want?”
    “Me to come over for a swim.”
    “Really?” said Dad, putting down his pen. “When?”
    “After soccer. I told her I was busy.”
    “You said no?”
    “Nicely.”
    “You said no?”
    “Yeah,” said Ingrid. “No.”
    That jaw muscle of Dad’s got all lumpy. “And why was that, if you don’t mind telling me?”
    “We’re not friends, Dad. I didn’t feel like it.”
    “Is that any reason to be rude?”
    “I wasn’t rude. I did it nicely, like I said.”
    “How did that go, exactly?” said Dad.
    “Huh?”
    Dad’s tone sharpened just as Chloe’s had done, impatience yearning to be free. “I’m asking what your excuse was. Wake up, Ingrid.”
    “My excuse?”
    “For blowing her off,” said Dad.
    Her excuse. Yikes. The whole MathFest thing, now starting to loom up