Screaming at the Ump Read Online Free PDF Page A

over my money, I was embarrassed. Really embarrassed. I’d forgotten to bring any!
    â€œNot to worry, Baby,” Mrs. G. said, pulling out a credit card (from her wallet, not her hair). “I know where you live.”
    I thanked Mrs. G. as the cashier put all my stuff into plastic bags.
    When we pulled up in front of my house, Mrs. G. helped me get the bags from her trunk and then put her hand up like a traffic cop’s. “Do NOT thank me again, Baby. I was happy to do it.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Thanks.”
    ***
    I sat at the kitchen table, trying to force my giant science textbook into a green book sock. When Dad and Pop walked in, Pop said, “Oh, that’s right, Casey. How was today? How was school?”
    â€œSchool?” Dad said. He looked at me, at all the school supplies I was labeling and wrestling and organizing, as though he hadn’t seen them in front of him until then. “Right. First day of middle school. So where’d all this come from?”
    â€œMrs. G. took me to the store. I needed some stuff.”
    He got this look. It was kind of complicated.
    Most years we had this really awkward talk right about now. It was basically him saying that he was sorry in advance for not being around the way he usually was, for how Academy took nearly all his time. Last year I begged him to stop having that talk, told him I was old enough and I understood. But still, there was something in his look tonight that was maybe a little different, had something to do with my mother, and that got me thinking about how she used to sit at this table with me and cover my books for me and neatly label the dividers I put in my binders. I didn’t know if Dad was thinking I should have a mother here to help me with things like that or if he was feeling bad that he hadn’t talked to me at all, really, about this sort of important thing—me starting middle school—or if it was more him missing my mother, and that was one of those things I didn’t like to think about. It was like I turned into Sly or something: I just started talking.
    â€œI needed these book covers for all my books, and a different binder for each subject, but I don’t know how you’re supposed to fit four binders and a notebook and everything else into your backpack, because I have to bring them all to school tomorrow, and I have no idea how I should do that. And also what I bought in the cafeteria today was disgusting, and I’m not even sure that was really ham, and Mrs. G. paid for everything at Paper Depot, so we have to pay her—”
    â€œDid you ever call your mother?” Dad said.
    Foul! That’s a foul! That ball is way out of bounds!
    Why didn’t he know that bringing her up was outside the lines of fair play?
    â€œI didn’t have time,” I said, no longer interested in talking.
    â€œDon’t you think your mother might want to hear how your first day of middle school went? I’m sure there are two or three messages from her.”
    I just didn’t get the why of this. Why now? We could go months without talking, but when I started a new school, it suddenly became the most important thing in her life?
    â€œCasey, I know you’re hurt, or angry, or both. I really do get that.” I looked at him then and could tell that, no, he really didn’t get it.
    â€œYou don’t need to talk long, but she needs to hear from you.”
    I still didn’t say anything.
    My dad shook his head. His look said he was disgusted with me. Or maybe ashamed of me. “And you need a haircut, Casey,” he said.
    â€œSo do you, Dad.” Somehow, that took the mad right out of him. When he took off his baseball cap at the end of the day, he had horrible hat hair, squished down, and it made him look . . . sad.
    Like groceries, scheduling haircuts was something we couldn’t really get the hang of. Sometimes it wasn’t only my name