It's Only Temporary (8 page)

Skye wanted to tell Ms. O'Hare that Maddy wasn't an official friend, not one that she'd chosen for herself, and that she wasn't especially artistic – or merry, for that matter. But she decided to keep her mouth shut.

“Thanks, Ms. O'Hare,” was all she said.

“How's Scott doing?” Gran asked Skye at dinner that night: turkey meat loaf with regular ketchup, for which Skye had had to negotiate in the supermarket aisle, steamed peas, spinach salad, and a whole-wheat roll. “Is his writing any better?”

“Well,” Skye said, after pausing to take a sip of milk, “it was never all that great, even before the accident. But I guess he's improving,”
she added. “At first, it took him so much time to type out a word that he usually forgot what it was.”

Tears filled Gran's eyes, and Skye looked away, because grown-ups showing emotion was a thing she did not like to see.

“I'm so glad he has someone to write to, Skye,” Gran said. “Someone who really cares about him.”

“Writing to me is just part of his rehab,” Skye objected quietly, poking through her salad with barely disguised suspicion – because she now knew that Gran liked to sneak extra nutrition into her dishes when least expected: tofu cubes, tempeh strips, nuts and seeds. She found these things tucked into her sandwiches and folded into omelets, as well as sprinkled onto her salads.

It was like being an unwilling member of some cult, Skye thought, longing suddenly for her mom's slapdash attempts at cooking: pre-cut cheese squares melted onto English muffins for dinner, or tortilla-wrapped hot dogs, or bright orange macaroni and cheese from a box.

And then there were last summer's salty, greasy takeout meals: sweet-and-sour
everything
, from that one Chinese restaurant that delivered; the family-sized buckets of spaghetti with meat sauce from their favorite Italian restaurant, complete with garlic bread, of course; and anything drive-through.

“And you really care about Maddy, too,” Gran was saying
thoughtfully. “That was so nice of you to include her in your art activities group, Skye. Maddy's mother says she's really blooming.”

“You don't have to say that,” Skye mumbled, because she didn't like talking about her friends behind their backs. Well, her
almost
-friend. “Maddy's doing great in art activities. Ms. O'Hare says she doesn't know what she'd do without her, because everyone else is such a diva.”

“Is there something the matter with your salad?” Gran asked suddenly.

“Uh, no,” Skye replied. “Not really.”

“‘Not really' isn't exactly a ringing endorsement, Skye,” Gran said.

“I'm sorry, Gran,” Skye said, loading up her fork with spinach. “It's just that my mom makes salad differently, and I guess that's kind of what I'm used to.”

Gran thought about this. “Well,” she finally said, “what about if you plan the menu for tomorrow night? What sounds good? You name it.”

Skye grinned at her. “How about beanie-weenies, and iceberg lettuce salad with orange bottled dressing?” she answered, thinking of home. “And a butterscotch pudding cup with whipped topping for dessert?”

A shocked silence seemed to hover over the dining-room table. “I hope you're joking,” Gran finally said, barely squeezing out the words.

“Not really,” Skye said softly. “But never mind. It's okay.”

“I – I could try making the beanie-weenies, if you tell me how,” Gran said, sounding brave. “And you can pour ketchup all over it,” she added.

Skye managed a laugh. “Thanks, Gran,” she said. “But the way you cook is okay. I'm getting used to it, in fact.”