Lynne Wikoff brought her new Young Adult novel to the Thursday group. It stars Leah, a sixteen-year-old who handles school, a summer job, and her younger sister’s Asberger’s. All goes swimmingly— sort of, until Leah overhears her mother making secret plans.

Chapter 1

Say What?

Thursday started off with me at my summer job at the nursery. Totally ordinary, right? But I didn’t go straight home from work, like usual. And then—let’s just say that then that particular Thursday turned into the day ordinary died.

I got home a little after three—late, for sure, but not felony territory. My mom was hunched in the tweedy brown family room chair and didn’t bother to look up from her book when she heard me come in. “It’s almost four, Leah. Are you okay?”

I half-smiled, glad I’d prepared for her question. “Were you worried t I’d been attacked by those marauding wildebeests the San Fernando Valley is so famous for?”

Mom finally looked at me, her eyes flashing. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry. I meant that to be funny but I guess it didn’t come out that way.” After a cleansing breath, I added, “I’m going to have a quick snack and then go up to Goldie’s.”

“You’ll need to change your plans,” Mom cooed. “I need you to help Rachel with that geography puzzle. She’s in her room.”

Mom’s summer schedule for my sister included an afternoon “educational” project, and the puzzle was part of it. And that cooing? It translated to “not optional.” Yet again, it was all about Rachel.

I trudged upstairs to my doom, mentally grumbling with each step. This was supposed to be The Summer Leah (1) Gets the Pill (and Finally Grows Some Boobs) and (2) Finally Snags a Boyfriend. Part 1 had just been nixed by my doctor. Now—when getting Goldie’s advice on snagging that hypothetical boyfriend was more important than ever—now talking to her was doubtful. At least for today.

I found Rachel sprawled on the floor with puzzle pieces strewn around her like a puzzle volcano had erupted. “Hey Rach. Mom wants me to help you.” I cleared a spot on the floor and sat down. The puzzle was supposed to help her “get” maps, a concept too abstract for this particular ten-year-old. “Have you tried putting the pieces together?”

Rachel’s tight brown curls shook with her nodding head. “Duh.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you tried.” And I was. “Let’s make a plan.”

“I don’t want to make a plan. I want to finish reading Where the Red Fern Grows. Next I’m going to read Stone Fox. They’re both about dogs. I love dogs.”

I smiled like I hadn’t heard her say that a bazillion times. “Haven’t you already read those books?”

“So what? I like them.”

“I get it, but Mom said we have to do this puzzle before you can read. How about putting the pieces in color groups?”

Rachel swiped at a tear. “I wish I was as smart as you.”

“Don’t worry—you’ll figure it out soon.” Mom says—almost complains—that having a sister who aces school makes things even harder for Rachel. Like maybe I should purposely get bad grades so Rachel will feel better about herself?

“What do you think the next step is?” I asked when Rachel finished sorting.

“Mommy has a headache again. That’s why you have to help me.”

Aah. Rachel had another meltdown. I picked up the lime-colored pieces and clicked them together. “See—when you put these pieces together they have the same shape as California. And this black dot stands for Los Angeles. We live here, just a little ways from the dot. So what do you think the next step is?”

Rachel stuck out her tongue then practically yelled, “Put the rest of the colors together.”

Don’t react, Leah. Stay cool. “Right.”

When Rachel was six or seven, I asked Mom if she has Asperger’s—she seems sort of like the kids with Asperger’s at my school. Mom’s non answer: “I really… We’ll talk about it later.” There was no “later,” and I knew my mother well enough to not ask again.

Thankfully, Rachel got to work. I texted Goldie, who lives just two houses uphill from me.

Me: Stuck with R not sure I can come over

G: Can’t wait did dr give u pill?

later

“You’re ignoring me.”

The pitch of Rachel’s voice could have reached Dodger Stadium, mucho miles from the Mandel house in Granada Hills. “Okay, okay—but please use your inside voice.”

How could I have said those words? Those damn words belonged to Mom. “Hey Rach,” I whispered, “wanna play cards instead of doing this dumb puzzle?”

Rachel let her handful of puzzle pieces trickle to the floor. “I don’t want Mommy to get upset again.”

“She won’t if she doesn’t know.” Still whispering, now just for the fun of it. “You know that means I won’t tell her, and you won’t either, right?”

“Right,” she whispered back. “Okay.”

Rachel’s grin told me all I needed to know—this was a great idea. “How about gin rummy?”

“Okay, but just all of a kind. Runs are confusing.”

We played I don’t know how many games and Rachel even beat me a couple of times. It struck me that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this much fun with her or, more notably, seen her so happy. Because of that, it also struck me that maybe I knew something Mom, and Rachel’s various therapists, didn’t about helping a kid like my sister. Maybe I could help her, if not do better in school, at least learn how to play with other kids and have more friends—or, actually, have friends. That would feel really good—to both of us, and to Mom.

My dad did most of the talking at dinner that night. Mom chimed in occasionally, but in a blah tone I hadn’t heard before—definitely not normal. I kept waiting for a hint about what was up with her, but none came. After dinner Dad said, “I’ll go get us some ice cream—“

Rachel shouted, “Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate!” like she’d just won a giant screen TV on “Wheel of Fortune.” She loved that show, so Mom DVRd it and used it as a reward for her.

“What about you, honey bunny?” Dad was in Dan-the-Man mode, the cheesy voice he used for his voice-overs. It worked great for tv and radio commercials, but it was a bad sign when he used it at home. (For the record, he says his occupation is “voice actor.”)

“Anything is fine, Dan.” Still blah.

My one-to-ten worry meter jumped from a three to an eight.

“Hey, Leah, why don’t you come with me?” Dad said. I hopped right up, figuring he wanted to clue me in on the invisible elephant in the room.

“Why don’t you take Rachel too?” Mom cooed.

“Sure. Rachel, you come too.” Dad’s toothy smile screamed “fake.”

Naturally, Rachel agreed immediately.

I called shotgun and a moment later the three of us were buckled up in the Volvo and on our way. The IC Parlour was packed—parents with kids, gaggles of noisy preteens, some grandparent types, too-cute couples. Ice cream is clearly the glue that holds society together.

I got my Minty Chocochip in a cup—IMO cones are way too much trouble. Rachel ordered her Plain Ol’ Choco-late cone and Dad got Caramel You (Wal)Nut plus a pint of CreamyCoffee for Mom. We were pushing our way through the crowd toward the door when I saw Rachel step on a little boy’s foot.

The kid pointed at Rachel and howled like he’d been stabbed in an alley. “Ow ow ow! She stepped on my toes, my toes.” His panicked mother tried, and failed, to quiet him. Rachel had frozen and Dad looked confused—I guessed he didn’t see what happened—and people in the waiting crowd convicted Rachel of assault and battery with their glares.

I put my arm around Rachel’s shoulders as I looked at the boy’s mother. “I’m so sorry—she didn’t mean it.” I held up my ice cream cup so she could see that it was untouched. “Can I give him some?” I mouthed. She nodded.

“Want a bite?” I asked the boy, who had traded wailing for whimpering. He looked shy, but not too shy to gobble up the spoonful I held out to him. Gives new meaning to “we all scream for ice cream,” I thought but had the good sense not to say.

The boy wiped his eyes and smiled. “That’s good.”

“I hope your toes are okay.”

He just smiled as his mother took his hand and said, “Our number was called, sweetie—let’s go order.”

Back in the car, I turned to Rachel. “I know you didn’t step on that boy on purpose, but why didn’t you apologize to him?”

Rachel looked out the window. “I don’t know.”

A lump bloomed in my throat. I could tell by her quivering lip that she was being honest—she really didn’t know. I thought Dad would make one of his famous “learning experience” speeches but he didn’t say a word.

We drove the rest of the way home in silence.

In the garage, with the car’s engine still running, Dad said, “Take Mom her ice cream, Rachel. I need to talk to Leah for a minute.”

Rachel trotted off, leaving me to wait for Dad to say—whatever it was he wanted to say. Finally Dan-the-Man spoke. “Mom really needed a treat.” Translation: he wasn’t the only one of The Parents who was stressed.

“Uh huh.” Waiting, waiting.

Finally, the sequel: “Rachel really takes a toll on your mother, so I appreciate how you’ve been pitching in, helping her.”

“Why is everything always about Rachel in this family?” I cringed, having committed the sin of saying what I thought.

Icy glare. “Really, Leah? I expected you to be more mature than that.”

I immediately had a great reply ready to go, but a part of me—the mature part, apparently—told the snotty kid part to shut up. I hung my head. “Sorry.”

“As I was about to say,” Dan-the-Man made a show of clearing his throat, “it’s also good, you know, practice for you. Because, you know, Mom and I won’t be here forever and someday, you know, you’ll be responsible for her.”

The quiet that followed punched me in the gut so hard I couldn’t breathe. Dad was still behind the wheel when I flew out of the car and into the house.

Rachel was in the kitchen, nibbling at what remained of her ice cream cone. Mom was in the family room chair, again—this time on her phone, listening. The book she’d been reading lay on the floor, as though she hadn’t noticed when it slipped off her lap. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I just have to get away from… from everything.”

My mother’s whispered desperation clanged as loud as a fire alarm.

My brain wanted me to escape upstairs to the safety of my room, but my feet were rooted to the floor. I settled for clapping my hands over my ears and hoped I’d unhear what I’d just heard.