Everything started changing that night after dinner,
when Pearl called me up on the phone.
"Eleanor!" she shouted. "It's Pearl!"
"Pearl!" I shouted back.
(That's how we like to start our calls.)
"I have news," she said. "It's exciting news
and miserable news, too.
All blended up."
"What are you talking about?" I said.
"I get to be Ainsley's buddy!" she said.
I was quiet for a second.
Every new kid at our school is assigned a buddy,
to help with schoolwork and making friends.
And for that one second, I couldn't help wondering,
Why hadn't Mrs. Ramji picked me
to be Ainsley's buddy?
Wouldn't I be a good one?
Then I told myself,
Stop being stupid.
And I said to Pearl, "That's great!
Why isn't it only exciting?"
"Because of this miserable part," Pearl said.
"Ainsley is far behind.
So her buddy needs to help her with homework
every Monday and Wednesday, after school.
Until she catches up."
"Monday and Wednesday?" I said.
"Yes," she said. Her voice was sad.
"No other days work."
"But no other days work for us, either," I said,
thinking of Pearl's Hebrew school, and my art classes,
and Pearl's weekend house upstate.
"I know," she said.
We were both quiet for a second.
Then I asked, "When does the homework help start?"
I hoped she'd at least say, "Monday,"
so we'd have the next afternoon,
a Wednesday,
together.
Instead, she said, quietly, "Tomorrow."
"For how many weeks?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said.
"I don't know when she'll get caught up."
"I hope she's very smart," I said.
I stood silently then,
holding the phone and wondering
how much time they'd spend studying together
and baking brookies together
and eating those crazy-delicious things together
while I was at home alone,
missing Pearl.
And then I almost dropped the phone!
Because I saw Antoine
hurrying happily by
with one of my mom's fancy scarves
in his mouth.
"Antoine! Scarf!" I told Pearl.
She knew exactly what I meant.
"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" she said.
We hung up,
then I hurried
and found Antoine by the couch in our living room,
pulling and chewing on the scarf.
"No, Antoine, no!" I cried.
I got the scarf away from him,
but already
it was very slobbery.
And very ripped.
I knew that rip meant big trouble.
Just the week before,
Antoine had eaten one of my dad's dressy shoes
and left bite marks
on one leg of our coffee table.
And, of course, he'd just vomited on my mom's rug.
(Which was not his fault.)
I lay on my stomach then
and looked right into Antoine's eyes.
"I forgive you," I said.
"But Mom and Dad are going to be mad."
Antoine licked my nose very sweetly.
"At least scarves aren't poisonous," I told him,
scratching behind his ears.
Then I shoved Mom's scarf deep inside my pocket.
I meant to hide it in her scarf drawer
sometime before bed.
But I got distracted
by homework and bath time and sadness about Pearl.
And,
very
stupidly,
I forgot all about that scarf.
