Egg-Drop Blues Read Free Page A

already." That's supposed to be funny. I've since heard her tell somebody on the telephone that she's going to have one put in when we get the kitchen redecorated this summer.
    "Do you think Grandpa might be losing his hearing?" I asked Jury as we were doing the dishes—or maybe I should say, while I was doing the dishes and
he
was sitting at the kitchen table watching me. I knew he was wondering why I didn't say something to him or yell upstairs to Mama, but I had my own plan.
    "I don't think about stuff like that. If you think about stuff like that, the next thing you know, you'll be thinking about how old he's getting and how one day he won't be here any more and then
you'll get all bummed out thinking about how there's no guarantee about any of us being here. The next thing you know, I'm walking around with a serious expression on my face and people will think I'm you!"
    I took a handful of suds and tried to smash him in the face with it. He dodged and I ended up getting suds all over the curtains.
    "Why don't I sign us up for the rally on Monday, save you the bother?" I said.
    "You better not, unless you've got somewhere else to live."
    "But Brother, didn't I hear you tell our grandparents how much you were looking forward to it?"
    "This is serious business, Judge. Don't bring up that rally again in front of Mama. She'll have forgotten about it by this time next week."
    I put the last dinner plate in the rack and stepped away from the sink.
    "What are you doing?"
    "I'm going to bed. I'll see you later." I heard him asking me about the pots and pans and drying the dishes, but I kept on walking. He knew he couldn't say it too loud because our mother would have heard and she'd be curious about what was going on. I felt no guilt. I took all the plates and stuff into the kitchen, made the water,
washed everything except the pots and pans, and put them in the drying rack—he could do the rest.

    By Monday, I'd forgotten all about the rally; I had other things on my mind. When I got to school, a little early so we could play a quick game of pom-pom tackle, Mrs. Norville was hunched over Miss Hoffer's desk. They were so intense, Miss Hoffer didn't even look up to say to me, "God Bless you with a good morning." Most teachers won't let you put your junk down on your desk before the first bell, but our door is always open and Miss Hoffer will always greet you with a blessing. She mumbles the "God bless you with" part so that most people think she's just saying good morning. It took us (the posse) a long time to figure out what she was really saying. When we finally figured it out we decided that she mumbles the first part so she won't get in trouble with the district for talking religious stuff to us. She's a born-again Christian. She doesn't try to sell you literature or convert you, she just seems to be happy, and you want to know why. Sometimes she'll talk to you about it if you're away from school. Last year I was at the mall with her selling candy for a school project and I asked her why she was happy all the time.
Angela and Faye had already set me up to ask. They told me that they talked to her about it one day and they thought she made God and religion sound so logical. I might talk a lot to adults, according to my brother, but I don't usually ask them about their feelings. To be honest, I had to get to be ten and catch my mother crying a few times before I even knew they had feelings. Anyway, Miss Hoffer explained a little and she did make it sound—not logical like the girls said, but real. The next time I went to church I really paid attention because, for the first time, it was real.
    Monday morning, I got a gut feeling that Mrs. Norville was
not
hunched over Miss Hoffer's desk talking about the New Testament. When the bell rang, I realized Miss Hoffer and Mrs. Norville had been talking about me. Miss Hoffer was looking at me like my goldfish had just died. When it was time to read aloud, she didn't call