Oddballs Read Free Page A

mother’s profession, it was clear that she did not approve of a mother who worked. I did manage to imply, however, that Mom only worked part-time and of course was always there when I came home from school.
    When the snack ordeal was over, we could not escape up to Frank’s room—that was out of bounds because his mother couldn’t keep an eye on us there. We would have to sit, squirming with boredom, in the formal, spotlessly clean living room. All the furniture was covered in transparent plastic, which was either slippery or sticky, depending on the weather, and always uncomfortable. Frank’s mother bustled around, vacuuming, polishing, dusting the plastic flowers, frequently peeking in to see what we were doing. Not that there was anything interesting we could do. I would never stay very long. My visits there were the price we had to pay for the freedom we enjoyed at my house.
    Things continued in this way without mishap for most of sixth grade. Then, toward the end of the school year, I made a fatal blunder: I invited Frank to sleep over.
    It was going to be a great night, a Saturday. Two of our other friends were coming; there was plenty of space in my large attic room for sleeping bags. Vicky would be sleeping at someone else’s house, so she wouldn’t be in our hair. I knew my parents would leave us alone—and they had said I could bring the TV up to the top floor; we could watch the kind of late movies they showed when kids were usually asleep. I had also just discovered two very lavishly illustrated new books in Mom’s medical library, which I knew everyone would find deeply fascinating. And since the attic was pretty well soundproofed, we’d be able to stay up all night if we wanted.
    Frank was torn. He desperately wanted to come. But it was a certainty that his mother would not allow him to spend the night without first checking all the details with my mother. So far, our mothers had never met or even spoken on the phone, and we wanted to keep it that way.
    â€œIf I ask her, she’ll call your mother up,” Frank told me miserably after school on Friday. “She’ll ask her all sorts of questions, like if they’re going to keep an eye on us and make us go to bed early and stuff like that. And what if she finds out your mother isn’t there after school? I’ll never be able to come over again.”
    â€œMaybe I can get my mother to say they’ll make us go to bed early. And maybe she just won’t tell her how late she works,” I said, not too sure about this. But it was worth a try. The party wouldn’t be the same without Frank and his crazy sense of humor. And he was my best friend. “She wouldn’t be lying, exactly. I’ll ask her first, then call you.”
    But as loose as Mom was, she had her limits. “Poor Frank,” she said. “His mother sounds like a pill. I guess I can imply that you’ll be supervised. But I can’t lie to her about how late I work. She’s his mother; she has a right to know the situation. Anyway, what would someone like that do if she found out I lied to her? I dread to think.”
    â€œI’m not asking you to lie. Just don’t tell her. And if she asks, be vague.”
    I called Frank, and then we put our mothers on the phone. I listened nervously to our end of the conversation. “I can assure you, the boys won’t get into any mischief,” Mom said in her most businesslike voice. “Billy’s had friends over before; it’s always been fine. And we’ll certainly see to it that they don’t stay up late—we’ll want our sleep, too.” There was a pause. I held my breath, wondering what Frank’s mother was asking now. “Yes, there’ll be plenty of healthy food for them to eat; I know what growing boys are like.” Another pause. Mom rolled her eyes at me. “I did study nutrition in medical school,” she said,