The Divorce Express Read Free Page A

up on me. I’ve got something important to tell you.”
    I listen, saying nothing, twirling the phone cord.
    “Are you still there?”
    “Yup. I just got to sleep after worrying all night.” Sometimes it’s good to make a parent feel a little guilty.
    There’s a pause. “I didn’t sleep well last night either. So about four o’clock this morning, I checked up on you. You were sound asleep,” he answers.
    Sometimes a parent likes to make a kid feel guilty too.
    “We’ll discuss all of that later,” he says. “Right now though, we’ve got a problem.”
    I thought we already had a problem.
    He continues. “Charlie says that Rocky’s not a he, she’s a she.”
    He woke me up to tell me that?
    Sometimes he’s very hard to understand.
    I mumble something without really saying anything.
    “She’s a nursing mother,” he says. “The babies will die if I don’t bring her home. It’s probably crazy, but I’m bringing her back. We’ll get stuck with Rocky and her babies knocking over our garbage . . . but I just can’t let them die.”
    I wake up. “Oh, Daddy . . . . Thank you.”
    He sighs. “We’ll be home soon. Why don’t you get breakfast going?”
    “I’ll make you the best breakfast ever.” I want to hug him.
    “See you soon,” he says. “Phoebe, I love you.”
    “Me too—I love you too. I think you’re wonderful,” I gush.
    “Look, honey, I’ll be home in a few minutes. I’m just going to stop off for the Sunday paper.”
    After we hang up, I jump out of bed and get dressed, putting on my new jeans and sweat shirt, which I was saving for a special occasion.
    The sweat shirt’s a little tight, the way they always are when they’re not broken in. Pulling it out, I try to stretch it.
    That’s one of the reasons that I need to have a best friend in Woodstock. That’s what best friends do—help you stretch your sweat shirts . . . talk . . . have pimple-squeezing sessions.
    I really miss Katie, my best friend in New York City. We used to do lots of things together, like the time we took five rolls of toilet paper and completely covered her older sister’s room with it. And the time we roller-skated in the fountain in Central Park. We could also be serious. Like when my parents were getting a divorce and when her father found out he had cancer. We really helped each other through both of those things. Sometimes I want to slug the grown-ups who say that childhood is so easy and fun. It isn’t.
    I know that Rocky’s not the answer. A raccooncan’t do the things Katie and I used to do together, but at least having her around will make me feel better until I do make a friend.
    I rush into the kitchen and start the breakfast—melon, peppermint tea, carrot juice, pumpkin bread, and an omelet—all things that I know my father loves.
    When the car pulls up in the driveway, I rush out and hug my father.
    We get the cage out of the car trunk.
    Rocky’s not moving much. I’d be pretty scared and tired, too, if I’d been through all that.
    My father takes a stick to open the cage door. “Stand back, Phoebe. She may be angry. I don’t want to have to take one of us to Kingston General Hospital with a raccoon bite.”
    The cage door opens.
    We step back.
    Rocky just sits there.
    My father prods her with the stick.
    Looking carefully at us, Rocky steps out.
    She’s so cute—those little paws, the way her face looks like she’s a bandit with a mask.
    She’s not moving.
    I kneel down and talk to her. “Go, Rocky. Go back to your babies.”
    “She’s afraid to lead us to them. Let’s go inside.” My father takes the paper out of the car.
    We start walking down the path, arm in arm.
    I turn around.
    Rocky’s rushing off.
    “Daddy, thank you.” I pat his arm. “I promise to clean up the messes.”
    “I’m going to have a trash bin built.” He sighs. “Then we won’t have to worry. We should have done that from the beginning. I just didn’t want to spend the money