“Do you have any
homework, Valerie?” My mom handed me a bowl of Hamburger Helper. It was Friday
night, and we were having a family dinner.
“Yes,” I said. “This
looks delicious, Mom.”
“How’s school?” My dad used
wooden tongs to fill his salad bowl with iceberg lettuce. “Meet any new kids?”
“Yes,” I said, eager to
share my recent acquaintance with my family. “There’s a girl called Kit—”
“Kit? Like a kitty cat?” my thirteen-year-old brother interrupted,
making a cat-purring sound.
“She’s really nice,” I
continued, ignoring him. “Her real name is Katherine. And she’s been to New
York, and her mother has a mink coat.”
“Well,” my dad said,
shaking his head a little and laughing, “if her mother has a mink
coat . . .”
“Right,” I agreed with
his logic. “And Kit has had horseback-riding lessons, and she can do a
pirouette when she skates—”
“She sounds very nice,”
my mom said.
“We want to work on our
essays together. Can I invite her over?”
“I don’t see why not.
What’s the subject?” My mom peered at me over her glass of water.
“The importance of Labor
Day,” I said, with great importance. “What do you guys think it is?”
“A tribute to the
American workers,” my Dad replied.
“A day to barbecue,” my
brother said. “And no school.”
I stirred my Hamburger Helper.
“Kit says it’s important because it’s the last day we can wear white.”
My mother looked at me with
astonishment. “Valerie, I like the sound of your new friend. I can already tell
she’s going to be one of my favorites.”
