An Off Year by Claire Zulkey Read Free Book Online

cape, which seemed very expensive and would probably look ridiculous on me, but was perfect on her.
    â€œWell,” I said. “We have kinda all done a bad job making something of ourselves. I blame Mom.”
    â€œThat’s what they all say,” said Jane, and I made a face at her and told her about my mother.
    I don’t remember too much about what it was like when Mom lived with us, except that she wasn’t around a lot. I mostly remember that she left Dad the summer we trapped raccoons.
    It was a very exciting summer for me, at first. It turned out that the previous winter, raccoons ripped up the shingles on our roof to try to get inside for warmth. Horrified, Mom called exterminators, but she was told that with this particular kind of raccoon problem, there was only one thing that could be done.
    We procured a raccoon-size trap from Animal Control, which was to be baited nightly after we set it up on the side of the house near the tree the raccoons used to clamber onto the roof. The trap, which looked like an oversize wire shoe box, would shut its door after the raccoon stepped on a spring-mounted switch on its way to the food. There it would wait, unharmed, at least until morning, when the Animal Control man took it away and, as I understood it, let it loose into a happy, sunny woodland area to rejoin its cute raccoon families.
    Germaine surprisingly excelled at trapping the raccoons, despite being generally grossed out by most animals. Every time Dad set the bait, we’d end up with an empty trap, the neighbor’s cat, or a possum, which the Animal Control man would haul out of the trap and carry by the tail, splay-limbed and stoic, and throw in the back of the truck for relocation. Germaine really had a knack for baiting the raccoons, though. She checked online to see what foods raccoons liked and added the ingredients to the grocery list. Every night she would carefully bait the trap with corn on the cob, fruit, tuna, and peanut butter, varying the meals and scattering them throughout the trap. It was really quite artful. She would step out after dinner armed with a flashlight, ignoring the mosquitoes that were excited by her minimal tank top, and carefully place each piece of food as if she were setting a table for some important diplomat. Every time Germaine set the trap, we trapped a fat, angry raccoon that would try to dig its way out. It could have been a career for her.
    The traps were laid on the side of the house, directly under my bedroom willow. If I stayed awake late enough, I’d inevitably hear the snap of the trap as a raccoon stumbled into it, another victory for Germy. Sometimes I’d hear the raccoon crying, a ghostly noise that sounded like a loon.
    One morning I woke up to pouring rain. I knew that the trap had caught its prey from the familiar snap and the crying that had gone on all night. It was only 6:30 A.M., though, and I realized the animal must have been sitting in the rain for hours, with hours still to go before the Animal Control truck arrived. Although I felt so comfy in my bed and had just woken up from a great dream where we had beds in school instead of desks, I decided to do something for the poor creature. I ran down to the kitchen, congratulating myself on my selflessness, pulled out a large garbage bag, and cut apart the seams. Throwing on Dad’s raincoat, I ran outside and faced the raccoon. It did not look any different from the other raccoons, but I liked to think it held an expression of misery, combined with gratitude at my presence, as it hunched over, sopping wet. I draped the bag over the cage, providing a shelter from the rain, and ran back inside, upstairs, and into bed, feeling like I had done a good deed.
    I woke up around 10:00 A.M., after the rain had stopped, and found my family downstairs at the breakfast table, with the exception of Mom, who had gone out to play tennis.
    â€œDid the Animal Control man come yet?” I