Death by Eggplant by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe Read Free Book Online Page A

don’t you make me?” he dared. “You and your little flour-sack baby. Where is the brat anyway?”
    â€œAn excellent question,” we heard from the side.
    Both of us turned. There stood Mrs. Menendez, her everyday uniform of navy skirt, jacket, and tie exchanged for her Sunday best: the identical outfit in gray. How could I have forgotten? Mrs. Menendez went to Our Lady Queen of Peace, up the block. There was a reason the town had named this Church Street.
    â€œDidn’t I say I wanted to see your baby with you at all times, both in school and out of school?”
    â€œIt’s awfully hot out for a baby,” I said. “Prickly heat, you know?”
    â€œIs that inadequate excuse your idea of responsibility? I repeat, Mr. Hooks: Where is your baby? And for that matter, where is yours, Mr. Dekker?”
    A horn tooted from across the street.
    â€œYoo-hoo, Bertie, yoo-hoooo!”
    It was my mother calling out the car window.
    No, please. Not Mom, not here, not with Dekker and Mrs. M. to see
.
    My mother made a wide U-turn. When she pulled up, the car bumped up over the curb with a nasty grinding sound. She left the car at that weird angle, turned off the engine, and stepped out. Sunlight hit yards of lime green all at once and I had to shield my eyes. It was as if she had plugged herself into a socket and begun to glow.
    I ran the few steps to the car.
    â€œHi, I’m ready, let’s go.”
    My mother didn’t budge, but waved at Mrs. M.
    â€œHel-looo, Mrs. Menendez!” Just my luck. My mother, who was sometimes too distracted to remember what day it was, somehow managed to remember Mrs. M. out of all my other teachers from a single Parents Night way back in September. “Can I give you a ride?”
    Mrs. M. shook her head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hooks, I’m just on my way to church.”
    â€œBertie’s just come from there. It’s so hot I figured hecould use an air-conditioned ride back. But Bertie,” she said to me, “I thought, ‘How silly! I can’t take the baby without a car seat.’” My mother laughed at her own foolishness.
    â€œOf course not. Let’s
go
, Mom.
Please
.”
    â€œThere were plenty of garage sales in the paper, though, even one right down the block, so while your father was still home, I raced out and got a seat. See?” She waved us all closer and pointed in the rear window. “Isn’t she darling?”
    There, in a rearward-facing infant seat was Cleo, bonnet and all, buckled in safely. With her stuck-out tongue and crossed eyes, she seemed to be saying, “
Nyah, nyah
, Bertie, can’t get away from me!”
    Figuring I was already sunk, I grew reckless.
    â€œSee, Mrs. Menendez? I
was
being responsible. I had an experienced babysitter.”
    â€œOh, Bertie, don’t call me a babysitter.” Mom smoothed down my hair. “I’m Cleo’s mother!”
    As always, Mrs. M.’s expression was unreadable. In school, I figured it meant, “Maybe you just passed, maybe you just failed, but no matter which, I can still make life miserable for you, and I will.” What did it mean here? I didn’t know.
    Before Mrs. Menendez could speak, from up the block, electronic bells began to peal. She checked her watch.
    â€œI’m late,” she murmured. Without another word, shenodded her good-bye and walked up the street toward Our Lady Queen of Peace.
    â€œSee you soon,” Mom called, waving again.
    â€œMom?” I asked. “I’m ready. Please, let’s go.”
    I guess God was still mad that I hadn’t liked the hymns because, instead of getting back in the car, my mother turned to Dekker and smiled.
    â€œIsn’t your little friend here from school, too?” she asked. “Would you like a ride?” she said to him.
    Little?
Did she have to use the word
little
? He would kill me now for sure.
    Totally oblivious, Mom said to