Outside the Ordinary World by Dori Ostermiller Read Free Book Online Page A

smoothing the hair from my eyes. Two nights ago, his hands had trembled as he stood examining the letters on Mom’s desk, turning each one over, holding each up to the light.
    I’d seen him searching her desk before, but never understood what he was seeking. Now I peeked through the wooden slats in the hallway door as he inspected each letter and bill, his hands beginning to shake in a way that made my stomach roll. Suddenly, I understood that he was looking for Mr. Robert’s letters. How did he know? My heart bulged, and it occurred to me that I should interrupt him now, or at least call for my mother. She was in her bedroom, laughing on the phone to Sammy, saying, “Well, I snagged Mrs. Phelps from the school committee; she’s already sold seven hundred dollars’ worth of night cream….” My father began throwing open cabinets and drawers, tossing out phone books and cookbooks, growing frantic, then stopping as Ali banged through the back door. They greeted each other casually, Dad running his fingers through his dark hair. “I can’t seem to find my reading glasses, sweet pea.” He held my sister’s shoulder, as if for support, and I ran to the bathroom, thinking I might vomit.
    The next day, Mom hid her box of letters next to mine, in the top corner of my closet.
    “You’d better go.” Theresa had stopped reading and was staring out the back window. “They’re out.” She buried the book beneath her seat, smoothed her skirt along the edge of her knees. “I’ll save it, if you want.”
    “Save what?”
    “The book, dummy. You can come over later. My parents will be at an art show.” She folded her hands in her lap, as if she’d just finished praying.
    “Thanks.” I gathered my shoes and stockings from the car floor, held them against the pain in my chest. Something terrible is going to happen, I wanted to say. “You live at the top of La Loma, right?”
    “Last house on the left. Across from the orange grove.”
    “Okay. I’ll call first.”
    People were coming out of the church now, drifting in nicely dressed clumps or wandering to their cars alone, shimmering in the heat. They seemed to move in slow motion, talking close to each other’s faces, the women touching one another’s arms before joining husbands, children. I wondered if they’d heard something in there to make them feel peaceful, or sad, if they’d hold it around them for a while or slip out of it as they drove home.
     
     
    My mother always smelled nice after church, like warm, spiced tea. “What did you do with your good stockings?” She glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
    “They’re here, on the floor.” I suddenly felt that taking off my stockings was the worst thing I’d ever done—worse than sneaking out of church, or hiding letters. “I was hot,” I said.
    Silence. Warm Saturday sun blasted through the car windows. She clicked on the turn signal, steered us onto Seventeenth Street.
    “I didn’t feel good.”
    “At least you got to hear Iguana Woman,” said Ali. “It’s important to know about the last plagues, because according to her, they might start up any second now.”
    I forced a laugh, wondering if Alison believed anything she heard in church. Did the stories unfurl in her mind, growing wings and scales? Ali was sitting in front, tearing pictures from a Seventeen magazine, searching for the perfect haircut.
    “Hey, Mom, Shelly Freedman’s going to ski camp next week,” she said, gathering her hair in a thick gold knot with one hand, switching on the air conditioner. “God, it’s roasting in here.”
    “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” clipped Mom.
    “Shelly said they’ve got six really cool ski boats at the camp. Did you hear, Sylvie?”
    “No. Sounds neat, though.” I smiled at the back of her head, grateful she’d said my name. Beads of sweat dried on my upper lip, cooled by the stale air. Mom sighed as if she’d just been told she’d never win the Mary Kay Cadillac, not