Seven Year Switch (2010) by Claire Cook Read Free Book Online

fast as I could.
    I wasn’t sure exactly when I started to scream, but somewhere during the second set of karate kicks, I realized that I was letting out a loud yell with every kick.
    â€œI hate you,” I yelled. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
    When Cynthia came out of her house, I was dripping with sweat and tired, just so tired. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to cry.
    She pulled her bangs across her forehead as she walked. “Wow,” she said. “You’re such a Jill of all trades.”
    â€œYeah, right,” I said. I gave the railing a pathetic little kick. It didn’t move. I wiped one eye and then the other with the backs of my hands.
    â€œNot to worry, girlfriend,” Cynthia said. “I have power tools. I’ll be right back.”
    She took a few steps in the direction of her house, then stopped and turned around. “Oh, wait,” she said. Her hand was still on her forehead, as if she had a serious headache. She wasn’t the only one. “First I have a couple of tiny calls to make, and then I’ll be right back.”
    As soon as Cynthia was out of sight, I went into my kitchen to call Seth. There was no way around it. They might eventually knock my railings down, but all the karate kicks and power tools in the world couldn’t change the fact that my daughter needed her father, and I had no choice but to let him back into our lives.

8
    WE WERE HEADING FOR MEHICO . ALL FIFTEEN WOMEN AND three men gathered around the ancient kitchen, watching me unload my grocery bags, as if I were about to pull a rabbit out of my hat.
    â€œToday,” I said, “we’ll be celebrating Cinco de Mayo.”
    â€œBut it’s only Tres de Mayo,” Ethel said. She was wearing a wild salmon-colored sweat suit that worked well with her I Love Lucy hair. She’d drawn thick orange lips over her much thinner ones, and I couldn’t stop looking at the places where she’d colored outside the lines.
    â€œClose enough,” T-shirt Tom said. Not that he could see it through the fingerprints on his glasses, but today’s shirt read wish you were beer. I had to admit I kind of agreed with the sentiment. Maybe I should have tried to smuggle in some Dos Equis, to take the edge off while keeping the class culturally accurate.
    I took a quick peek at the doorway, then pulled my attention back to the group.
    â€œCinco de Mayo,” I continued as I placed a measuring cup on the pitted counter, “celebrates the victory of the historic battle of 1863 between Mehico and France. The holiday is a symbol of Mexican pride and unity, and it includes lots of fun festivities.”
    I reached into a large plastic bag and pulled out a piñata.
    â€œOooh,” the whole class said in one big breath.
    The piñata was a tricolored papier-mâché donkey. To make up for the fact that I’d ordered it online from Oriental Trading, I told the group that the origin of the piñata dates back to centuries before the arrival of the first Spanish explorers on Mexican soil, and that Mexican Indians made piñatas from fragile earthenware jars painted to look like favorite gods.
    It was a beautiful spring day. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the kitchen, but I couldn’t seem to keep warm. I rubbed my hands together and took another quick glance at the empty doorway. As soon as Anastasia had left for school this morning, I’d jumped into the shower. For some ridiculous reason, I’d even shaved my legs and taken the time to slather on copious amounts of Vaseline Intensive Care.
    I’d put on a white T-shirt and a gauzy navy skirt with an embroidered lace hem I’d bought on clearance two years ago at Anthropologie, not because I was dressing up, of course, but because my legs were too sticky for pants. I glanced down now and saw a big glob of lotion between two toes. I bent down and tried to rub