You’re Invited Too by Jen Malone and Gail Nall Read Free Book Online Page B

please?”
    A chime from the alarm on the door means someone just opened it. Noooooooooo. I take my arm and swipe it across the table, forcing all the place cards into a pocket I form out of the edge of the tablecloth. Izzy lowers her eyebrows and looks at me like I just grew a second head.
    I make a zip it motion with my finger across my lips and place my most innocent expression on my face just as Mom thumps up the last of the steps from the garage and comes into the kitchen with two grocery bags. It’s beyond great to see those, because that means I don’t have to grocery shop this week, like I usually do whenever Mom is work-crazed. But it would have been way better to see Mom with grocery bags in, say, fifteen minutes. After I’d had a chance to clean up the place cards.
    â€œSades, grab these, would you? I think the milk is leaking and I’m afraid the bottom’s about to fall out of this one!” She jerks her chin at the paper bag in her right arm and I stare helplessly for one heartbeat.
    Then two.
    Do I let go of the tablecloth and send all the place cards to the floor for Mom to see, or do I risk spilled milk and Mom wrath? What to do, what to do? Izzy is every bit as frozen as I am, looking back and forth between us.
    Mom makes it easy by shrieking, “Girls! Don’t just stand there!”
    We both jump into action, but it’s too late. The gallon of milk comes crashing through the soggy bag and explodes all over the wood floor and Mom’s espadrilles. I jump back as it splatters my legs. Mom reaches across Izzy to dump the other bag on the counter, then yanks the whole roll of paper towels off the wall. She starts unspooling it and tearing big chunks of towels off to throw at us.
    â€œGet up as much as you can, as fast as you can. Try not to let it get between the gaps in the floorboards. Moisture is really bad for wood floors!” Mom is practically frantic.
    Izzy and I drop to our knees and start soaking up the milk with wads of paper towels. Mom joins in, and we work in silence for a minute or two until the worst of it is up. Izzy races down to the garage for the rags we use for washing the car, and together we get the last little bits up and polish the floor.
    While Mom and Izzy are distracted, I stuff all the slightly soggy place cards under the refrigerator. To borrow Alexandra’s expression: C’est la vie . I’ll make more. Those were probably ruined anyway, and it’ll be worth the extra work later if I can avoid detection now.
    No one speaks until Izzy breaks the silence. “Well, you know what Dad used to say . . .”
    â€œWhat’s that, Izzy-fizz?” Mom asks. I smile. The worst of it is over if Mom’s using nicknames.
    â€œThere’s no use crying over spilled milk.”
    Mom rocks back from a crouching position onto her butt, and I wonder if bringing up Dad at a time like this was a good idea. You can never tell if it will make Mom laugh or cry. The edges of her eyes crinkle up, and I see a tiny tear escape. Uh-oh.
    But then her shoulders shake, and I realize she’s laughing. She clutches the leg of the table and starts whooping. Izzy and I exchange a glance and join in. The three of us grasp at our sides, we’re laughing so hard.
    This is awesome .
    All the stress of the day whooshes away. Eventually, Mom takes a few deep breaths to collect herself and brings her hand down to the floor, where it brushes . . . a folded place card.
    Uh-oh. I missed one.
    She curls her fingers around it and brings it to her face. Then to arm’s distance as she squints at it. Mom just started wearing reading glasses, and I’m betting she wishes she had them right now. As for me, what I wish for is an escape hatch in the floor.
    I hold my breath.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Mom asks.
    Izzy answers for me. “That’s Sadie’s art homework.”
    â€œYou’re learning to calligraph place