Amber Brown Wants Extra Credit (8 page)

“This is disgusting.” My mother shakes her head . . . again.

“I know.” I grin. “It’s great.”

“I’m never sending the two of you out shopping together, never again.” My mother just keeps shaking her head.

She’s beginning to look like one of those bobbing dolls that some people have in the back window of their cars.

Her head would probably be falling off if she knew
how
Max and I shopped.

Max.

He’s put one hand over my mother’s eyes and is feeding her some of the ingredients and making her guess what they are.

Marshmallows are easy for her.

So are the nuts, candy corn, and Twizzlers.

Max puts an M&M in my mother’s mouth.

“This one’s a piece of cake,” my mother says.

“No. Wrong. It’s an M&M.” Max takes his hand away from my mother’s eyes and gives her a kiss.

I, Amber Brown, could have told him that “a piece of cake” in my mother’s language means that it’s super easy . . . but something tells me that Max already knows that.

I, Amber Brown, can also tell him that I’m not too sure about how I feel about him kissing my mom.

My mother starts to laugh, and then she looks over at me.

She looks a little guilty, sort of like she knows that I am not crazy about them kissing each other.

I clap my hands. “Come on, everyone, let’s turn on the oven and do some preheating.”

My mother and Max both laugh.

I don’t get it.

“What’s so funny?” I want to know.

“Nothing.” My mother moves away from Max and puts the oven on.

Max puts out the cupcake papers, which we’re using instead of baking pans so that we can make individual brownies with different stuff in them.

“What’s so funny?” I repeat.

“Nothing,” my mother repeats.

I make a face.

“It was a private joke,” my mother tells me.

I don’t think that Max and my mother should be having private jokes, not so soon.

I hate it when adults laugh in front of you and then say that it’s a private joke.

It’s kind of like when you’re real little and
grown-ups spell in front of you.

And it’s not fair.

Parents always make kids tell when the kids have a private joke.

And teachers always say things like, “Amber, would you like to share that with the rest of the class?”

And then if you say, “No, I really wouldn’t,” they make you do it anyway or they give you detention.

“The oven’s heating up.” My mother smiles. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

We get started.

Max pretends to be a French chef . . . “And now for zee eggs. . . .”

My mother starts singing, “Hi-ho, hi-ho . . . . . it’s off to work we go,” and she pretends to be one of the Seven Dwarfs . . . . Dopey, I think.

Max says that he’s the eighth dwarf, Hungry.

I pretend to be the grown-up, lecturing them on taking the job seriously and telling them not to eat so much of the batter (which I keep doing).

Our faces are covered with chocolate.

Max has just made a tuna–jelly-bean brownie.

My mother looks at his brownie and makes retching noises.

She’s decorated her marshmallow brownie with sprinkles.

I’m filling my brownie with Gummi worms crawling through it and over it.

The phone rings.

It’s my father.

“Hi, honey.” My dad sounds like he’s practically next door, not all the way in Paris, France. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I say.

“What are you doing?”

I don’t want to mention the good time that Max, Mom, and I are having, so I say, “Not much.”

“I miss you so much. Do you miss me?”

“Yes, Daddy, I miss you bunches.”

I sit in the living room, talking on the phone.

My mother and Max are in the kitchen.

“I miss you,” I repeat.

“How much?” He’s smiling . . . I can tell by his voice.

“This much.” I spread my arms as far as I can while holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear.

“And how much is that?” he says, playing the I-love-you-this-much game we’ve always played with each other.

“To the next universe,” I tell him.

“To the farthest galaxy,” he tells me. “I love you and miss you that much.”

I try to imagine what he’s looking like at the other end.

I haven’t seen my father for a couple of months, not since last summer when my aunt Pam took me to London, England.

I was supposed to visit him in Paris for a week but then I got the stupid chicken pox and he came to London instead.

We only got to spend a couple of days together.

And even though we talk on the phone every week, it’s not the same.

Just before I start to tell him some stuff about me, he starts talking about what he’s been doing, how he went to Euro Disney with a friend of his from work . . . . . . . and with her little boy.

I was supposed to go to Euro Disney with him last summer.

The stupid chicken pox.

All I have is a Euro Disney sweatshirt that my dad sent me before I even went to England.

“Who is your friend, the one with the little boy?” I twirl the phone wire. “Did her husband go too?”

There’s a pause for a minute, and then my dad says, “They’re divorced. You know, Amber, you’d really like Judith and her son, Todd. He’s the cutest little six-year-old. I’ve been spending a lot of time with them lately.”

I think,
Here we go again
.

I’m just getting used to Max. Now I have to find out about Judith and Todd.

I say nothing for a minute, and then, “Cuter than when I was six?”

“No one was cuter than my Amber,” he says.

My stomach starts to hurt.

I wonder if I’ve been eating too much brownie batter.

My father continues. “Maybe you can come over here during Christmas vacation and meet them . . . . . I’m sure that you’ll really like them . . . and we’ll finally be able to spend some time together.”

There’s so much to think about.

I’m getting a headache.

A headache . . . . . a stomachache . . . . maybe it’s the attack of a killer flu that suddenly attacks nine-year-old girls who have eaten too much brownie batter. Maybe it’s a telephone virus.

I don’t want to meet this stupid Judith person and her stupid little dweeb son, who get to spend time with my father in Euro Disney when I hardly ever get to see him.

Why did my father even have to mention them?

This is my phone call, my time with him.

“Amber, I really miss you so much. Tell me what you’ve been doing. I feel like I’m missing so much.”

“You could move back,” I tell him.

“I can’t, not yet.” He sighs. “We’ve been through this already. It’s my job . . . . and I need to earn money. I’ve got a lot of extra expenses.”

“Maybe you’d have more money if you weren’t taking strangers to Euro Disney.”

“Amber, don’t be silly,” he says.

I hate to be told that I’m being silly when I tell him how I feel.

“Look. I’ve got to be going now. Mom and I are in the middle of making brownies
with her friend Max. He took me shopping yesterday. We’re all having so much fun.”

There’s silence at the other end.

I continue. “In a couple of weeks, there’s going to be a carnival at school. I’m probably going to be very busy going to that with Mom and Max. You’ll probably be very busy doing something with Judith and her little dweeb . . . . so if you don’t call, it’ll be okay.”

“Amber.” He raises his voice. “Stop this. Stop it right now. Don’t be angry. Be reasonable. I only mentioned Judith because I want you to know about my life . . . so that we can stay close. I’m sorry if I’ve done this the wrong way.”

“You could have asked about my schoolwork,” I say. “Actually, I’ve been getting into trouble at school, not doing my schoolwork.”

There’s silence at the other end for a minute, and then he says, “Why didn’t your
mother call me to talk about this?”

“She’s handling it,” I lie. “She didn’t have to spend her money on a long-distance phone call. And anyway, she talks to Max about stuff like that now.”

“Amber, when we’ve finished talking, I want to speak to your mother.”

“She and Max are watching that the brownies don’t burn. And I’ve got to go back now and help them. Well, it’s been nice talking to you.”

I hang up the phone.