Perfect Girl - Weebly

“Me?”
At that moment, I realize my mother is the first person
to ask how I am doing. Everyone else has asked about her.
How am I doing? I don’t have an answer. Since Mr. Arthur
died, I’ve been walking around in a fog. School is almost
over, my heart has stopped thwanging, my mom and her
sister are becoming friends, everything is changing. I feel
both excited and sad. The way I feel when I hear the sound
of a train in the distance. It’s the sound of leaving and arriving.
Saying good-bye so you can say hello.
Only now, it’s beginning to sink in that the old man
who has always been there will always be gone. It makes me
feel . . . feel . . . guilty. I’ve always treated him like the weird
guy who rents the third floor. But he always treated my
mom and me like his family. Which I guess we were. A
family of misfits living under one crumbling roof.
“I don’t know how I’m doing,” I say to my mom.
She nods, squeezes my hand.
At the podium, Aunt Marty continues. “Fay would like
to invite anyone who wants to remember Mr. Arthur to step
up and say a few words.”
With that, she sits on the other side of Frankie. The
flutist begins again. And no one budges. Were they waiting
for the “family” to go first? As if reading my mind, Aunt
Marty gives me a little nod. Before I can move, Mr. Perwit
rises and walks up to the podium.
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