Perfect Girl - Weebly

Mom marches for the kitchen and shoots me a look that
lets me know I’d better follow her . . . or else. I scurry
behind, my bare feet slapping the floor. Mr. Arthur is sitting
at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and eating oatmeal.
“Hello, girls,” he says.
“Since when do we have lemonade?!” I ask my mother,
racing for the refrigerator door.
Mom slams it shut the moment I open it.
“Of course we don’t have lemonade!” she snaps, her
voice dangerously close to needing an exorcism. “What is
she doing here?”
“I . . . I . . . I have no idea,” I lie.
“Did you call her?”
“Call her? Why would you ask me that?”
“Did you?” Mom’s red face is scaring me.
I get all indignant. “God, Mom,” I say, “don’t you trust
me? How was I supposed to know who was at the door?”
Wriggling away from the refrigerator and my mother’s
demonic stare, I grab three glasses from the cupboard.
“We’ll have to have water now, since you lied about the
lemonade.”
My mother’s eyes look wild. She says, “I’m not leaving
this kitchen until you make me a promise.”
“Did you at least refill the ice cube trays?” Flying across
the kitchen, I fling open the freezer door and groan. “Mom!
There are only three half cubes!”
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