A World of Trouble Read Online Free Page A

voice—and legs—steady.
    â€œCards and Carnations is open three hundred and sixty-five days a year.” Dad’s voice is bright. Happy. Without the slightest hint of surprise or confusion.
    â€œIs that why he was here on Thanksgiving?”
    Mom’s arm falls from my shoulders. She steps back. “How do you—?”
    â€œI heard him. In the background. When I called.”
    â€œYou called on Thanksgiving?” Now Dad sounds confused. He looks at Mom. “I thought Kilter didn’t permit phone privileges.”
    â€œThey made an exception for the holiday,” I lie. Considering the situation, it seems necessary. “But service is pretty bad up there. You probably couldn’t hear me before I got cut off completely.”
    This is followed by a long pause. Even the record player, in between songs, is silent.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    I really am sleeping. That has to be it. I’m sleeping, and all of this—the newspaper, Mom leaving me at Kilter for no reason, my arch-nemesis standing in our living room—is a dream. It’s the only possible explanation.
    â€œThat’s why I came over on Thanksgiving,” Bartholomew John continues. “I know that apple was meant for me, not Miss Parsippany. I shouldn’t have been fighting with those other kids, and you were just trying to stop us.”
    He hands the poinsettia to Dad, revealing his face. It looks different. Longer. Straighter. Maybe because it’s not laughing or scowling. He clasps his hands behind his back, and for a split second, seems to peer past me. I glance over my shoulder and wonder if Mom really nods at him, or if I imagine that, too.
    â€œIt’s my fault you were sent away,” Bartholomew John says as I turn back. “And I wanted to apologize to your parents in person. And now I want to apologize to you.”
    My arms hang at my sides. Moving slowly, carefully, so no one notices, I press one palm to one leg. I take a small piece of flesh between the tips of my thumb and pointer finger, and squeeze.
    It hurts.
    â€œHow’d you know I’d be home today?” I ask.
    â€œI didn’t. I just stopped by to deliver the plant. But I figured you’d come home eventually, and whenever you did, I’d tell you how sorry I am.”
    â€œHave you been here since Thanksgiving? And before today?”
    â€œA few times. Your parents are good customers.”
    â€œDo you always let yourself in?”
    â€œHe rang the bell,” Mom offers. “But he probably thought we didn’t hear it over the music. So rather than let our pretty poinsettia freeze to death on the front stoop, he tried the door himself. Isn’t that right, Bartholomew John?”
    She smiles. He smiles.
    â€œBest customer service in town,” Dad says, placing the plant on the coffee table.
    â€œI’m going to make breakfast.” Mom heads for the kitchen. “Why don’t you boys sit? You have a lot to chat about over the next ten days.”
    The next ten days? If our visit has a time limit . . . that means Mom thinks we’ll be parting ways when school starts again.
    Ignoring Bartholomew John, who snatches a candy cane from the Christmas tree before flopping onto the couch, I look at Dad. His eyes are lowered to the newspaper next to the poinsettia. Ihope he’ll say that nothing’s set in stone. That since I didn’t kill anyone I shouldn’t have been sent away in the first place and so definitely don’t need to be sent away again.
    But he doesn’t say this. He doesn’t say anything.
    â€œBe right back,” I say. “Just want to take a shower.”
    As I start upstairs, I think about my parents. Bartholomew John. Lemon, Abe, and Gabby. Annika, Ike, and Houdini. Elinor. I’m so distracted, when I reach my bedroom door I almost trip over the brown package on the floor.
    My palm hits the wall for balance. I bend down for