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of the day creeps back. I try to push it away, but it nags at me and blocks my words. I lay my cheek on the pillow, pushing the notebook aside.
    It’s been a bad week. Mom hasn’t come out and said it, but I know this is the one-year anniversary of when Claude—Maisie’s and Evan’s dad—left. I did a happy dance myself, but I hear her crying at night sometimes. And the way he did it: empty apartment, kids’ piggy banks cleaned out, not even a note. What a douche.
    I drift off this way and have restless dreams about the tinkling of bottles like tiny bells. Being closed up in muffled darkness, one brick at a time. Small voices whimpering somewhere I can’t reach.
    I wake to Maisie crouching over me, her hair dangling down and tickling my eyebrow. “What’s that?” she asks. My eyes snap open. My notebook has fallen to the floor beside me, its pages splayed.
    I snatch it up and tell her, “Homework.” I tuck it on their high shelf, behind a box of winter clothes.
    Evan is already mucking around in the kitchen, having pulled a chair over to the counter to reach the loaf of bread. I take the bread from his hand after he’s had a bite or two. “Do you want me to toast this for you?” He nods. I must have really been out of it to miss all of this. It’s 9:23 AM . Bus left. Bell rung. Class started. There’s no way I can pull it off this morning. I call Maisie’s school and tell an ancient-sounding admin assistant that Maisie is sick and won’t be in today.
    Evan, standing at my elbow, says, “We’re not going to school today?”
    “There is no school today, Evan. School’s closed.” He seems to accept this, since often things he’s interested in are closed—the toy store, the swimming pool, sometimes the park. “You’ll be home with me today, okay?” I say.
    “And Mom?”
    I pause. “Maybe. We’ll see. I guess so.” I mean, technically she’ll be in the apartment, right?
    She stumbles out around noon, just as I’m getting out of the shower. The kids are watching TV . Her hair is puffed up on one side; she must have passed out while it was still damp. “Why didn’t you wake me up last night?” she says, reaching for the water jug in the fridge.
    I give her the look.
    “I was just having a bit of a nap before you got home.” She rubs her temple. “You should’ve woken me.”
    “I had to call in for you again.” I can’t even look her in the eye.
    “Why, Isabelle? You should’ve woken me,” she says, pouring a tall glass. I’ve started down the hall to grab my notebook and take off when the phone rings.
    I know exactly who it is. I dash for it as she takes a few lazy steps, clamping my hand over the receiver the second before she reaches it.
    “Isabelle, what on earth?”
    “Sit down, Mom.” Then I tell her about punching the blond, making it out like she was a bloodthirsty maniac who tried to kill me. All while the phone rings endlessly behind us. It finally stops as I get around to mentioning my totally unjust suspension.
    She still manages to look shocked every time I get in trouble at school.
    “Isabelle.” She opens her pale mouth, struggling with the words, “I didn’t raise you…”
    “No, you didn’t raise me!” I holler, banging both fists against the table. Knocking over a salt shaker.
    My words seem to suck the air out of her. That’s how I leave her as I break for the door and head down the hall, small voices trailing behind me. I lose them at the elevator, ignoring the pull in my stomach as the doors slide closed before they reach me.
    I’ve forgotten my jacket. Low clouds dampen a gray skyline, making goose bumps prickle my arms. I walk for an hour, the wind scratching my cheeks red.
    When I get back, Mom is sitting at the table with the phone in front of her. She gives me a pointed stare. I gather Mr. Talmage has given her the your-daughter-beats-up-innocent-children-and-fluffy-kittens talk.
    I stare straight back. Just bring it up, Mom. Just try .
    She