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bumping framed SMART certificates and assorted “Thank you, Toodi Bleu, from the Mayor!” letters. I followed close behind, straightening each frame. In the bathroom, I plopped myself onto the counter, where a new Response Team recruit is probably too big to be sitting, but it seemed okay just that one time. Then Mom gave me a sudden squeeze that was longer and tighter than any time she’d come home before, a journal-cover-worthy squeeze that made me wish someone behind the shower curtain had a camera.
    â€œNow, let me have a look at you,” she said, cupping my chin in one hand and smoothing my hair with the other. Even with a case of the greasies, my mom was so beautiful they could have designed a Storm Rescue Barbie after her.
    â€œCass, what’s this sticky all over your face?” she said.
    â€œFresca.”
    Mom grabbed the washcloth and turned on the warm water. As she gently scrubbed my face, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was a poor storm victim she was helping. Like, if only I had some stuff for her to bandage, I could sit there all day with her tending to me. But without the actual blood and hurting, of course. When she stopped to wring out the dirty water, I let the questions flow like my own little flood.
    â€œDid your cell phone not work in the storm area this time?”
    â€œNo phone reception in those parts, baby,” she said. “No power, no nothing. They were hit really hard.”
    â€œSo then, what’s Misery, I mean Missouri like?” I said.
    â€œYou know, Cass,” she said with a grin. “I’d really like to find out someday…when it’s not covered in water, that is.”
    Mom dabbed at my mouth with the washcloth.
    â€œThere’ll be plenty of time for my stories at the party,” she said. “Now, you hold still just a sec.”
    I could smell fresh nail polish as Mom lightly scraped at my face with her pinkie. She held her finger so close to my eyes it made them cross trying to focus on the two eyebrow hairs she’d lifted from my cheek.
    â€œA wish for each of us!” she said, blowing the tiny hairs to nowhere.
    That’s just like Mom. She’s always wishing on things. But not just on regular stuff like fallen eyebrows or shooting stars or coins in fountains. On weird things, too. Like on typos in the newspaper. Or on broken pieces of glass. One time, I even saw her make a wish on a cereal flake that looked like her old gym teacher.
    But unlike Mom, I don’t make a habit of saying wishes out loud. I really only ever had one wish—to see the world with Mom—and Syd says that if you say the same words out loud over and over again, they’re in danger of losing all their meaning.
    â€œKnow what I wish?” she said. “I wish you’d tell me about Cass . I do hope you’ve kept that journal of yours filled in for me to see.”
    â€œSure did,” I said. “I’ve noodled every day.” And while Mom inspected every inch of her own face, with her nose almost touching the mirror, I was more than happy to tell her about Cass. In fact, I’d planned on my next words being, Mainly, Cass would very much like to become a storm rescuer. But instead, they came out more like, “I made a cyclone out of two Coke bottles for my final project last week, and the whole fifth grade thought it was cool except for Mean Maritucker Mentz, who called me a fartsy-artsy, thumb-sucking, goo-goo baby for talking about my weather-loving mom so much.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be a monkey’s patoot,” Mom said, fussing a fog circle onto the mirror. I’d planned on her next words being, Well, you just get me that girl’s phone number and I’ll make sure she doesn’t mess with my baby again. But somehow, instead, they came out, “I’ve got myself a zit.”
    She said it like zeeyut .
    â€œI’m sorry to interrupt, hon,” she said, with a pat to