Not That I Care Read Online Free Page B

don’t have an ambition, you don’t have a gift—so you don’t have any access to what I’m going through. Right?”
    Mom stormed back into the kitchen. We heard cabinet doors slamming.
    I tried desperately to think of something to say to ease Dad’s pain. “Maybe we should talk to Father Connolly,” I suggested. It honestly never occurred to me that this was anything more or less than my father having a mental meltdown.
    Dad reached over and touched my cheek lightly. “I need to go,” he said in his gravelly voice. He licked his lower lip.
    “When?” asked Ned.
    “I’ll get my things together tonight, leave for Los Angeles first thing tomorrow morning.”
    Ned shrugged. “Go.”
    I don’t remember the rest of that night so clearly, except I know I made a royal pain of myself, crying, begging, yelling at Mom not to let him go, hanging on his legs, screaming at Ned that it was his fault Daddy was leaving. I was pretty awful. Ned locked himself in his room, so I locked myself in mine but sat against the door listening to Mom and Dad. I fell asleep sitting there and woke up with a jolt at four the next morning. I raced to the living room—Dad was snoring on the couch, his feet hanging off the armrest. His two suitcases were by the front door.
    I tiptoed over to my father and watched his beautiful, stubbly face as he slept. I resisted the temptation to snuggle under the blanket with him. His Saint Christopher medal lay inside the circle of his watch, its chain gathered in loops beneath it. I picked it up, knelt beside the coffee table, and began praying: Saint Christopher, protect us. Don’t let my daddy fall apart and have to go find himself in California. I love him so much. Give him the strength to stay with us, or give me the power to make him stay .
    And then Saint Christopher answered, “You have the power.”
    “What?” I whispered. I opened my eyes like, no way. I didn’t really believe in stuff like that. I checked around to see if it was Ned, messing with me, but his door was still closed, so I looked down at the medal in my palm. It was warm, suddenly—not hot like I’d burn myself but warm like my father’s hand.
    OK, I thought, feeling excited but foolish. Dad never leaves the house without this thing. I closed my hands around the medal. Thank you, Saint Christopher , I whispered, getting up off my knees and tiptoeing back to my room. Good, Morgan , I whispered to myself on the way. Talking to a necklace. You’re losing it just like your father .
    I first put my father’s necklace under my pillow, but then realized, no, he could find it there too easily, so I took my pillow out of the case and unzipped it. Inside were down feathers. I shoved my hand in with the Saint Christopher medal gripped tight and let go. I zipped the pillow back up and wiggled it back into my Minnie Mouse pillowcase. I fell asleep so soundly I didn’t hear the commotion when my father woke up and searched.
    From what Ned told me after, Dad tore the house apart looking for it, even accused Ned of stealing it, which led to a fight between Mom and Dad and then Mom and Ned, during which Dad took off. Mom says my father kissed me good-bye while I was sleeping; Ned says he didn’t. Not that I care.
    The Saint Christopher medal was cold when I dug it out of my pillow this weekend to put in my Bring Yourself in a Sack.

seven
    L ou Hochstetter is explaining the differences between two miniature World War II guns. At least my stuff isn’t as boring as his.
    I let go of the Saint Christopher medal, let it drop into the bottom of my bag. It clanks into the envelope with the broken thermometer inside. I feel the thermometer, quick, to make sure it’s OK, and then I look around to see if anybody is watching me hunt around inside my Sack. No. Everybody actually seems pretty wrapped up in Lou’s speech about World War II artillery. I guess I’m just shallow.

eight
    I went over to CJ’s house for the first time in the fall