In Zanesville by Jo Ann Beard Page A

her to stop.”
    “Stop, honey,” her mom calls.
    By early evening, I’m sick in love and Felicia isn’t far behind me. She’s on the floor with her feet up the wall and I’m slowly
     sliding upside down off the bed, inch by inch.
    “I just remember that time he said, ‘God,’ and the monitor gave us all another detention,” Felicia reminisces. “He goes, ‘God,’
     and she goes, ‘That’s another one for all of you,’ or something like that.”
    “That was funny. Remember that time mine tried to run out at exactly four o’clock and the door was locked and he goes, ‘Everybody!
     Out the window!’ or something like that.”
    “That was funny. I like mine’s hair,” she says.
    “It’s shiny. Mine’s might be a bit girlish,” I say modestly.
    “Not to me it isn’t,” she says. “So what’re we going to get caught for?”
    Before we can review our options, the phone, which is resting on her stomach, rings. It’s my sister. I roll the rest of the
     way off the bed and take the receiver. I feel light headed from being upside down for so long.
    “Get home,” Meg says in a not-unfriendly voice.
    “I’m staying over,” I tell her.
    “You can’t.”
    “Did Mom say?”
    “Yeah, she said to call and tell you to get home,” Meg explains.
    “But why?”
    “Hmm, let me think. How about because she said?” Meg says patiently.
    “But
why
is she saying?”
    “The end,” Meg says, hanging up.
    *     *     *
    Everyone’s yard light is on but ours, and next door, Curly is sitting very close to his apple tree. As soon as I hit the back
     walk, I can hear it: ranting coming from our kitchen.
    “I’ll say
this
about
that!
” my dad shouts.
    Curly’s chain is wrapped tightly around the base of the tree; that’s why he’s huddled like that. He looks miserable and harmless.
    “I’ll say
this
about
that!
” my dad shouts again. It’s one of his famous drunk sayings, and he will repeat it anywhere from twenty to fifty-five times
     before my mother makes him stop.
    Even though I’ve been told over and over not under any circumstances to get near Curly, I take a step into the dirt circle
     and look around. No human but Old Milly has ever seen the neighborhood from this perspective. There’s a root poking out of
     the soil that’s been gnawed on like a bone.
    “I’ll say
this
about
that!
”
    Curly looks at me entreatingly. His battered old face and his bowlegs, the thick, stubby tail: all he wants is a human to
     pat his head, to lead him around until he has all his dirt back again.
    “I’ll say
this
about
that!
”
    Suddenly Curly snarls and jumps at me, an orange blur brought up short by the chain. He twists and turns, trying to get out
     of his collar, wildly biting the trunk of the apple tree in frustration. By that time I’m all the way up the back steps and
     inside the porch, panting and trembling.
    Now he’s snubbed even tighter, because of me.
    “I’ll say
this
about
that!
” my father booms.
    “Shut up!” I cry, slamming into the kitchen. My father issitting slumped in a kitchen chair, baiting my mother, who is standing at the stove, pretending to ignore him.
    “Hey,” she says sharply. “Who are you talking to?”
    “Why did you make me come home when he won’t
shut up?
”
    “That’s enough,” she says, handing me a spoon and putting me in front of the stove. “Stir.”
    I stir while my dad stares at me dully, trying to figure out who I am. “Well,” he says quietly to himself. He’s in an undershirt,
     and she has somehow gotten his shoes away from him, which means he can’t go anywhere until he sobers up at least enough to
     tie a lace. It’ll be a while.
    He opens his hands in a gesture of defeat and licks his lips clumsily. He recognizes me. “Honey,” he says in a pleading, blurry
     voice.
    The thing I’m stirring is a dark broth with something very large bumping around in it. I try to bring whatever it is to the
     surface.
    “Honey…”