Meet the Austins by Madeleine L'Engle

Rathbone, the principal, for being rude to her teacher. I had the same teacher once, so I could sympathize with Maggy, for a change. And when we got home from school John had been sent home from Regional because he’d thrown up, and he had a fever and was in bed with the flu. The guest room, which we were beginning to call John’s room, is over the living room, and the piano is in the living room. I finished my homework, and Maggy and Suzy were playing checkers, and Rob was building a fort with his blocks, so I sat down at the piano to practice, something I don’t particularly like to do, especially scales. So I started on scales to get them over with, and, I must say, I went at them with vim and vigor. I was so full of vim and vigor that it was quite a while before I heard a continuous thumping on the ceiling. I went up to John’s room to see what was what.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, Vicky,” he said irritably, “I have a headache and I’m sick. Those scales are going right through my head. Shut up!”
    He said it so angrily that instead of being sorry for him I got angry, too. “I’m supposed to practice half an hour a day,” I told him.
    â€œWhy don’t you remember it on days I’m not sick, then? Mother’s practically always having to force you down on the piano bench and hold you there. Why do you have to practice scales today?”

    â€œOkay,” I said, “so if I don’t do well in piano this week, you can tell Mother why.”
    â€œOkay, I will,” he said, and I stomped out. I stomped down the stairs and put on my red jacket with the hood and slammed out of the house. Behind the two birches the sky was a soft gold and it turned gradually to gold-green, and in the gold-green part, just between the two birches, was a tiny, silver-horned moon. Above the birches the sky turned to greeny-blue and there was one faint star just beginning to come out. It was cold and very dry, and I stood there and looked and shivered and shivered and looked. Then I came back into the house and sheepishly hung my jacket on my hook in the pantry.
    And then everything should have been all right.
    Daddy had called to say that he’d be late. The evenings Daddy is late we often eat at the table in the study and watch television, and Mother waits to eat with Daddy when he gets home. I helped her set up the table, and the little ones plunked themselves down on the floor to watch Mickey Mouse, and I went upstairs to read. I heard John go into the bathroom to throw up, and when he got back into bed I went in to him and said, “I’m sorry you feel awful, John.”
    He looked green around the gills and he stuck his face down in the pillow and said, “I’m sorry, too. I just heaved again.”
    â€œI know. I heard you.”
    â€œDid you tell Mother?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, why didn’t you tell her?”
    â€œI haven’t exactly had time,” I said. “I heard you and came in to tell you I’m sorry.”

    â€œWhen you throw up you want Mother to hold your head,” John said. “I suppose it couldn’t have occurred to you I’d like Mother to hold my head, too?”
    John was sick; he had a temperature of a hundred and two. I knew I shouldn’t argue with him, but, as I’ve said, it was just an awful week. Right from Wilbur the pig and Suzy’s taking the gum and candy, nothing seemed to go right. And I’ve noticed that once you start doing things wrong you just kind of go on doing them wrong till something happens to make you stop. Sometimes I wonder if that isn’t what makes people criminals. Nothing happens to make them stop, and they just go on doing things wrong till they get to be criminals.
    So now I said to John, “You always seem to think Mother is your special property, just because you were born first. She’s busy getting supper ready for me and the little