One for the Murphys by Lynda Mullaly Hunt Page B

against the counter as if she really considers it. “You won’t know until you eat it, now will you?”
    I’m surprised at how good it is. Sweet and creamy. “So this is how rich people eat, huh?” I ask, licking my sticky fingers.
    “C’mon. Let’s go upstairs,” she says with her mouth full.
    “Can I have some milk?” I ask.
    “Geez, Connors. Anyone ever tell you you’re high maintenance?”
    “Yeah, actually,” I say, remembering that my mother had a much worse way of putting it.
    Toni is putting the milk back when a door closes off to the side of the kitchen. “Oh, great,” she mumbles.
    A woman comes into the kitchen carrying four shoppingbags. She is tall and pencil shaped. Her hair is wavy and dark and she wears a blue suit. Her teeth are freakishly white.
    “Oh, you have a little friend over?”
    Toni grunts. “Yeah, we were just about to play ring-around-the-rosy.”
    The woman’s face turns to stone. Then she turns to me, scans me, holds out her hand, and says, “Sarah Byars. So very nice to meet you.”
    I take her hand, which gives me the creeps. “Nice to meet you too,” I lie.
    “Toni,” she says. “Don’t you like the vibrant color of her shirt?” Her voice is sweet, but I get the feeling she could spit icicles. “Nothing wrong with a little color.”
    “C’mon,” Toni says, picking up her backpack and heading for the stairs. “We have work to do.”
    Toni leads me up to her room. Her carpet is bright green, and the walls are sponge-painted in a similar shade.
    “Did Oscar the Grouch explode in here or what?”
    She laughs. “It’s green in honor of Elphaba.” She points at me. “And don’t start or I’ll seriously… seriously hurt you.”
    I believe her.
    Posters of Broadway shows plaster the walls. There’s a pointed witch’s hat on the post of her bed. Her comforter is green and shiny. Okay. She really is obsessed.
    She unzips her backpack. She is so much quieter—sadder. She looks upward. “I wanted to do the ceiling green, but my dad said no.”
    “You have a dad?” I blurt out.
    “Yeah, Connors. I have a dad. Ever take biology?”
    “Yeah. I mean, I know that but… I mean…”
    Toni piles books on her desk. “What’s
wrong
with you, Connors?”
    I shrug, afraid to say anything out loud.
    “My dad is awesome,” Toni says, “but he works in Japan mostly, so I hardly ever see him. It’s been thirty-two days now.”
    So she counts the days away from her father while I count the days away from my mother.
    She looks up at the wall. “He helped me do these walls, even though my mother complained that it didn’t fit the flow of the house.”
    “Houses flow?”
    “Precisely,” she says, rolling her eyes.
    “I’m sorry I forced you to come to your house today.”
    She doesn’t say anything, but I catch her glancing at me.
    I think she must feel like she’s given something away, bringing me here and telling me about her father. I say, “I promise that we’ll ace this project, okay?”
    She half smiles. “Whatever you say, Connors.”
    “Whatever I say?”
    “Forget it.”
    After an awkward silence, I ask, “So, are you in the drama club at school?”
    “Oh, you mean the
trauma
club? No way. I go to acting camp in the city, though. Every summer since forever. My dad promises to sign me up with a voice coach, too.”
    “Cool.” I sit on her bed and bounce, studying the Broadway posters. “So how many of these shows have you seen?”
    “Actually,” she says, looking around, “I’ve seen them all. Fortunately, my mother is all about culture too, so she takes me to all the New York shows. I especially love musicals. They’re all different—like people.”
    “I’ve never seen a musical. I mean on stage.”
    “You’re kidding!” She clasps her hands and her eyes spark. “Broadway is amazing! There isn’t any other place like it. One of the shows we saw,
The Drowsy Chaperone
, talked about how everything works out in musicals. And it’s