Skin by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

“Shhhh!” she says.
    “What are you doing?” I whisper.
    “Sitting.”
    “Why is there a broken egg on the floor?”
    “It had a bad shell.”
    “Did you smash it?”
    “I sat on it.”
    “Why?”
    “So it would hatch.”
    I’m getting it. “Are you sitting on an egg now?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is it broken?”
    “I don’t know. My bottoms are wet from the last egg.”
    “Hens sit on eggs, not people. People crush eggs.”
    “Not good eggs. Good eggs are strong.”
    “Get up, Sarah. Please.”
    Sarah stands up. The egg is whole. Is it made of marble?
    “That’s a good egg,” says Sarah.
    “That’s an amazing egg,” says Joshua.
    “All right. I’ll put an X on it. With this pencil. And tomorrow, when your mother is home, you can ask her if you can sit on it more. But for now, it’s going in the refrigerator and you’re going back in the tub.”
    She doesn’t fight me. This is weird. Sarah typically fights on principle. I get her washed up and into fresh pj’s and back in bed with Howl Doo under her arm.
    “I want to say good night to Joshua.”
    “All right.” I go to the door and call Joshua.
    He comes padding down the hall quickly, eyes wide, like an obedient but bewildered dog wondering what he’ll have to do to please the master.
    “Sarah wants to say good night to you.”
    Joshua goes to stand at the side of Sarah’s bed. “Good night, Sport.”
    “I’m Sarah.”
    “Good night, Sarah.”
    “You’re big.”
    “I play football.”
    “Daddy watches football on TV.”
    “You have a smart daddy. And a nice dog there.”
    “He’s a wolf.” She holds up Howl Doo. “His name is Howl Doo.”
    “He’s terrific.”
    “If you like him so much, you can join his fan club on Facebook.”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    “Good night, Joshua,” says Sarah.
    I leave with Joshua at my heels, and head for the kitchen to clean the floor, but Joshua’s already taken care of that. “Thanks.”
    He shrugs, but I can see he’s proud of himself. “She’s fun.”
    “I’ll give her mother your number.”
    He laughs. “Not that much fun.”
    “I’m hungry. Want to watch me raid the refrigerator?”
    “Won’t Sarah’s parents get mad?”
    “You’ve never babysat before, have you?”
    “How could you tell?”
    “It’s the job of the babysitter to scarf down anything good. You hungry?”
    “Always.” He opens a cupboard.
    “Look for nuts.”
    “You like nuts?”
    “They have copper. Only it might make me schizo. Oh, look, here’s some good ham.”
    “I’m Jewish, remember?”
    And of course I remember. But I don’t ever remember him refusing food before. If anything, he was a pig when he was little. “So you don’t eat pork?”
    He grins. “Sure I eat it. But if you’re allowed to say schizo when there’s no real connection, I’m allowed to say Jewish.”
    “But you are Jewish. So does that mean you think I’m schizo?”
    He looks at my face for a moment. Almost appraisingly. “You really are different from how you used to be.”
    “You mean when we were in fifth grade?”
    “Well, that, sure. But last year, too.”
    Last year? He noticed me last year? “Really?”
    “I don’t know. You look different.”
    I’m not about to touch that one. “Want pickle slices in your sandwich?”
    “Does the Pope have a big nose?”
    “I think it’s supposed to be ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’—but it doesn’t matter anyway, because I don’t know anything about the Pope. I’m not Catholic.”
    “Your mom’s Italian and you’re not Catholic?”
    “Mamma’s not really Italian.”
    “Oh, come on. Don’t treat me like I’m a stranger. She was born in Italy. You showed me on a map exactly where.”
    “She left more than twenty years ago. If you look at the way she dresses, you know she’s not Italian. Italian women have style.” I finish making the sandwich and push the plate along the counter toward him. “Eat.”
    He takes a bite. “Spicy mustard.