The Reckoning by Christie Ridgway Page B

a seat on the edge of the bed. Linda looked over his head toward Emmett, who had retreated to lounge against the doorjamb, his hands thrust in his jeans pocket, his green eyes on her face. He gave her a little nod, and she felt some of her tension ease. This part of the test was going easier.
    She and Ricky went through the cards together, chuckling at the kindergarten spelling in one and the liberal use of glitter on another. Ricky grumbled about the illustrations not improving much over the years. Apparently, his best friend Anthony could draw a Spider-Man and a Gambit well enough for comic books.
    She leaned close to Ricky. “It’s a Faraday failing,” she murmured. “We’re great with numbers, but we suck at art.”
    His eyes lit up. “You said suck, ” he crowed. “Nan and Dean don’t allow me to say suck. ”
    Linda let out a little bleat of distress. “ Suck is bad? Oh my gosh, of course suck is bad.” Why was suck bad? It didn’t matter; it only meant another ten points off her test score. “I must have seen it on TV. Don’t tell Nan I said it, okay?”
    Ricky was still giving her an unholy grin. “I won’t rat on you. But can I say suck when I’m over here?”
    â€œOf course not.” She sent a pleading look toward Emmett, who was wearing a grin as unholy as Ricky’s. “It was a slip of the tongue on my part, and neither one of us will say it ever again.”
    â€œAh, you’re no fun.”
    Linda frowned. “Well, I’m…” Sorry? Glad? Mothers of little boys weren’t supposed to be fun, right? Fun mothers allowed suck and then they allowed no curfews and then they had to make monthly visits to their sons at the state penitentiary. But she wanted to be fun. For ten years, she’d been like a vegetable in Ricky’s life. Now that she was awake, she didn’t want to be the one who always insisted he eat them.
    â€œMaybe we could do something fun today,” she ventured.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œSoccer?” That was easy. The kid was crazy about soccer. “You could teach me how to play. I was a pretty mean kick-ball player in my time.”
    Ricky was shaking his head. “It’s not the same thing at all. You gotta use the side of your foot to kick the ball in soccer. And you can’t touch it, ever. Unless you’re the goalie, of course. The goalie gets to touch the ball with his hands.”
    â€œSee, there’s a lot you could help me with.”
    Ricky seemed to be considering the idea. “Okay. I’ll help you learn soccer, if you help me with my book report.”
    Linda’s pulse beat hard. This was what mothers did. Kicked the soccer ball around. Helped with book reports. But she knew that appearing too eager—and to be honest, she wasn’t exactly sure how eager she actually was—would dock more points from her final score.
    So she pretended to think it over. “I don’t know. Does it require drawing? Because, as I just told you, the Faradays—”
    â€œSuck at art.” Ricky started laughing.
    â€œHey, wait a minute—”
    â€œYou said it. You said the Faradays suck at art.”
    â€œAnd I said we wouldn’t use that word again.” She looked over at Emmett who, instead of backing her up, was laughing, too.
    â€œHe has you there, Linda, you have to admit it.”
    â€œMothers admit nothing,” she said, trying to sound stern. “And if I hear that word again, there will be no soccer and no help on the book report.”
    Ricky sobered. “You have to help on the book report. It’s Old Yeller, and Nan and Dean don’t like books where the dog dies.”
    â€œNobody likes books where the dog dies,” Emmett put in.
    â€œBut everybody likes a good book report,” Linda said. “So we’ll restrain ourselves from using the wrong words and apply ourselves to writing a