Seven
It’s sixteen minutes to nine the next night when Mom knocks on my bedroom door and asks if she can come in. A quick wave at my closet brings my robe sailing through the air. I pull the blue fabric swiftly over my clothes before opening the door. I give Mom a sleepy smile.
“All settled in?” she asks.
“Yes, I think so.” I moved my things back home yesterday afternoon after Olive dismissed me with an annoyed “I thought I told you not to embarrass me. Get out of my sight now.” I spent last night and this evening unpacking my belongings. This place doesn’t feel like home, though. It’s hotter and smaller and creakier than our place in Woodsinger Grove, which is the only home I’ve ever known. Thanks to Mom and her paranoia, we’ll never live there again.
“Well, it’s nice to have you back
