The Center of Everything - By Laura Moriarty Page 0,91

and squeaky. “I’m a little kitty!”

“We’re not allowed to have pets here.”

She looks at me like this is my fault. “The Rowleys have had Jackie O for years, and nobody’s said boo about it.” She takes Samuel’s hand and guides it down to the kitten’s fur, her voice going up high again. “My name is Tiger! Pet my fur, Sam! Feel how soft I am!” Samuel screeches, his curled fingers pushing into the kitten’s fur.

I look at the damp spot where the milk spilled. This is only the beginning, the beginning of so much mess. “Cats smell.”

My mother frowns. “You’re mean!” she says, still speaking for the cat, making it point at me with its orange paws. Its eyes have taken on the same disinterested glaze as Samuel’s, allowing my mother to move its limbs this way and that. “You’re the mean one! They told me about you!” She stretches the paw forward to tap me twice on the leg. “They told me you would try to throw me out, but you seem to be forgetting who’s really in charge around here.” She points to herself with the kitten’s paw. “She is! And I’m here to stay!”

I sigh. “I can see your lips moving, Mom. You’re not fooling anyone.”

She shrugs. “We’re keeping the cat.”

Of course, it doesn’t end there. The next day, she looks out the window and sees two more orange-and-white kittens darting across the highway, narrowly missing the tires of a passing semitrailer.

“Here,” she says. “Take Sam.”

“What are you doing?”

She puts on dishwashing gloves and runs outside. I watch her through the window, Samuel heavy in my arms and already crying. The kittens have ducked into the drainage ditch between the mailboxes for Treeline Colonies and the highway, and my mother gets down on her knees in the grass, twirling dandelions to get their attention, luring them toward her. When they get close enough, she tucks them under her arms and runs back to the apartment. She pushes open the door, and the kittens fall to the ground, crouching low, eyes wide.

“You’re kidding.” I hand Samuel back to her. “Mom, they probably have diseases.”

“I’ll take them to the vet. They’re just babies.” She leans down to touch one of them, and they both run under the couch.

“With what money?”

She sighs, and leans Samuel’s head against her shoulder, patting him on the back. “Evelyn, they’re Tiger’s sisters.”

We sit quietly, waiting. One of the kittens appears from under the couch, sniffing the air, flinching at any sound. It sees Tiger lying in a square of sunlight in the middle of the room and creeps toward him. The other one, half an ear missing already, follows. When Tiger sees them, he flips his tail and rolls over on his back.

“We’re breaking the rules,” I tell her. “And three is too many. You’re going to become a cat lady. I’m serious. It’s a certain kind of person.”

She nods and leans over to rub one of the new kittens behind the ears. It closes its eyes, purring. “Okay, Evelyn,” she says, “you go ahead and choose which one you want me to throw out.”

Within a few days, they have taken over. There is cat hair in the silverware tray; one of them has thrown up behind the couch. They lounge on the sofa, all three of them stretched out so there is no place to sit. If you tell them to move, they get up slowly, looking irritated and vengeful, as if they have just as much right to be there as anyone else.

Mr. Goldman is a big improvement to fifth-period algebra. Not only is he unusual and therefore interesting to watch, but our collective test scores have gone up as a result of his ability to actually explain things. All through class now, Mr. Sellers sits in the back of the room and reads until he falls asleep, his book, Oppenheimer’s Legacy, facedown on his lap.

Mr. Goldman uses his hands when he talks, one hand raised at shoulder height, palm facing the ceiling, and he moves it rhythmically, almost like he is juggling. I don’t know if he does this because he is from New York or because he is Jewish or maybe just because, but none of the other teachers move their hands like this. When he turns back to the chalkboard, Libby Masterson performs accurate imitations of him, her hands moving quickly in front of her. Traci ignores her now; she’s serious about bringing her math grades back up. But