mean? If not, it’s okay. I understand if you don’t feel like looking over my assignments for a while.”
Mom gives Cookie one last pat on the head, and stands. “You’ve never made below a B in your life. When your assignments are completed, let me know and I’ll give them a look. I have a feeling it won’t take long.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say.
My parents have been my only teachers since first grade. It’s up to them to decide when I’m ready to graduate. Or just Mom now. That’s how homeschooling works, at least where I live. The state of Colorado expects me to study four hours a day, and certain courses are required, but that’s about it.
“Your father wanted me to make a diploma for you, and he was going to build the frame,” says Mom. “I’ll still do my part. We can have it framed at Hobby Shop in Silver Lake.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Pulling a bag of flour from the grocery sack, Addie clears her throat, then says, “I’m sure you two would like some time alone. After I put this cobbler together, I’ll pop it in the refrigerator and you can cook it whenever you’re ready. Then I’m going home. I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
“That’ll never happen,” says Mom. “We appreciate all you’ve done for us, don’t we, Lily?”
“You’ve been great,” I say, sending Addie a smile.
Mom tries to help unload the groceries, but Addie shoos her away, so she wanders over to me. “Need any help with your lesson?” she asks hesitantly.
I realize she’s trying to smooth out the last wrinkles of tension between us. “No, I’m doing okay,” I tell her. “But, thanks.”
She glances at the open physics book. “I’m not sure I’d be much help to you with that, anyway.”
I know we’re both thinking that Dad was the one with a knack for science and math. He taught me those classes. Mom’s strengths are history and English and the creative subjects, like writing and art.
And music, I remind myself, thinking of the violin hidden in Dad’s workshop.
When the cobbler ingredients are all on the counter, Addie steps out onto the porch to call Wyatt. I try to focus on my classwork, while Mom stares out the windows at the dense blanket of spruce trees beyond the deck. I almost forget she’s standing beside my chair until she touches my shoulder.
“Where did you get this?” Her fingers stroke down the sleeve of the red flannel shirt I’m still wearing. How could I have forgotten to take it off?
“You—um—left Dad’s shop unlocked. The wind blew the door open so I went to close it and the shirt was out.” Shame rains down on me. I hate lying. Especially to Mom.
She shakes her head. “I remember locking up.” After a pause, she asks, “Did you take anything else out of Dad’s shop?”
Her sharp tone sparks anger inside of me. “No, Mom! Why do you even care? What’s out there that you don’t want me to see?”
She pulls her keys from her pocket and heads for the door.
The moment she steps outside, I unbutton the flannel shirt. If it upsets her so much, I’ll put it away.
“What’s wrong, sugar?” Addie asks as she comes in from outside and sees the look on my face. “Your mother didn’t stop to say ‘boo’ when she passed me on the porch. Is everything okay?”
“She went out to the shop again.”
Addie sighs. “I thought an afternoon away from here might put an end to that.”
“I know. Me, too.”
I’m tugging my arm from a sleeve, when invisible fingers slide down my spine again, caressing the shirt’s fabric. Shivering, I pull the sleeve back up my arm.
I know, Iris, I think. I feel it, too.
The shirt is like a security blanket, the soft flannel reassuring. It’s almost as if it was made for me. Or I was made for it.
Addie leaves early in the evening, and Mom holes up inside the shop until after dusk. I’m not sure what finally makes her decide to return to the cabin, unless it’s the sweet scent of Addie’s cobbler baking in the oven.
I turn on the television and raise the volume to fill the empty space between us. The silent treatment is our usual M.O. when we’re at odds. But tonight it’s worse than ever. We can’t even look at each other.
On the television, the actors’ voices seem too loud and their laughter mocks us. “Lily,” Mom says, and I brace myself for the confrontation I’ve