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in with these other women. She didn’t know why she would care, but she did. She was running her eyes over the sprawled sections of newspaper on the kitchen counter. They were full of the same stories that were always in newspapers. Unemployment was down, but not enough. A species of warbler had gone extinct. Thesmell of the women and the coffee and the lemons on an empty stomach was making her a little sick.
    â€œI wonder, Mom, if you could spare one of your gang.” Franklin’s hair was messy by design and there was a scuff of acne along the curve of his jaw. “There’s an extra-credit thing I need to do. It’s on the Gauguin exhibit at the Art Institute. It’s a two-man deal, though.”
    â€œAt the Art Institute?” Rita said.
    â€œI’m supposed to go with someone and then interview them about the exhibits. Anybody except a classmate. There’s a whole list of questions, then I’m supposed to think of my own follow-up questions based on the answers to the first questions. It can’t be a classmate, though. It has to be, like, a member of the public.”
    Rita’s face was resigned, faintly amused. “Let me guess. Today is the last day you can do it.” She looked around at the other women as if for sympathy. “I can always tell the last day something can be done, because that’s the day he’ll mention he needs to do it. I thought we talked about you having a schedule,” she told Franklin. “Writing it all down.”
    He nodded, but he was in the middle of slurping more of his lemonade. When he came up for air, he shuddered, as if he’d done a shot of whiskey.
    â€œAnd what about school?” Rita asked Franklin.
    â€œThis is the morning the class meets. You can miss a class meeting if you’re doing the extra credit.”
    â€œWhat class is it for?”
    â€œThe Politics of the Image. I’ve got an atrocious grade in there, so I could use the points. I mean it’s really alarming, how low my average is. The teacher says it’s sad, because my insights are of uncommon quality.”
    â€œThe Politics of the Image?” said Rita. “When I was your age, they called it Art Class.”
    â€œYou’re the one who put me in this school. None of the names make sense. We talk about Freud in Civics.”
    It seemed it was Rita’s turn to talk again, but she only shook her head. The air conditioner kicked on. The woman named Teresa or maybe Tessa slipped a thin sweater off the back of her chair and hung it on her shoulders.
    â€œEducation first,” said Franklin. “That’s what I’ve always heard.”
    Rita was looking at Franklin with a face Kim guessed was tough love. “You should have planned this out ahead of time,” she said. “You always do this. You always want people to change plans around you. You always want to get bailed out.”
    â€œI planned to plan ahead, but that plan fell through. Kind of like with your pear butter.” Franklin shifted around inside his shirt. “I just need someone to respond to art. It’s not a terrible thing to ask. It’s not breaking rocks in the sun.”
    Everyone was quiet. Kim could tell Rita’s friends wouldn’t get involved. The etiquette was to mind your own business when someone else’s kid was being difficult, to not say a word. An airplane could be heard passing over the house. The coffeemaker made a gentle gurgling noise.
    â€œWe should all get going,” Rita said. “Us to the mall and you to school. Manage your schedule better next time.”
    Franklin exhaled dramatically. He was standing still, his eyes wide, and Kim thought he was trying to look toward her. He was looking at the area of her knees, his face stiff and apprehensive. He let his eyes flash up to her face for only a second. “If no one wants to go, no one wants to go,” he said. “I can’t force