Read The Naked Mole-Rat Letters for Free Online

post the cast list until after school, so I had to wait all day. Ms. Young always posted the cast lists before school so you could see the results right away.
    I had to start the day by bringing my forged note to the office. When I handed it to the secretary, my stomach was busy tying itself into a knot. All day I waited for The Troll to call my name over the intercom or to come and put me in handcuffs.
    The last bell finally rang, and I thought I’d die before I could get to the drama room. A crowd was already pressing against the doorwhere the list was posted. Melinda Bixby was squealing like a pig. I squeezed in.
    Melinda got the part of Annie. Denise got the part of Helen. I was on the bottom of the list . . . as one of the “blind girls.”
    Denise and Melinda—both eighth-graders—were jumping up and down.
    â€œAnnie!” Denise cried.
    â€œHelen!” Melinda cried.
    They hugged and squealed. “This is going to be so much fun!” Melinda said.
    â€œI knew you’d get the part,” Denise cried.
    The knot in my stomach felt like a dead reptile.
    Me—a blind girl? The blind girls were only on for a few seconds in the very beginning of the play. They were little kids. They weren’t important.
    There were a few other seventh-graders standing around. “Congratulations, Frankie,” Beth said. She never made anything but chorus, and this time she didn’t make it at all. “You’re so lucky.”
    I stared at her. Congratulations? For what? For being a blind girl? If she really was best-friendmaterial she would be shouting at Mr. Horrible Haxer right now, telling him that the part of Annie Sullivan should have gone to me. What was wrong with him? Was
he
blind?
    Mr. Haxer opened the door, and everybody started talking at once.
    He made a few announcements, which I couldn’t listen to because my entire being—including my eardrums—was filling up with hate for him.
    He headed to the teachers’ lounge, and I stopped him before I knew what I was going to say. And then it just came out: “I can’t be in the play.” I realized as soon as I said it that it was true. There was no way I could go to all those rehearsals and watch Melinda Bixby play the miracle worker.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œMy dad won’t let me.”
    He looked puzzled and pulled me over to an empty part of the hallway where we could have some privacy. “Why? Is there a conflict with rehearsals?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWhat is it? Maybe we can work it out.”
    â€œNo, I have to baby-sit my brothers after school every day.”
    â€œI’ll talk with your dad. I’m sure—”
    â€œNo, don’t!” That came out sounding a little panicky. So I added in a mature, perfectly Annie Sullivan voice, “I’m afraid that would be a tragic mistake, Mr. Haxer. He is under a lot of stress, and you shouldn’t bother him.” I should have stopped right there, but I’m like a freight train now—once I get started I’m hard to stop. “I’m afraid my dad is having a nervous breakdown.”
    Mr. Haxer looked shocked. “Oh Frankie, I’m so sorry to hear that.” He touched my shoulder. Yesterday my heart would have melted under that touch. Now my heart was as cold and stiff as a garbage-can lid.
    â€œHow can we help?” he asked.
    I stepped away. “He wouldn’t want anybody to know. I’m just telling you because . . .”
    He stepped closer and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You should talk with Ms. Trolly, the guidance counselor, about all this, Frankie. That’s what she’s here for. She can—”
    I pulled away. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I have to go now and pick up my brother.”
    I didn’t start breathing until I got out the door.
    The last part is true. I have to walk over to the elementary school to pick up Nutter. The only problem is