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lapel pin that says, MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR .
    Just a moment ago, I had been SO happy to see her. Really, I could have just kissed her a million times, because I was SO tired of this game. And waiting here with Mrs. Johnson, Christmas Muzak maniac, didn’t make it any better. It made me feel CRAZY. And I’m many things. I mean, I know I have at least one fault—I’m too organized—but I’m not crazy!
    Anyway, I threw my arms around Mom’s shoulders, feeling the slippery, wrinkly polyester material. Then I tried to explain to her EVERYTHING that had happened. Of course, everything came out mumbled and garbled. But she thought—get this—that I was talking about some fantasy story I had made up.
    How random. Now I stare at my mother, who thinks my life is a myth. “Can we go home?” Maybe if I take a shower it’ll all go away.
    Mom fingers my damp, limp hair. “It’ll be okay, Little Love.” When she says that, in the same way she always does, my heart stops the galloping, and my whole body relaxes. “It’s okay, Ernestine,” she coos.
    â€œErnestine?” I look up. My whole head feels unbalanced, like I just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl. “DID YOU JUST CALL ME ERNESTINE?”
    Call Dad
    â€œHe’ll understand what’s going on,” I state as Mom and I trek through the hallway. “He, of all people, won’t call me Ernestine.” We’re standing in front of the trophy case and I’m gaping at my reflection in the volleyball plaque.
    Mom bites her bottom lip. “Okay, look, I’m sure you can talk to your father when he calls on Sunday.”
    â€œSUNDAY? I can’t wait that long. This is an emergency! I’ve got to speak to him now !”
    â€œBe my guest. You know, you can call your dad anytime.” As she’s talking, I’m dialing his number on my cell. I still have that, at least.
    The phone rings, and then Dad’s voice mail comes on. “Hey, it’s Dirk. I’m probably out doing a jog with my dog. Surf’s up. Leave a message.”
    â€œDad, it’s me. Something terrible has happened.It’s really bad. Worse than you can imagine. Call me back right away!”
    Mom reaches out her arms to me like I’m a little kid. “Can I give you a hug, Ernestine? I know how frustrating it’s been for you not always being able to reach him.”
    â€œNO, this has NOTHING, do you hear me, NOTHING TO DO WITH DAD! Please go away.”
    Mom sucks in her breath, and then she finally opens the door leading to the pickup circle in front of the school.
    I feel lost.
    Knock Knock?
    â€œThere is no way I’m going to be caught dead on that,” I say, folding my arms in front of my chest. In the parking lot, the one people use for cars, Mom points to her vintage bicycle built for two with lots of peeling paint and plenty of rust. “Why did you have to pick me up on that thing ?” Ever since the divorce, Mom’s gotten real serious about being green. And I’m all for the environment but not when it creates unnecessary embarrassment. I’ll take the extra pollution, thank you. There’s an unwritten law at La Cambia that parents (or nannies) aren’t allowedto pick up kids unless they’re in a new Beamer or a Mercedes. I’m serious. I’ve never seen anything else unless you count the four-wheel drive Volvos. But even those are a little subpar.
    Mom lines up the numbers on her combination lock. “Oh, well.” She throws up her hands. “Guess you’ll have to stay in school, then. It sounded to me like things were pretty bad.” She stares at her wrist as if she has a watch (which she doesn’t). “I even cancelled my appointment with Tosh this afternoon to clear the deck.”
    â€œAw, big sacrifice,” I say. “Canceling with your medium. Couldn’t he just like fly to you in your dreams or