A bedroom is a sacred place, especially for a teenager. That's why I knocked last night, warning Allison that I'd like to enter.
I heard some shuffling as she hid away the evidence. She knew I knew, but I played dumb anyway. It's a part I excel at.
"Soooooooo....whatcha doin'?"
"Uh, nothing. Just....taking a little rest."
"Ummmm hmmmmmm. Say, what's the first number that comes to your mind?"
She falls silent for a moment, giving me one of those textbook looks that only a 15-year-old girl can give. She hopes I don't see the slight curl that emerges on her lips.
I play dumb. Again.
"Anyway, about that number..."
She shifts, smiles, glances at the bump beneath her blankets.
"Eighty five."
Eighty five. The most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I turn and walk out her door, pulling it shut as I leave.
Now it's my lips that curl upward. I go to bed, satisfied that people really can change, especially with the help of a really good book.
When I came home from the grocery store this morning, there was no sign of life downstairs, even though Hobbes the Hobo Dog was "up." I put away the groceries and then heard the familiar two-note whistle, like that of a chickadee. It's our family's musical GPS, its ability to locate people both uncanny and enjoyable to the ears.
I plod upstairs to Allison's room again, this time invited by the whistle. Again, the shuffling, but, this time, the evidence manages to peek out a bit from the blankets.
"Hey, you! So, think of a number, any number..."
I am not one to dilly dally around when the topic is reading. Especially when I'm talking to someone who professes to be a nonreader, who wears that claim like a merit badge. Well, she'd met her match this week, and I was collecting evidence.
I sat on her bed and waited for the answer, which eventually came, cleverly shrouded among her smart-aleck responses.
"Fifteen." Wait, wait, wait.
"Fifty two." Breathe, breathe, breathe. And then she caves.
"Two hundred and forty eight." I shake my head, stunned that this professed nonreader has voluntarily quarantined herself in her room, hugged by a half dozen fleece blankets and four pillows, unable to shake an irresistible plot line.
"Hunger Games," indeed. And Allison is ravenous for more.
Already, it has been a perfect weekend.
I read them all and Melina finished the first two, I think then deciding they were getting a bit too rough. We also play the number game.
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