Page 9 of A River of Crows

The tears in her father’s voice broke Sloan’s heart. She took his arm. “Of course you wouldn’t; we all know that.”

He wiped his eyes. “In better news, I’ve been looking at that lot behind us. I’m thinking of making an offer and building us a new house.”

Sloan raised her eyebrows. “With three bedrooms?”

“Four rooms at least,” Daddy said in the voice he used to sell furniture polish. The voice that didn’t sound like his own. “Two stories, with a wraparound porch.” He pushed his shoulders back. “You and Ridge can have the upstairs rooms, and I’ll build you both balconies to read on.”

Read. Crap. Sloan had reading homework, and she left her book at school.

As if Daddy had read her mind, he glanced to the backseat at her backpack. “Mom said it’s report-card day.”

Sloan rubbed a hand over her face. “Yeah. I was hoping you might talk to her about my grades again.”

“How bad?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do. Out with it.”

“C in Math and Spelling. D in Science.” Sloan slammed her back against the seat. “I know what you’re going to say. That I can do better. But I can’t! I’m not smart like Ridge. I’m the oldest in my class because I had to take second grade twice.”

“Hey, hey! That’s enough of that talk.” Daddy pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot. “You repeating second grade paid off because now you’re a great reader. What’s your reading grade?”

“88,” Sloan said.

“88! That’s terrific.”

Sloan crossed her arms. “Yeah, but Ridge makes straight A’s.”

“Okay, so Ridge is gifted. That’s great, but he’s got his own issues. Ridge has a hard time . . .” He tilted his head. “He has a hard time relating to normal folks. It’s hard for me to relate to him, and he’s my son. Ridge will face social challenges you never will. You know how the kids pick on him.”

Kids did pick on him. If only he’d quit being so babyish. Sloan got suspended in third grade for punching a boy who emptied Ridge’s lunch box in the trash, replacing the food with an empty baby-food jar he’d found on the playground. Daddy had taken her out for ice cream then, too, come to think of it.

Daddy reached into her backpack and dug out the report card. “Let’s see here. B in reading, A in social studies, and S in conduct. What’s that stand for?”

“Satisfactory.”

“Ah, then what’s this say here?” He turned the report card toward her, pointing at the last grade.

Sloan leaned forward. “S+,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s art.”

“Why shouldn’t art matter as much as math and science? Your mother will be thrilled.”

“No, she won’t.” Sloan pushed down the report card. “Not when she sees the C in Spelling. She’s made me study with her every week, but it’s not helping.”

“You’re an artist, Sloan Hadfield. Nobody gives a shit if an artist can spell or not. We can’t all be scientists like your mom. Somebody’s gotta create paintings. Somebody’s gotta sell toilet brushes.”

Sloan giggled.

“It’s true! So, what do you say the artist and toilet brush salesmen celebrate this S+ by going inside for our ice cream?”

“Sure!” Sloan unbuckled. Her Cs no longer mattered, nor did the forgotten reading book. Daddy had fixed it all with the promise of a dipped cone and a four-bedroom house.

Sloan couldn’t help but notice how Mom was never quite the same after the night Daddy threw Ridge. Then there was the night she destroyed the pantry. She was missing Grandpa, Sloan told herself. But then why had she stopped cooking Daddy’s favorite dinners on the nights he came home? Why had they stopped dancing?

Sloan opened the front door quietly in case her mom was napping again. She napped a lot these days.

Mom and Ridge were talking quietly in the kitchen, whispering almost. Sloan stepped closer to eavesdrop but bumped into the coffee table. “Ouch!” she grabbed her leg.

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