Page 55 of I Can't Even Think Straight

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dusting the chalk off her hands.

Sunday: Take Your Pick—Mum’s Market Stall

“We need to talk

about your detention,” says Mum.

“What about it?

I’ve served my time already,” I say.

Mum shakes her head.

“I should ground you.”

She tickles me in my ribs.

I bat her hand away, laughing.

“Stop it, Mum,” I say.

“Anyway, you’re never home.

Whose house would you ground me at?

Granny’s? Yiayia and Bapou’s?

Theía Estélla’s?”

“Take your pick,” says Mum,

digging me in my ribs again.

“Promise you won’t

sneak out of school again.”

“I promise! I promise!

Please! No more tickling!”

Mum pulls me into a tight squeeze,

then she releases me,

cups my face with her hands,

and covers it with her kisses.

“Promise me,” Mum pleads,

“no more getting into trouble.”

“Yes, I promise!” I say.

Neither of us cares about potential customers

perusing Mum’s handmade jewelry,

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