I made a whole list of names, but I didn’t like any of them, so I used my oil pastels to draw a picture of my fish over the list. Now I have a very colorful fish with lots of names hidden inside. “Did you feed your fish? ” Mom asks as she pulls my jacket hood up over my hat on Monday morning. She winds a long scarf around my neck and ties a knot to keep out the cold. “Yep, ” I say. “Yesterday. ” Mom frowns. “Ida, you’re supposed to feed him . . . her . . . it . . . every morning.” I slip the knot up over my mouth. “What about the filter? Did you check it for gunk? ” “I’m pretty sure it’s gunk-free, ” I say through my knot. “I have a very clean fish. ” Mom narrows her eyes. “After school,” she says, “feed that no-name fish and check the filter. ” I nod and pull on my gloves. “A little help with the door, please? ” Mom pulls open the front door. Icy air sweeps in. Mom shivers. “Maybe I should drive you. ” I slip on my backpack and slide past her.
