Cynthia asks on Friday night. She is standing at the front door. Her shiny hair is pulled back tight by a red plastic headband, the kind with little teeth in it. And she is holding onto a suitcase with a picture of a ballerina on the side. The suitcase is round, and it is shiny, too. Everything Cynthia owns always looks brand new. “He, who?” I ask, but I already know the answer. She is talking about Anthony. “You know,” she says, excited, “that little kid. The one we’re babysitting.” She pats the side of her suitcase. “I brought some stuff we can use,” she says. “We can play school with him. We’ll be the teachers.” “He’s watching a video right now,” I tell Cynthia. “And I’m not so sure about playing school. He had a tough week. I think he needs a rest from school.” “Well, that’s just too bad for him,” Cynthia informs me. We go into my room, and she puts her red suitcase down on my bed. She and I are going to sleep on the living room floor tonight, though, in sleeping bags.
