By the time McKenna and Toby were twelve, the nuns were regular dinner guests. They never came all at once; they never came alone. Like Noah’s precious cargo, they arrived in pairs, stepping gingerly up the cracked walkway, arms linked, appearing not so much pious as geriatric and scared outside the bubbles of their sanctimonious classrooms. Once they’d climbed the four concrete steps, their knock rattled the metal door with all the force of a dried sponge tossed by a Farm League reject. Two or three times a month they descended, always unannounced to the family. Grandma Pencil figured that no one would mind. After all, she was doing 95 percent of the cooking these days. A couple of Mapeses minded, though. The nuns were Mc-Kenna and Toby’s teachers, ex- teachers, future teachers. For the twins, the dinners ranged from uncomfortable to mortifying. The only choice they had was to hide in their room until the last possible moment, doing (or in Toby’s case, pretending to do) homework.
What do You think about The Girl Who Ate Kalamazoo?
