When we get pretty deep into my neighborhood, he says, “I’m going to return to the church now.”
I stop riding my bike and we look at each other, smiling face-to-face, both knowing that we kicked butt for God today—making The KDFCs happy and hopeful.
I pretend that Father Chee is my dad, and maybe he pretends I am his daughter.
“Can I get a hug, Chee,” I say.
“Of course,” he replies, and then he hugs me like any good father would.
“How ’bout some love for B3?”
Father Chee pats BBB’s head, so lovingly, and I say, “You’re a good man, Chee,” just before I pedal away.
I look back, and—as always—Chee is there watching, making sure I get to Donna’s okay, and that makes me smile and feel like there is so much good in the world.
CHAPTER 6
When I arrive home, Ricky is still doing math problems at the kitchen table, so I feed Bobby Big Boy some wet canned stuff and start cooking Donna’s dinner. I decide to go with rice, red peppers, and chicken. So I defrost the chicken in the microwave, chop up two red peppers, boil some rice, and dig out the wok.
After I cut up the chicken and the red peppers into thin strips, I put it all in a big old silver bowl and douse it in a load of soy sauce and sesame seeds.
Next, I get a shot of Jack Daniels from the liquor cabinet and dump that onto the chicken and red pepper.
“What the hell,” I say, and then pour some Jack onto the now-hot wok, which makes a sizzling noise and produces a good warm wheat smell.
I stir-fry it all up, and it smells pretty delectable.
Ricky is STILL doing math problems, and BBB is chillin’ on the kitchen mat, looking up at me, watching my every move, because the dashing mutt’s totally in love with me.
Donna comes home at exactly six thirty; she is one regimented woman.
“Like I’ve told you a million times before, you don’t have to cook for us, Amber. But it sure smells good,” she says as she tosses her keys into an old crystal ashtray that she keeps on a stand by the kitchen door, and sets down her bags and hangs up her overcoat.
She runs her hands through Ricky’s hair and kisses him on the forehead, and I get a little jealous, I must admit, because my mom is so uncool compared to Ricky’s.
“How’s my boy?”
“Doing math problems. Do not talk to—”
“What time is it?”
Ricky looks at the clock on the wall and then shuts his workbook. “Time for Ricky Roberts to eat his dinner with Mommy Roberts and Amber Appleton.”
“That’s my boy,” Donna says to Ricky. To me she says, “How was your day, Amber?”
I nod and then shrug, like a tool.
“Okay,” Donna says. “Can we eat?”
I serve everyone, and we begin to eat.
“Is there Jack Daniels in this?” Donna says after tasting my newest dish.
“Yep,” I say.
“Tastes divine,” Donna says. “Got you a present, Ricky.”
“Mommy Roberts got Ricky Roberts a present!”
“See that bag by my briefcase? Over there by the door?”
“Ricky Roberts sees a bag!”
“Why don’t you go see what’s in that bag.”
Ricky stands and walks over to the bag. He picks it up and shakes it like a Christmas present. He even holds it to his ear. A hand finally goes in and comes out full of camouflage. “Ricky Roberts gets a shirt.”
“What does it say on the shirt?” Donna says, fork in hand.
Ricky holds the shirt above his head and reads the words written in hunter orange. “Franks Freak Force Federation!”
It is the coolest shirt I have ever seen.
“How many are in that bag, Ricky?” Donna says.
Ricky counts. “Seven!”
“One for every member involved in the mission.”
I swallow hard; I love Donna so much. She was in court all day—a murder case—but she still got us team shirts for the mission. She rocks!
“There are FIVE members of Franks Freak Force Federation. Mommy Roberts brought SEVEN shirts. Seven.”
“Well, your attorney needs to dress the part. And I thought Franks might want one, so I had my assistant make up seven. What the hell, right, Amber?”
I nod dumbly. I want to have an assistant someday who will make freaky teens cool T-shirts so that they can do good things in style. I want to be Donna. So frickin’ much.
Donna winks at me, and then eats some more of my stir-fry.
Ricky strips off his Utley jersey and puts on some camo. “Franks Freak Force Federation!”
“You like?” Donna says.
“Ricky Roberts likes very much!”
“Amber?”
I nod fifty times, like a moron.
“There’s one in there for you,” Donna says.
I sprint to the bag and find that there is a fitted girly tee in there for me, so I go into the other room and put it on, checking myself out in the hallway mirror. The cut makes my boobs look perky, and the coloring makes me look dangerous—sorta like Sarah Michelle Gellar playing Buffy the Vampire Slayer or maybe Uma Thurman in Kill Bill: Vol. 2. I feel so ready to fight for good tonight.