Key Of Valor (Key 3)

It was just a little twist to her Monday routine.

It meant she picked up some fancy bread and fresh makings for a salad on the way home. And made extra sauce. She had to get Simon started on his homework earlier than usual. And that was a battle, even with the bribe of his good pal Brad coming over for dinner.

She had to clean herself up, change her outfit twice and retouch her makeup. Then she had to clean Simon up, which caused another battle, then light fragrance candles so everything looked pretty and the air wasn't tinged with Eau de Moe.

There was the salad to make, the table to set, arithmetic and spelling to check and a dog to feed.

All this had to be done between three-thirty-five and six-thirty.

He probably wasn't used to going out to dinner so early, she thought as she stirred sauce. The richer people were, the later they ate. But Simon had to be in bed by nine o'clock on a school night. That was the law around here, so Bradley Vane would just have to adjust, or he could go eat his spaghetti somewhere else.

She hissed out a breath. Stop it! He hadn't complained, had he? She was the one making all the trouble.

"Simon, you really need to finish that up."

"I hate fractions." He bumped his heels against the leg of his chair and scowled down at the math assignment. "Fractions blow chunks."

"Some things don't come in wholes. You need to know the pieces that make them up." "Why?"

She took out the cloth napkins she'd run up on her sewing machine. "So you can put things together, take them apart, understand how it all works."

"Why?"

She folded the napkins into triangles. "Are you trying to irritate me, or is it a natural gift?"

"I don't know. How come you're using those things?"

"Because we're having company."

"It's just Brad."

"I know who it is. Simon, you've only got three more problems there. Get them done so I can finish setting the table."

"How come I can't do it after dinner? How come I always have to do homework? How come I can't take Moe outside and fool around?"

"Because I want you to do it now. Because that's your job. Because I said so."

They sent each other mutual looks of heat and annoyance. "It's not fair."

"Bulletin for Simon: Life isn't always fair. Now get the rest of that done, or you'll lose your hour TV-and-video privilege tonight. And stop kicking that chair," she snapped. She hauled out her cutting board and began chopping vegetables for the salad. "You keep making those faces at my back," she said, coolly now, "and you'll lose those privileges for the whole week."

He didn't know how she knew what he was doing behind her, but she always did. In a small rebellion, he took three times as long to solve the next problem as he needed. Homework sucked . He glanced up quickly just in case his mother could hear what he was thinking. But she kept on cutting junk for the stupid salad.

He didn't mind school. Sometimes he even liked it. But he didn't see why it had to follow him home every single night. He thought about kicking the chair again, just to test her. But Moe bounced into the room and distracted him. "Hey, Moe. Hey, boy, whatcha got there?" Zoe looked around, and dropped the knife. "Oh, my God." Moe stood, tail thumping, whole body wagging, and what was left of a roll of toilet paper clamped in his teeth. When she leaped toward him, it was a signal in Moe's mind for the game to begin. He charged left, zipped around the table, then bolted back through the kitchen doorway. "Stop! Damn it. Simon, help me get that dog." He'd already done his work. Shredded bits of paper, streams of mangled paper, were sprinkled and spread all over her floors like snow. She chased him into the living room while he growled playfully around the crushed tube. Giggling in delight, Simon streaked past her and dived. Boy and dog rolled over the rug. "Simon, it's not a game." She waded in, managed to get a hand on the wet roll. But the harder she tugged, the brighter Moe's eyes became.

He bore down, with happy snarls. "He thinks it is. He thinks you're playing tug. He really likes to tug."

Exasperated, she looked at her son. He was kneeling beside the dog now, one arm thrown over Moe's back. Some of the shredded paper had attached itself to Simon's clean pants, Moe's fur.

Both of them were grinning at her.

"I'm not playing." But the words choked out over a laugh. "I'm not ! You're a bad dog." She tapped a finger on his nose. "A very bad dog."

He plopped on his butt, lifted a paw to shake, then spat the roll onto the floor at her feet.

"He wants you to throw it so he can fetch."

"Oh, yeah, that's going to happen." She snatched the roll up, put it behind her back. "Simon, go get the vacuum cleaner. Moe and I are going to have a little chat."