Table of Contents
Other Titles You Will Enjoy From Lizzie Skurnick Books
This book is dedicated to all those children who have had One Long Day in their lives.
1
Somebody is shaking me, but I don’t want get up now because I’m tired and I’m sleepy and I don’t want get up now. It’s warm under the cover here, but it’s cold up there and I don’t want get up now.
“Sonny?” I hear.
But I don’t want get up, because it’s cold up there. The cover is over my head and I’m under the sheet and the blanket and the quilt. It’s warm under here and it’s dark, because my eyes’s shut. I keep my eyes shut because I don’t want get up.
“Sonny?” I hear.
I don’t know who’s calling me, but it must be Mama because I’m home. I don’t know who it is because I’m still asleep, but it must be Mama. She’s shaking me by the foot. She’s holding my ankle through the cover.
“Wake up, honey,” she says.
But I don’t want get up because it’s cold up there and I don’t want get cold. I try to go back to sleep, but she shakes my foot again.
“Hummm?” I say.
“Wake up, honey,” I hear.
“Hummm?” I say.
“I want you get up and wee-wee,” she says.
“I don’t want wee-wee, Mama,” I say.
“Come on,” she says, shaking me. “Come on. Get up for Mama.”
“It’s cold up there,” I say.
“Come on,” she says. “Mama won’t let her baby get cold.”
I pull the sheet and blanket from under my head and push them back over my shoulder. I feel the cold and I try to cover up again, but Mama grabs the cover before I get it over me. Mama is standing ’side the bed and she’s looking down at me, smiling.
The room is dark. The lamp’s on the mantelpiece, but it’s kind of low. I see Mama’s shadow on the wall over by Gran’mon’s picture.
“I’m cold, Mama,” I say.
“Mama go’n wrap his little coat round her baby,” she says.
She goes over and get it off the chair where all my clothes’s at, and I sit up in the bed. Mama brings the coat and put it on me, and she fastens some of the buttons.
“Now,” she says. “See? You warm.”
I gap’ and look at Mama. She hugs me real hard and rubs her face against my face. My mama’s face is warm and soft, and it feels good.
“I want my socks on,” I say. “My feet go’n get cold on the floor.”
Mama leans over and get my shoes from under the bed. She takes out my socks and slip them on my feet. I gap’ and look at Mama pulling my socks up.
“Now,” she says.
I get up, but I can still feel that cold floor. I get on my knees and look under the bed for my pot.
“See it?” Mama says.
“Hanh?”
“See it under there?”
“Hanh?”
“I bet you didn’t bring it in,” she says. “Any time you sound like that, you done forgot it.”
“I left it on the chicken coop,” I say.
“Well, go to the back door,” Mama says. “Hurry up before you get cold.”
I get off my knees and go back there, but it’s too dark and I can’t see. I come back where Mama’s sitting on my bed.
“It’s dark back there, Mama,” I say. “I might trip over something.”
Mama takes a deep breath and gets the lamp off the mantelpiece, and me and her go back in the kitchen. She unlatches the door, and I crack it open and the cold air comes in.
“Hurry,” Mama says.
“All right.”
I can see the fence back of the house and I can see the little pecan tree over by the toilet. I can see the big pecan tree over by the other fence by Miss Viola Brown’s house. Miss Viola Brown must be sleeping because it’s late at night. I bet you nobody else in the quarter’s up now. I bet you I’m the only little boy up. They got plenty stars in the air, but I can’t see the moon. There must be ain’t no moon tonight. That grass is shining—and it must be done rained. That pecan tree’s shadow’s all over the back yard.
I get my tee-tee and I wee-wee. I wee-wee hard, because I don’t want get cold. Mama latches the door when I get through wee-wee-ing.
“I want some water, Mama,” I say.
“Let it out and put it right back in, huh?” Mama says.
She dips up some water and pours it in my cup, and I drink. I don’t drink too much at once, because the water makes my teeth cold. I let my teeth warm up, and I drink some more.
“I got enough,” I say.
Mama drinks the rest and then me and her go back in the front room.
“Sonny?” she says.
“Hanh?”
“Tomorrow morning when you get up, me and you leaving here, hear?”
“Where we going?” I ask.
“We going to Gran’mon,” Mama says.
“We leaving us house?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“Daddy leaving too?”
“No,” she says. “Just me and you.”
“Daddy don’t want leave?”
“I don’t know what your daddy wants,” Mama says. “But for sure he don’t want me. We leaving, hear?”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“I’m tired of it,” Mama says.
“Hanh?”
“You