Laura Altom - Dancing with Dalton

“Really?”

“No, not really,” Rose said, perching on her own pint-size seat to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “You already told him, sweetie.”

“Hey,” Dalton complained. “That’s cheating. Telling all my secrets like that.”

“What secret?” Rose teased. “If you’re going to claim to have superhuman skills, we need proof of something pretty amazing. Not just lame old mind reading.”

“Yeah,” Anna said. “Can you fly? Or laser beam stuff with your eyeballs? Toby Mitchell does that during math class to get out of doing addition.”

“Which?” Dalton asked. “Flying or the laser thing?”

“Sometimes both,” Anna said, eyes wide, expression solemn. “Ms. Marshal tells him to stop, but he won’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Rose said with a cluck of her tongue. “Sounds like it’s time for you to wash up for dinner, and quit telling fibs.”

“I’m not fibbing. Honest. And anyway, Mr. Dalton never showed us his trick.”

“I’m working on it,” he said, messing with his clay. “How about you do what your mom asked, then I’ll show you when you get back.”

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