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Forgotten and Forgiven 那天下午，我坐在学校二楼的窗沿上，看着一辆辆过往的汽车，心不断地往下沉。我们班的年终派对将在那天举行，我已经盼了好几个星期了。那个星期，老师还在黑板上弄了个倒计时牌。当这个“派对星期五到来的时候，我们一班九岁大的孩子兴奋得炸开了锅。 As I sat perched in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon, my heart began to sink further with each passing car. This was a day I'd looked forward to for weeks: Miss Pace's fourth-grade, end-of-the-year party. Miss Pace had kept a running countdown on the blackboard all that week, and our class of nine-year-olds had bordered on insurrection by the time the much-anticipated "party Friday" had arrived. I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers. Mom's chocolate chips reigned supreme on our block, and I knew they'd be a hit with my classmates. But two o'clock passed, and there was no sign of her. Most of the other mothers had already come and gone, dropping off their offerings of punch and crackers, chips, cupcakes and brownies. My mother was missing in action. "Don't worry, Robbie, she'll be along soon," Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly down at the street. I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift to half-past. Around me, the noisy party raged on, but I wouldn't budge from my window watch post. Miss Pace did her best to coax me away, but I stayed out, holding out hope that the familiar family car would round the corner, carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her arm. | 
