rest of the yard is slowly disappearing into darkness.
Mom’s taking me to the part of the yard she calls “The Office.” I know this because I’ve gone to The Office before. It’s the only private place in the entire house. (Or, rather, out of the house.) No one can listen in, and no one can read lips or spy on body language.
The Office is a second patio on its own concrete slab halfway down the yard. The regular patio has several round tables (that had giant umbrellas shading them until school started, when the umbrellas came down), a huge grill that uses some kind of fuel that’s not wood, and another big cabinet for grill supplies.
The Office has a picnic table like the one in the dining room, only older (I think). But The Office is on the edge of that hollow right near the “stream.”
It’s not as dark down there as you’d expect. The light from the back of the garage hits that part of the hollow like a spotlight—again, only visible to the people who are at the picnic table. I sit down with my back to the house. I’m freezing, but at least the parka protects my butt from the picnic table bench. The first time Mom brought me down here, I got splinters on the backs of my thighs.
“What’s bothering you?” she asks as she sits down.
I shrug. Everything. Nothing. I don’t want to ask if she’s talked to Eric, because I don’t want to know that he betrayed my confidence.
“You smiled very beautifully, Brit,” Mom says, “but your eyes seem sad.”
I shrug again. Mom needs me to get a job, so I’m getting a job, and I’m not going to go all drama-queen on her and complain about something the other kids do as a matter of course.
“Am I pushing you too hard?” Mom asks. “I know that a job is a big step.”
“I’m going to be fine,” I say, and hope it doesn’t sound like the really big lie that it is.
She stares at me, as if she can pull the words out of me. “You’d tell me if something’s wrong, right?” she asks. “Because you don’t have to take this job.”
“I do, though,” I say. “We need the money.”
Her lips tighten. I’m beginning to recognize that look. It’s as if she’s holding back her first reaction so that she can remember to be nice.
“We don’t need money that much,” she says, taking my hand. Her fingers are warm. Mine feel like they’re slowly turning to ice. “We can make do, Brit. I told you that I didn’t expect anyone to hire you so soon. We’re prepared for that.”
“But Mrs. Larson did,” I say. “She likes me, and she thinks I’ll bring in customers.”
Mom frowns. “Why does she think that? You don’t know anyone here.”
A flush warms my face. “Because she says I’m pretty. She says I look just like you in high school. She says pretty brings in—”
Mom makes a sound of disgust. “She wants to display you. You call first thing tomorrow and decline.”
“I already told her that I’d take the job,” I say.
Mom’s lips get even thinner, something I didn’t think possible. “Well,” she says, “you’ll just have to apologize.”
The Sloppy Joes sit heavily in my stomach.
“I’m confused,” I say, and I’m not lying. It seems like with each passing moment, I get more and more confused. “I can get out of a promise by apologizing? Because a job seems like a big deal around here, and Lise says they’re hard to come by, and Mrs. Larson had me fill out paperwork and stuff.”
“Brit,” Mom says, “sometimes, it’s better to decline a job than to take it.”
If only we’d been able to do that with the Fates’ job. I wouldn’t even be here.
“Aren’t I kind of lying, though, by saying that I want the job when I apply and fill out all the paperwork and then saying the next day that I don’t want it?” I ask.
“I’ll take care of it,” Mom snaps. “I’ve known Mrs. Larson forever and she’ll understand—”
“That I’m fragile? You told her to let me interview. I appreciate that.” I want
Mom’s taking me to the part of the yard she calls “The Office.” I know this because I’ve gone to The Office before. It’s the only private place in the entire house. (Or, rather, out of the house.) No one can listen in, and no one can read lips or spy on body language.
The Office is a second patio on its own concrete slab halfway down the yard. The regular patio has several round tables (that had giant umbrellas shading them until school started, when the umbrellas came down), a huge grill that uses some kind of fuel that’s not wood, and another big cabinet for grill supplies.
The Office has a picnic table like the one in the dining room, only older (I think). But The Office is on the edge of that hollow right near the “stream.”
It’s not as dark down there as you’d expect. The light from the back of the garage hits that part of the hollow like a spotlight—again, only visible to the people who are at the picnic table. I sit down with my back to the house. I’m freezing, but at least the parka protects my butt from the picnic table bench. The first time Mom brought me down here, I got splinters on the backs of my thighs.
“What’s bothering you?” she asks as she sits down.
I shrug. Everything. Nothing. I don’t want to ask if she’s talked to Eric, because I don’t want to know that he betrayed my confidence.
“You smiled very beautifully, Brit,” Mom says, “but your eyes seem sad.”
I shrug again. Mom needs me to get a job, so I’m getting a job, and I’m not going to go all drama-queen on her and complain about something the other kids do as a matter of course.
“Am I pushing you too hard?” Mom asks. “I know that a job is a big step.”
“I’m going to be fine,” I say, and hope it doesn’t sound like the really big lie that it is.
She stares at me, as if she can pull the words out of me. “You’d tell me if something’s wrong, right?” she asks. “Because you don’t have to take this job.”
“I do, though,” I say. “We need the money.”
Her lips tighten. I’m beginning to recognize that look. It’s as if she’s holding back her first reaction so that she can remember to be nice.
“We don’t need money that much,” she says, taking my hand. Her fingers are warm. Mine feel like they’re slowly turning to ice. “We can make do, Brit. I told you that I didn’t expect anyone to hire you so soon. We’re prepared for that.”
“But Mrs. Larson did,” I say. “She likes me, and she thinks I’ll bring in customers.”
Mom frowns. “Why does she think that? You don’t know anyone here.”
A flush warms my face. “Because she says I’m pretty. She says I look just like you in high school. She says pretty brings in—”
Mom makes a sound of disgust. “She wants to display you. You call first thing tomorrow and decline.”
“I already told her that I’d take the job,” I say.
Mom’s lips get even thinner, something I didn’t think possible. “Well,” she says, “you’ll just have to apologize.”
The Sloppy Joes sit heavily in my stomach.
“I’m confused,” I say, and I’m not lying. It seems like with each passing moment, I get more and more confused. “I can get out of a promise by apologizing? Because a job seems like a big deal around here, and Lise says they’re hard to come by, and Mrs. Larson had me fill out paperwork and stuff.”
“Brit,” Mom says, “sometimes, it’s better to decline a job than to take it.”
If only we’d been able to do that with the Fates’ job. I wouldn’t even be here.
“Aren’t I kind of lying, though, by saying that I want the job when I apply and fill out all the paperwork and then saying the next day that I don’t want it?” I ask.
“I’ll take care of it,” Mom snaps. “I’ve known Mrs. Larson forever and she’ll understand—”
“That I’m fragile? You told her to let me interview. I appreciate that.” I want
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