Crescendo by Becca Fitzpatrick Page B

tugged on the fridge door. “Got any beer?”
    “
What?
No.”
    The front door was still open, and voices carried in from outside. My mom stepped over the threshold, carrying two brown paper grocery bags. A round woman with a bad pixie-style haircut and heavy pink makeup followed her in.
    “Nora, this is Lynn Parnell,” my mom said. “Lynn, this is Nora.”
    “My, my,” Mrs. Parnell said, clasping her hands together. “She looks just like you, doesn’t she, Blythe? And look at those legs! Longer than the Vegas strip.”
    I spoke up. “I know this is bad timing, but I’m not feeling well, so I’m going to go lie down—”
    I broke off at the black look my mom shot in my direction. I aimed my most unjust look back.
    “Scott has really grown up, hasn’t he, Nora?” she said.
    “Very observant.”
    Mom set the bags on the counter and addressed Scott. “Nora and I were a little nostalgic this morning, remembering all the things the two of you used to do. Nora told me you used to try to get her to eat roly-polies.”
    Before Scott could defend himself, I said, “He used to fry them alive under a magnifying glass, and he didn’t
try
to get me to eat them. He sat on top of me and pinched my nose until I ran out of air and had to open my mouth. Then he flicked them inside.”
    Mom and Mrs. Parnell shared a quick look.
    “Scott was always very persuasive,” Mrs. Parnell said quickly. “He can talk people into doing things they’d never dream of. He has a knack for it. He talked me into buying him a 1966 Ford Mustang, mint condition. Of course, he hit me at a good time, I was so guilt-ridden over the divorce. Well. As I was saying, Scott probably made the best fried roly-polies on the whole block.”
    Everyone looked to me for confirmation.
    I couldn’t believe we were discussing this as if it was a perfectly normal topic of conversation.
    “So,” Scott piped up, scratching his chest. His bicep flexed whenhe did, but he probably knew that. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Lasagna, garlic bread, and a Jell-O salad,” said Mom with a smile. “Nora made the salad.”
    This was news to me. “I did?”
    “You bought the Jell-O boxes,” she reminded me.
    “That doesn’t really count.”
    “Nora made the salad,” Mom assured Scott. “I think everything is ready. Why don’t we eat?”
    Once seated, we joined hands and Mom blessed the food.
    “Tell me about apartments in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Parnell said, cutting the lasagna and sliding the first piece onto Scott’s plate. “How much can I expect to pay for two bedrooms, two baths?”
    “Depends how remodeled you want,” Mom answered. “Almost everything on this side of town was built pre-1900, and it shows. When we were first married, Harrison and I looked at several inexpensive two-bedroom apartments, but there was always something wrong—holes in the walls, cockroach problems, or they weren’t within walking distance of a park. Since I was pregnant, we decided we needed a bigger place. This house had been on the market for eighteen months, and we were able to get a deal we considered almost too good to be true.” She looked around. “Harrison and I had planned on fully restoring it eventually, but … well, and then … as you know …” She bowed her head.
    Scott cleared his throat. “Sorry about your dad, Nora. I still remember my dad calling me the night it happened. I was workinga few blocks away at a convenience store. I hope they catch whoever killed him.”
    I tried to say thank you, but the words had broken to pieces in my throat. I didn’t want to talk about my dad. The raw feelings from my breakup with Patch were enough to deal with. Where was he right now? Was regret eating at him? Did he understand how much I wanted to take back everything I’d said? I suddenly wondered if he’d texted me, and wished I’d brought my phone down to the dinner table. But how much could he even say? Could the archangels read his texts? How much