entrance to her bedroom, and into another long, dim room, divided in two: the first half was a kitchen, the second half tables and clutter. There was one small round table in there, set for dinner, near a large raised fireplace with a fire roaring away inside it. (Evenings came on fast and cool there.) Along the side wall was another surface completely coveredâI was getting used to thisâwith letters, magazines, photographs, money, stamps, marbles in a silver dish, glasses, pens, a few books, and a long cylinder that was either a spyglass or a stick of dynamite.
âYou sure have a lot ofââ I started, but she cut me off.
âI have a lot of things, I know.â My grandmotherâs voice was brisk. âI implore you, never call it
stuff
. I canât bear it when people come into my house and say, âGoodness, Mrs. Von Stern, what a lot of stuff you have!ââ
Another thing to remember. Iâd have to make a list.
âI collect. I am a collector, and I travel, and so after a timeââshe shruggedââobjects accumulate.â
This was what Ms. Nelson would have called an understatement. She made us write a whole page of understatements once.I enjoyed that.
I have a slight dislike for anchovies. My dog isnât very clean after a walk in the rain. I might prefer it if my mother spent less time in the hospital.
Dinner that first night was edible. No anchovies, at least. Hildy sat right at my grandmotherâs knee and got bites of roast beef handed to her from the table, though we had fed both dogs before we sat down. The best thing about the meal was dessert: a delicious chocolate cake with raspberry cream frosting. My grandmother apparently had a sweet toothâsomething we had in common. Maybe it was genetic.
Most of our awkward chat was about how I was possibly going to fill up the days of my endlessly long stay. The question seemed to worry her, too. She told me I would have chores, like walking the dogs and helping Miguel feed the birds. A friend of hers named Joan ran a bookstore, where sheâd be happy to buy me books. The local high school had a swimming pool. If I liked drawing, she would get me art supplies. (I said no, politely; the world is a better place when Iâm not somewhere in it doing art.)
It wasnât wilderness campâthere was no mention of kayaking or making lanyardsâbut that was the program. Take it or leave it.
I was bold enough to ask one question. âUh â¦â The GM glared. How the (expletive deleted) was I going to make it through a month and a half without
uh
? âDoesnât Miguel have a daughter around my age?â I tried not to sound as desperate as I felt.
âYou mean Rosie.â Grandmother seemed surprised. âI supposeshe is close to you in age, yes. I believe sheâs eleven. How old are you, Ella?â
âEleven.â
âAh.â She looked like someone who has just been told a poodle is the same species as a terrier: she had to think about it for a minute. âWhat an amusing coincidence.â Her face was anything but amused, though. Alarmed or uneasy, maybeânot amused. âBut her parents are living separately at the moment, so she is here only some of the time. And besides, given the history â¦â She shook her head slightly.
âWhat history?â I asked.
The GM stood up abruptly, scraping the floor with her chair. âPerhaps another time, Ella.â I didnât think that was, strictly speaking, the politest way of ending a conversation. Wasnât she breaking one of her own rules? âFor now, I must do some reading. And Iâm sure youâre tired after your long day.â
I wasnât tired at all, I was wide awake, especially after all that chocolate and the new spark of curiosity she had just lit in my mind.
What about Rosie?
I wanted to ask.
Sheâs my only hope here!
But something in my grandmotherâs face
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