My Almost Epic Summer by Adele Griffin Page B

old D, who is also the one person in the world who seems wholeheartedly unimpressed with her? What does it mean? That no matter how flawless a person might look on the outside, she or he is always doomed to play the desperate Humbert, panting for someone else?
    By that definition, does each and every one of us have a Humbert lurking?
    Is there even some itchy old Humbert out there watching me?
    I can’t say it’s an entirely disagreeable thought.

A Loss
     
     
     
    IT RAINS THE next day, so Evan decides to hole up in his room and take apart various electronic fixtures. Lainie cuts me no such break. She digs out her best, ultra-point Magic Markers and forces me to crank out paper dolls at sweatshop rates.
    “And then you can make a bridal dress,” she commands. “After that, you can make a dress with sprinklicious flowers on it. Can you draw me a cat? And then can you draw the cat a nightgown?”
    Finally I tell her that I have to finish A Confederacy of Dunces on her father’s orders. “He’s giving me a quiz on it Monday, so I only have this weekend to study.”
    “Yeesh, he gives me quizzes on my homework, too.” Lainie’s pale brow wrinkles. “Poor you, Irene. Even in the summer?”
    I nod sadly. Sometimes Lainie is just too easy to fool. If only she were as easy to ditch. She trails me to the den, and then, after a few enraptured minutes of watching me read, she trots upstairs and returns with a copy of her own book.
    “You can borrow this when I’m done,” she says, waving it in my face.
    “I’d never read that,” I answer.
    “Why not?”
    “For one thing, there’s pink glitter on the cover,” I answer.
    “That’s so you know it’s about a princess.”
    “And for another thing, I hate princesses.”
    Lainie laughs as she settles herself on the opposite side of the loveseat, her knees pressed against mine. “Sometimes you’re a dumbo-face, Irene. It’s against the law to hate princesses.” She opens her book and sighs happily as I return to poor Ignatius and his world of mortifications and manifestos.
    Rain beats on the roof and the air is moist and clammy, making a perfect reading atmosphere, but my mind drifts to Starla, and what she might be doing right now. Did she have to slog all the way out to Larkin’s in this weather? Is she sitting up there on her chair, monitoring some maniac swimmer with a death-wish-by-lightning-bolt? Are she and D the only two people at work today?
    I imagine D slumped behind the register in the empty store while Starla sits out in the downpour, scheming up her next revenge tactic while also secretly hoping that D will stride out into the thunderstorm and sweep her up into an Epic-worthy embrace. Although on a glance, Starla’s arms appear stronger than D’s.
    Later, Judith drops me off at a dark house. I hang up my wet Windbreaker and scan the fridge. Nothing. Nothing is on the stove or in the oven, either. Is it my imagination or has Roy been slacking on his duties lately? Last week, we ate bread-crumbed fried mozzarella sticks three nights in a row.
    A voice from nowhere says, “We’ll order pizza.”
    “Mom?”
    She’s in the living room, all knotted up in Granny Morse’s armchair. Something is wrong. For one thing, her hair looks terrible, and Mom never has bad hair days. At any given moment, Beth Ann Morse’s hair is reliably clean, conditioned, blown dry, and anti-frizzled. As a walking advertisement for Style to Go, her good grooming is practically mandatory.
    “Did you forget your rain hat?”
    “I had to rush home.” She shakes out a tissue and honks into it.
    “Why?” It’s not cold, but Mom has the afghan wrapped around her shoulders. “Are you sick?”
    “Doesn’t something feel different to you?”
    I look around. Except for the fact that we are standing in gloom, everything looks the same. Is Mom protesting my poor cleanup of last week? No, she’s waiting for me to notice something else.
    “Roy’s gone,” she says, as if it