mom’s hair is messy like a little girl’s. Without makeup, she looks younger.
“Are you riding your bike?” she asks.
Ruby nods. How else would she get all the way into town?
“You have your helmet?”
She nods again, though she never wears her helmet.
“Are you sure it’s not too far?”
“It’s like four miles, Mom,” she says, fearing suddenly that she’s going to expect her to hang out here with her for the next week.
“You go the long way,” she says, and her eyes grow wider. “Don’t go over the bridge.”
Ruby swallows. Nods.
At Bunk’s house, she comes and goes as she pleases. She has her own key to the house, and she can get everywhere she needs to go on her bike. Her dad’s only rules are that she be home by supper time, that she answers her phone if he calls, and that she doesn’t cross the covered bridge. This last rule is the single thing he and her mother seem to agree on anymore.
She makes sure she’s got her backpack, her helmet (her mom is watching from the window), and then she just puts her head down and goes. The dirt road her mom lives on is a little bit dangerous. Her bike is a ten-speed, so the tires are narrow; the smallest rock could throw her off into a ditch. But luckily, after a mile or so, the dirt turns to pavement, and then it’s just big trucks she needs to worry about. Even going the long way, it only takes twenty minutes to ride into town, and it’s downhill most of the way. She’s barely even out of breath when she pulls up to Izzy’s driveway and drops her bike on the gravel next to Grover’s car.
Izzy lives in one of the big Victorian houses on the park in Quimby. She calls it “Miss Piggy” because it’s big and pink and fussy. In her room there’s a bell that used to be for the maid. There’s also a dumbwaiter, which is like a tiny little elevator they use to bring up snacks from the kitchen. It’s got three stories and a fake door in the library. Her dad says that her great-grandpa was a bootlegger, and he used to hide liquor in there. Now it’s just filled with boxes of stuff they can’t seem to get rid of. It’s easy to win at hide and seek in her house because there are so many good places to hide. Ruby hid in the old ice chest in the pantry once, and Izzy couldn’t find her for forty-five minutes.
Izzy’s great-grandpa used to own the sawmill, which meant he basically owned this town. He built the house back in the eighteen hundreds, so it’s been passed down through her family for two hundred years: grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. But now it’s just Izzy and her parents. And Grover. The mill closed down a long time ago. They’re not rich, not anymore anyway.
Izzy’s father, Neil, is a science teacher at the high school, and her mother, Gloria, is a potter. She makes bowls and plates and coffee mugs, which she sells at crafts fairs and at the artists’ collective in town. Her pottery has sandy-looking bottoms and colors swirled like sunsets. A long time ago, Gloria made an entire set for Ruby’s mother as a birthday gift. Her mom still eats and drinks out of these dishes every day. Ruby noticed she was using the mixing bowl this morning for the pancakes. To bring in a little extra money, they rent a room on the first floor out to an old man named Grover who, even though he’s almost ninety years old, still drives a car. It’s a big yellow station wagon, and it takes up the whole driveway, so Ruby’s mom and dad have to park their cars on the street out front. Grover is a professor emeritus at the college. He almost won the Nobel Prize like fifty years ago, Izzy says.
Ruby has known Izzy since she was born. Literally. Ruby’s mom was the one who drove through a snowstorm to bring Izzy into the world. Ruby was exactly one month old then, and her mom brought her with her because her dad was working that night too. Before the accident, he was a volunteer EMT. Her mom said Ruby slept through the whole thing, at
“Are you riding your bike?” she asks.
Ruby nods. How else would she get all the way into town?
“You have your helmet?”
She nods again, though she never wears her helmet.
“Are you sure it’s not too far?”
“It’s like four miles, Mom,” she says, fearing suddenly that she’s going to expect her to hang out here with her for the next week.
“You go the long way,” she says, and her eyes grow wider. “Don’t go over the bridge.”
Ruby swallows. Nods.
At Bunk’s house, she comes and goes as she pleases. She has her own key to the house, and she can get everywhere she needs to go on her bike. Her dad’s only rules are that she be home by supper time, that she answers her phone if he calls, and that she doesn’t cross the covered bridge. This last rule is the single thing he and her mother seem to agree on anymore.
She makes sure she’s got her backpack, her helmet (her mom is watching from the window), and then she just puts her head down and goes. The dirt road her mom lives on is a little bit dangerous. Her bike is a ten-speed, so the tires are narrow; the smallest rock could throw her off into a ditch. But luckily, after a mile or so, the dirt turns to pavement, and then it’s just big trucks she needs to worry about. Even going the long way, it only takes twenty minutes to ride into town, and it’s downhill most of the way. She’s barely even out of breath when she pulls up to Izzy’s driveway and drops her bike on the gravel next to Grover’s car.
Izzy lives in one of the big Victorian houses on the park in Quimby. She calls it “Miss Piggy” because it’s big and pink and fussy. In her room there’s a bell that used to be for the maid. There’s also a dumbwaiter, which is like a tiny little elevator they use to bring up snacks from the kitchen. It’s got three stories and a fake door in the library. Her dad says that her great-grandpa was a bootlegger, and he used to hide liquor in there. Now it’s just filled with boxes of stuff they can’t seem to get rid of. It’s easy to win at hide and seek in her house because there are so many good places to hide. Ruby hid in the old ice chest in the pantry once, and Izzy couldn’t find her for forty-five minutes.
Izzy’s great-grandpa used to own the sawmill, which meant he basically owned this town. He built the house back in the eighteen hundreds, so it’s been passed down through her family for two hundred years: grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. But now it’s just Izzy and her parents. And Grover. The mill closed down a long time ago. They’re not rich, not anymore anyway.
Izzy’s father, Neil, is a science teacher at the high school, and her mother, Gloria, is a potter. She makes bowls and plates and coffee mugs, which she sells at crafts fairs and at the artists’ collective in town. Her pottery has sandy-looking bottoms and colors swirled like sunsets. A long time ago, Gloria made an entire set for Ruby’s mother as a birthday gift. Her mom still eats and drinks out of these dishes every day. Ruby noticed she was using the mixing bowl this morning for the pancakes. To bring in a little extra money, they rent a room on the first floor out to an old man named Grover who, even though he’s almost ninety years old, still drives a car. It’s a big yellow station wagon, and it takes up the whole driveway, so Ruby’s mom and dad have to park their cars on the street out front. Grover is a professor emeritus at the college. He almost won the Nobel Prize like fifty years ago, Izzy says.
Ruby has known Izzy since she was born. Literally. Ruby’s mom was the one who drove through a snowstorm to bring Izzy into the world. Ruby was exactly one month old then, and her mom brought her with her because her dad was working that night too. Before the accident, he was a volunteer EMT. Her mom said Ruby slept through the whole thing, at
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