The Secrets of Peaches by Jodi Lynn Anderson Page A

home.” Birdie realized how it sounded as soon as she said it. It sounded…egocentric. Anglo -centric. As if Poopie’s whole life revolved around the Darlingtons. Enrico didn’t call her on it, though. Of course, home was the town he and Poopie shared in Mexico. He didn’t have to say.
    â€œHow long has she worked for you?” he asked softly.
    â€œSince the year I was born,” Birdie answered, picking at some fuzz on the o on her sweater.
    â€œSeventeen years,” Enrico said slowly, apologetically.
    For a moment, Birdie stopped breathing. She stared out the window at Poopie, down on the grass, oblivious to being watched. Her mind spun with thoughts of what it meant if that were true, what it meant about the way Poopie saw things.
    â€œWe’re not just…people she works for,” Birdie said, suddenly on fire. Poopie had been there to pick her up, to give her advice, to tell her when she was off the mark, to set her straight. She’d been there to do that Birdie’s whole life.
    â€œShe loves you. Of course she does.”
    Poopie wasn’t a second mother. She was something else. If Birdie’s life revolved around someone, it was Poopie. “She does,” Birdie asserted. She felt sick. Poopie loved her. She was sure she did.
    But maybe not like home. Maybe not like Birdie loved Poopie.
    â€œMaybe it’s not that, Birdie. It could be many other things,” Enrico told her tenderly.
    â€œMaybe,” Birdie said softly, once again listening to the comforting silence of Enrico’s breath.
    When they finally said good-bye, Birdie stayed by her window.The sun was setting earlier now, and the house’s wide yard had an orange tint leading to the peach trees. Poopie had put down her beer and walked with a slow, aimless gait into the orchard. Like she was walking for the pure pleasure of walking, not like she was going to get something from the cider shed, or pick tomatoes for the salad, or get in her truck and drive to town. She wove back and forth between the peach trees, floating softly along the pale dirt that rolled out like red carpets between them. She reminded Birdie of some kind of blissed-out hippie.
    Why hadn’t she noticed before? Of course, Poopie was leaving. She had the look of someone who was already gone.

 
    On Halloween morning, when Birdie Darlington was five years old, she decided to draw a portrait of Poopie on the pantry wall. Using a red crayon, she outlined Poopie’s long skirt, her long black hair, her busy hands reaching out. It seemed like the perfect tribute, but when Birdie stood back to admire her work, she was shocked to see that what she had drawn wasn’t Poopie at all, but the Virgin Mary. Terrified that she was witnessing a miracle, Birdie ran away and later blocked it from her mind completely.

Eight
    â€œY ou have to put it on thick for something like this,” Lucretia said. “You’re not just going to Homecoming. You’re the Queen.”
    Leeda remembered this already. She remembered all the advice her mom gave her. Smile no matter what. Don’t slump. Put the makeup on thick.
    Birdie lay across Lucretia’s bed like a dead fish, her head hanging over the edge as she studied the carpet and picked it apart with her fingers. Leeda’s parents’ bedroom had come straight off an Ethan Allen catalog page—headboard, side tables, bureau—all smooth, clean, matching, the whole bed so fluffed it nearly swallowed Birdie up. On her mom’s side was a Patricia Cornwell novel. On her dad’s was a biography of John Adams. Leeda wondered vaguely if her parents ever talked when they were sitting here, fluffed up on all their pillows. She could feel her mom’s gentle breathing on her face as Lucretia worked and her own breath falling in line with her mother’s. The gentle, synchronized rhythm made her sleepy, like a kitten.
    â€œI’ll call her,” Leeda said.