The Smart One by Ellen Meister Page B

done? Probably. And anyway, I wasn’t nearly talented enough to pull it off, so it would be a useless exercise.
    “I need to ask you a favor,” Clare said. “I was about to bring it up in the store, but the sight of Mrs. Bianco in that oven mitt knocked it out of my head.”
    “Shoot.”
    She held a tip of hair in front of her face and shook off the mud. “You can say no. I don’t mean to put you on the spot.”
    “Just spit it out.”
    “I enrolled in a continuing-ed class this summer. Modern American Lit. But it’s only offered in the afternoon and I’ll need someone to watch Dylan and Sophie for a few hours.”
    “What about Marta?” I asked, referring to her Salvadoran housekeeper.
    “She’s taking a little time off,” Clare explained. “Next week she’s going back to South America to visit her family.”
    I could have explained to Clare that she got Marta’s continent wrong—that El Salvador is in Central America, which is part of North America. I sensed, however, that it was a bad time to correct her, and let it go.
    “Continuing ed? American Lit? Where did this come from?”
    “You think my life is all PTA luncheons and shopping.”
    “It isn’t?”
    Clare’s lower jaw tensed. “If you can’t do it, I understand. I can probably hire a sitter.”
    I sighed, guilty. Why was it so hard to predict when Clare would institute her zero-tolerance policy for good-natured teasing?
    “No, I’d love to do it for you, Clare. And you know how I feel about your kids.”
    She thanked me and got busy trying to rub the mud from her hands.
    I folded my arms and looked at her. As far as I could remember, Clare never showed any interest in literature beyond keeping abreast of the trendiest bestsellers. Something was going on that she didn’t want to tell me about. Why the sudden desire to broaden her horizons?
    “Everything okay at home?” I asked.
    “Fine! Why does there have to be a problem for me to want to take a lit class? You think you’re the only one in this family with an IQ for God’s sake.”
    I apologized and changed the subject, saying I thought our little sister was doing well. She agreed that Joey seemed clean and on track. We both wondered when we could stop worrying that she’d backslide and wind up on drugs again. Those dark days were so recent, so fresh, that it was hard not to feel terror at the thought of revisiting them. Joey herself said it was by the grace of God that she wasn’t the one who wound up dead on the floor of a friend’s house, a truth that followed us around like a storm cloud on a string.
    A few minutes later we heard Joey’s quick footsteps coming back down the stairs, accompanied by a curious rustling sound.
    In a moment, she was at the door of the mudroom, no longer in her underwear. My voice caught in my throat as I took in what she was wearing: a rose-colored ball gown, with a glittery beaded bodice and billowing skirt.
    “Joey!” I said. “For heaven’s sake!”
    She seemed quite pleased with herself. “Isn’t this a pisser?” She threw towels to me and Clare, then twirled around.
    “That’s the gown Renee wore to Kenny’s bar mitzvah,” Clare said as she wiped the mud off her face. “Why on earth did you put that on?”
    “I can’t believe you remember where she wore it,” Joey said.
    Clare rolled her eyes. “Who could forget? It was ridiculous then and it’s ridiculous now. Looks like a cheesy pink wedding gown. Take it off, Joey.”
    “But I like it,” she whined.
    “Hate to be a… er …stick-in-the-mud,” I offered, wiping off my own face, “but you really shouldn’t be wearing Renee’s couture gown.”
    Clare snorted and rolled her eyes. “Couture, right.”
    “Fine,” Joey said, all attitude. “Hold this.” She planted a box of tampons in my hand and started to unzip the dress.
    “You have your period?” I asked.
    “No.” Joey dropped the gown to the floor and stepped out of it. “I found that in Renee’s lingerie