went out to lunch with Jonesy Small?” My nose wrinkles in a reflex reaction. “Why? Did you know he used to be married?”
“Why not? Of course I know. So?”
“And he’s old,” I say.
“Six years’ difference,” retorts Danielle, “is the same age span as my parents.”
“Besides, you can’t count that first marriage,” Georgia says. “Sasha Bell and Jonesy were high school sweethearts. Everyone said they went through with the wedding only because they’re Catholics and,” she drops her voice, “it was a pregnancy scare.”
“Okay.” I draw out the word skeptically.
“Anyway, last I checked, your boy Caleb was kind of an acquired taste.” Danielle whips off this insult so fast, I’m floored. “People who live in glass houses, right?”
“Wow, hang on a minute. Caleb is my
boyfriend
,” I answer, once I’ve taken the three seconds I need to recover. My body feels all hot with annoyance. “He’s not just some last-week-of-the-last-month-of-summer fling. I mean, you can’t even compare—”
“All right, folks.” Georgia uses her two pointer fingers to make a mini time-out. “I think I spot a Range Rover. Prepare for the first unloading of screaming beasts.”
I’m quick to give Danielle a last, vicious look, which she matches with quite a snotty little skimmer expression of her own.
“Hey. Check it out,” Georgia says. She holds up a deformed strawberry, long and crooked as a chili pepper. “Poor old thing. I just found him hiding behind the register.”
My heart skips a beat. Jane would have freaked. She would have believed that this strawberry was a warning. A sign of worse things to come. Stupid, of course. But Jane had always been on guard for signs and superstitions. Lord help her if her sneakers came untied more than twice in an hour. Or if she skinned her knee. Or if she was served any food that was square shaped, dill flavored, or burned. Though some warnings were more obvious. Oncewe had to end her birthday trip to Mystic Seaport because a bird pooped on Jane’s shoulder.
“That’s not a warning of bad luck,” I’d tried to explain to her. “Don’t you think that a bird pooping all over you
is
the bad luck?”
But Jane wouldn’t listen to reason. We’d ended up having to celebrate her birthday the next week, once the whole messy incident was well behind us.
I should know better than to think “warning sign.” Fighting with Danielle Savini
is
the bad luck, I remind myself. There is no such thing as a bad strawberry omen.
Still, my eyes stay with Danielle as she tosses her head and walks away from me, prepared to stick to her point and hold her grudge. My skin tingles with something that feels close to apprehension. And when nobody’s looking, I can’t stop myself from brushing Georgia’s ugly, chili-pepper strawberry to the floor. Then I squash it flat beneath my sneaker. Just to be safe.
11 — INTRUDER
Jane
Her grandparents went up to the house, but Jane stayed by the pool. Lying in the grass as the hours seeped into afternoon. Gambler napped under the table, his nose twitching with dreams. The sun made lacy patterns through the tree leaves onto her skin. She watched a ladybug land and crawl from her elbow to her fingertip. A ladybug was good luck, and this ladybug had seven spots on her back. Double good.
Late afternoons at Orchard Way were Jane’s favorite time of day. But they had also marked the end of the visit, when her parents started to make noises about leaving.
Where are your shoes, Jane? Go find your sister, so we can pack up.
Then Jane would have to drop whatever game she was playing, or slip out of Augusta’s dress-up scarves, or find the sandals she had flipped off.
That was then.
The sun receded. Its light slanted and lengthened theshadows. She dozed. The crunch of tires on driveway gravel startled her awake again. The car’s engine sounded familiar. She blinked, propped herself up on an elbow.
As a matter of fact, it sounded a
“Why not? Of course I know. So?”
“And he’s old,” I say.
“Six years’ difference,” retorts Danielle, “is the same age span as my parents.”
“Besides, you can’t count that first marriage,” Georgia says. “Sasha Bell and Jonesy were high school sweethearts. Everyone said they went through with the wedding only because they’re Catholics and,” she drops her voice, “it was a pregnancy scare.”
“Okay.” I draw out the word skeptically.
“Anyway, last I checked, your boy Caleb was kind of an acquired taste.” Danielle whips off this insult so fast, I’m floored. “People who live in glass houses, right?”
“Wow, hang on a minute. Caleb is my
boyfriend
,” I answer, once I’ve taken the three seconds I need to recover. My body feels all hot with annoyance. “He’s not just some last-week-of-the-last-month-of-summer fling. I mean, you can’t even compare—”
“All right, folks.” Georgia uses her two pointer fingers to make a mini time-out. “I think I spot a Range Rover. Prepare for the first unloading of screaming beasts.”
I’m quick to give Danielle a last, vicious look, which she matches with quite a snotty little skimmer expression of her own.
“Hey. Check it out,” Georgia says. She holds up a deformed strawberry, long and crooked as a chili pepper. “Poor old thing. I just found him hiding behind the register.”
My heart skips a beat. Jane would have freaked. She would have believed that this strawberry was a warning. A sign of worse things to come. Stupid, of course. But Jane had always been on guard for signs and superstitions. Lord help her if her sneakers came untied more than twice in an hour. Or if she skinned her knee. Or if she was served any food that was square shaped, dill flavored, or burned. Though some warnings were more obvious. Oncewe had to end her birthday trip to Mystic Seaport because a bird pooped on Jane’s shoulder.
“That’s not a warning of bad luck,” I’d tried to explain to her. “Don’t you think that a bird pooping all over you
is
the bad luck?”
But Jane wouldn’t listen to reason. We’d ended up having to celebrate her birthday the next week, once the whole messy incident was well behind us.
I should know better than to think “warning sign.” Fighting with Danielle Savini
is
the bad luck, I remind myself. There is no such thing as a bad strawberry omen.
Still, my eyes stay with Danielle as she tosses her head and walks away from me, prepared to stick to her point and hold her grudge. My skin tingles with something that feels close to apprehension. And when nobody’s looking, I can’t stop myself from brushing Georgia’s ugly, chili-pepper strawberry to the floor. Then I squash it flat beneath my sneaker. Just to be safe.
11 — INTRUDER
Jane
Her grandparents went up to the house, but Jane stayed by the pool. Lying in the grass as the hours seeped into afternoon. Gambler napped under the table, his nose twitching with dreams. The sun made lacy patterns through the tree leaves onto her skin. She watched a ladybug land and crawl from her elbow to her fingertip. A ladybug was good luck, and this ladybug had seven spots on her back. Double good.
Late afternoons at Orchard Way were Jane’s favorite time of day. But they had also marked the end of the visit, when her parents started to make noises about leaving.
Where are your shoes, Jane? Go find your sister, so we can pack up.
Then Jane would have to drop whatever game she was playing, or slip out of Augusta’s dress-up scarves, or find the sandals she had flipped off.
That was then.
The sun receded. Its light slanted and lengthened theshadows. She dozed. The crunch of tires on driveway gravel startled her awake again. The car’s engine sounded familiar. She blinked, propped herself up on an elbow.
As a matter of fact, it sounded a
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