Lydia lives in a modest farmhouse off a narrow, unpaved road I was expecting something bigger and newer, probably because she was Kennedy’s friend and the Russo home is second in size only to the Abbott mansion.
Dad let me borrow his car for the morning, which I park on the weed-lined road outside the property. I take the dirt path up to the house. Passing a warped porch swing, I reach for the doorbell. But Lydia opens the door before I can ring it. “It’s broken,” she says in a rough voice, like she cheered too hard on the field.Except there was no cheer practice, I remind myself,no Friday night game. It’s more likely she’s been crying. She pushes through a ripped screen door to join me, wearing a matching green sweatsuit. Her dark brown hair is tied up in a messy bun. “The kittens are in the barn anyway.”
“Oh,” I say, my gaze veering to the building with the weathered red paint, some twenty yards away.
In the sunlight, I notice that Lydia, queen of the perfect cat-eye flick, is bare faced, her eyes red and swollen, nose raw and angry. I already regret coming here under false pretenses. I nearly apologize and tell her I’ve changed my mind when she brushes past me, leading the way across the weeds. “You like chickens?” she asks.
“Like for eating?”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder, and I smile disarmingly. “Kidding. Who doesn’t like chickens?”
“We’ve got brand-new chicks. Want to see ’em?”
Somehow, this is not at all what I was expecting. “Definitely.”
She leads me inside the barn, and we pass the horse stables to where little peeping sounds emerge from a brooder set up on a folding table in the corner.
“Want to hold one?” she offers.
“Sure.” It’s not my first time holding a newborn chick. Even so, I feel nervous when Lydia places the delicate, fuzzy animal in my cupped hands. “It’s so cute. Are these for sale too?” I ask, even though Dad would think I’ve lost my mind.
“Nah, we’re keeping these little guys. What you’re looking for is over this way.” She tips her head to the adjacent corner. Then she gingerly scoops the chick from my hands and places him back in the brooder.
I amble over to the large playpen structure housing the kittens. The mother cat is there, sleeping as the two kittens romp and roam around. “Just two, then?”
“The rest were snatched right up.” She gazes down on them admiringly. “Think I’ll keep whichever one you don’t pick.”
“Right.” It just so happens that I have a slight cat allergy, so I will not be leaving here with a kitten. I’ll have to tell her that the kittens and I didn’t connect or something.
“You grab the orange one,” Lydia says. “I sort of named himTangerine already, but you can change it, obviously. I’ll carry this one,” she says, grabbing the calico kitten, “and we can do a little meet and greet out in the grass.”
“Sounds good,” I say, leaning down to lift the skittish kitten. When I finally wrangle it, Lydia has the calico one cradled to her chest, and I follow her, trying desperately not to lose the little orange ball of energy. “I think Fireball might be a more apt name for this guy,” I say as Lydia settles in a shady spot.
She smiles and strokes the back of the calico kitten’s neck. “That’s a good one. This is Cal, which I know isn’t very original. I try not to get too attached. But I plan to change the name of whichever one stays with me”—her voice breaks, and she clears it—“to Kennedy.”
My chest tightens. “I’m so sorry, Lydia.”
“Thanks,” she says, nestling her cheek against the kitten’s fur.
“You know what…I shouldn’t have come here today.” I start to get up but lose my grasp on the orange kitten, who leaps free onto the grass. “Not with everything you’re going through. I can come back—”
“It’s fine.” Lydia motions for me to sit back down. “This is all I’ve been doing since I got the news anyway. The kittens and chicks are my therapy.” For a moment, we both sit and watch the orange cat—who’s looking more and more like a Fireball—raise a tiny paw to bat a dandelion, which subsequently springs back to whack him in the eye.
The glimmer of a smile crosses Lydia’s face. She releases Cal, who pads tentatively over the grass. He only makes it a few steps before Fireball tackles him, the two rolling along like one striped ball of fur.
“You and Kennedy were friends for a long time,” I say.
“Since kindergarten.” The wind whips through the grass, and Lydia wraps her arms around herself. “It’s like losing a sister.”
“Wow,” I say, scooting a little so that my top half is in the shade, my crossed legs in the sun. “Did the cops confirm what actually”—I drop my voice—“happened?”
“Not yet, but there’s a press conference tonight. It’s not like she bludgeoned herself to death.” Lydia’s hand darts to her mouth. “Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to say how she was killed.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her, trying to hide my horror. “I was there by the woods when they found her, so I…well, I saw her.”
Lydia’s eyes go wide. “You did?”
I nod, and suddenly, I can’t help it. I sneeze. Once, then twice. “Sorry, it’s uh…the pollen this time of year.” Okay, so it’s abigcat allergy.
