Page 72

“Are you going to answer?” Keith asked.

I looked into my glass. I wished I hadn’t finished my drink. “I’m ready for another drink,” I said.

“Your explanation is so terrible you need a drink?”

“I don’t need a drink. I just want one.”

He sighed. He came to where I stood at the railing, took my glass, and went inside. I heard the bedroom door open and close. I turned back to the view. It was almost dark now and the first stars had made themselves visible.

Before I had time to think, Keith was back on the balcony, handing me a fresh drink. I took a sip. He’d made it strong. I wondered if his was the same. “Tastes good,” I said.

“So who is he?”

I turned my attention back to the silhouetted pine trees. “He’s the guy who helped me find this house.”

FIFTY-ONE

A LITTLE GIRL

Twenty Years Ago

For the fifth time this week, I was sitting in the fancy chair wearing a new dress. This one was yellow with short, tight sleeves, lace along the neckline, which itched, and a skirt that had two petticoats. My shoes matched—they were made of satiny material that had been dyed to glow bright yellow. They had tiny heels, which I was excited about, except I never got to wear them out of the house. I hardly even wore them inside the house. Only when I was sitting in the high-backed chair with my arms hurting from the wood armrests.

I felt a pin stab my thigh, right through the petticoats.

“Ow!” Tears rushed into my eyes.

“Stop wiggling and crying,” my mother said.

“A pin stuck my leg!”

“Sometimes I forget a few pins. You don’t need to be so dramatic about a tiny scratch.”

“It poked all the way into my leg!”

“That’s not possible. Don’t exaggerate.”

“But it happened.”

“No more talking.”

I tried to fix my smile the way she liked it. I didn’t understand why I had to smile. She was drawing a picture of the dress. My face didn’t matter. But I still had to smile.

I tried to imagine flying toward the sky on my swing. It was sunny and warm outside. Maybe if I pictured myself swinging, it might feel like I really was. It was easier to daydream with my eyes closed, but closed eyes weren’t allowed.

No talking, no sniffling, no coughing, no playing with my fingers, no complaining, no fiddling with my hair, no wiggling my legs, and absolutely no scratching. All of those things I couldn’t do made me want to do them more.

“Ow!” This time, my voice screeched a little.

“Now, what?” my mother asked.

“Another pin. It really hurts.”

“I’ll pull it out later.”

“Can’t you look?”

“Be quiet.”