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The second discovery was the fainting girl's wallet lying next to her own wallet in her plastic, see-through bad-employee bag. Oh, shit.
She found the library card listing the girl's name: Bailey Graffman. Tibby walked outside to the pay phone. The white pages, thank goodness, listed one Graffman with two fs on a street near Wallman's.
Tibby got right back on her bike and rode the few blocks to the Graffmans'. A woman she guessed was Mrs. Graffman opened the door. “Hi. Uh, my name is Tibby and I, uh . . .”
“You're the one who found Bailey at Wallman's,” the woman said, looking fairly appreciative.
“Right. Well, it turns out I took her wallet to find contact information and I, uh, forgot to give it back,” Tibby explained. “There were only four dollars in it,” she added defensively.
Mrs. Graffman looked at Tibby in confusion. “Um. Right. Of course.” Then she smiled. “Bailey's resting upstairs. Why don't you give it to her? I'm sure she'll want to thank you personally.
“Upstairs and straight ahead,” the woman instructed as Tibby trudged up the steps.
“Uh, hi,” Tibby said awkwardly at the girl's door. The room was decorated with ribbon wallpaper and puffy yellow curtains, but there were boy-band posters every few feet. “I'm, uh, Tibby. I—”
“You're the girl from Wallman's,” Bailey said, sitting up.
“Yeah.” Tibby walked close to the bed and offered the wallet.
“You ripped off my wallet?” Bailey demanded with narrowed eyes.
Tibby scowled. What an obnoxious little kid. “I didn't rip off your wallet. The hospital used it to contact your parents and I held on to it. You're welcome.” She tossed it on the bed.
Bailey grabbed it and looked inside, counting the bills. “I think I had more than four dollars.”
“I think you didn't.”
“‘Cause you took it.”
Tibby shook her head in disbelief. “Are you joking? Do you seriously think I would steal your money and then come all the way over here to deliver your pathetic little wallet? What's there to return other than the money? Your horoscope? Avert a big emergency in case you forget your moon sign?”
Bailey looked surprised.
Tibby felt bad. Maybe she'd overdone it.
Bailey didn't back down, though. “And what important stuff have you got in your wallet? A license to ride your bike? A Wallman's employee ID?” She said “Wallman's” with more scorn than even Tibby could muster.
Tibby blinked. “How old are you? Ten? Who taught you to be so vicious?”
Bailey's eyebrows descended angrily. “I'm twelve.”
Now Tibby felt worse. She'd always hated people who assumed she was younger than she was just because she was small and skinny and flat-chested.
“How old are you?” Bailey wanted to know. She had an excited, combative look in her eye. “Thirteen?”
“Bailey! Time to take your medicine,” Bailey's mom called up the stairs. “Do you want to send your friend down?”
Tibby looked around. Was she supposed to be the “friend”?
“Sure,” Bailey called back. She looked amused. “Do you mind?”
Tibby shook her head. “Of course not. Considering how you accept favors.” Tibby trudged back downstairs wondering what in the world she was doing there.
Mrs. Graffman handed her a tall glass of orange juice and a little paper cup full of pills. “Everything okay up there?” she asked.
“Uh, I guess,” Tibby answered.
Mrs. Graffman searched Tibby's face for a moment. “Bailey likes to test people,” she offered for no particular reason.
“Tibby likes to test people.” It was creepy. How many times had she heard her own mother say those exact words?
“I'm sure it's because of her illness.”
Tibby didn't think before she asked, “What illness?”
Mrs. Graffman looked surprised that Tibby didn't know. “She has leukemia.” Mrs. Graffman sounded like she was trying to be matter-of-fact. Like she'd said the word a million times and it didn't scare her anymore. But Tibby could see that it did.
Tibby felt that falling feeling. Mrs. Graffman looked at her with too much intensity, as though Tibby could say something that mattered. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she mumbled stiffly.
Tibby made herself go back up the stairs. There was something too sad about the searching look of a sick kid's mother.
She paused at Bailey's door, sloshing the orange juice a little, feeling horrible for the mean things she'd said. Granted, Bailey had started it, but Bailey had leukemia.
Bailey was sitting up in bed now, looking eager to get back to the battle.
Tibby plastered some approximation of a bland, friendly smile on her face. She handed Bailey her pills.
“So anyway, did you lie about your age at Wallman's to get the job? Isn't the minimum age fifteen?” Bailey asked.
Tibby cleared her throat, careful to keep her smile from sagging. “Yeah. And actually, I am fifteen.”
Bailey was clearly annoyed. “You don't look fifteen.”
The smile was strained. Tibby couldn't remember how a regular smile was supposed to feel. This one had probably degraded into a grimace. “I guess not,” Tibby said quietly. She really wanted to leave.
Bailey's eyes suddenly filled with tears. Tibby looked away. “She told you, didn't she?” Bailey demanded.
“Told me what?” Tibby asked the blanket, hating herself for pretending not to know when she knew perfectly well. She hated when people did that.
“That I'm sick!” Bailey's tough face was holding up about as well as Tibby's friendly smile.
“No,” Tibby murmured, hating her own cowardice.
“I didn't think you were a liar,” Bailey shot back.
Tibby's eyes, searching for any destination other than Bailey's face, landed on a piece of netted cloth stuck through with needle and a piece of red yarn lying on Bailey's bedspread. Neat stitches spelled YOU ARE MY. What? Sunshine? The thing struck Tibby as tragic and sort of pathetic.
“I'd better go,” Tibby said in a near whisper.
“Fine. Get out of here,” Bailey said.
“Okay. See you around,” Tibby said robotically. She shuffled toward the door.
“Nice smock,” Bailey practically spat at her back.
“Thanks,” Tibby heard herself saying as she fled.
Dear Carmen,
Some summer I want all of us to come here together. That is the happiest thing I can imagine. The first day I walked about a million steps down the cliffs to a tiny fishing village called Ammoudi on the Caldera. Caldera means “cauldron.” It's this body of water that filled in after a monster volcano exploded and sank most of the island. After I painted these pretty Greek boats, it got to be broiling hot, so I stripped down to my bathing suit and dove right into the clear, cold water.
I made a painting for you. It's the bell tower right here in Oia. My shy grandpa, who doesn't speak English, came around and studied my painting for a long time. He nodded approvingly, which was pretty cute.
Effie and I rode mopeds to Fira, the biggest village on the island, and drank unbelievably strong coffee at an outdoor café. We were both strung out on caffeine. I got anxious and silent, and Effie flirted outrageously with the waiters and even random passersby (passerbys?).
There's this guy Kostos. He walks past our house about six times a day. He keeps trying to catch my eye and start a conversation, but I won't play. My grandmother's dearest hope is that we'll fall in love. What could be less romantic than that?
Other than that, nothing really big has happened. Nothing big enough for the Pants. They're still waiting here patiently.
I can't wait to get a letter from you. The mail is so slow here. I wish I had a computer. I hope you and Al are having the very best time.
Love you,
Lena
