number of guests she invited to step forward and talk into the microphone about Robby. A horse trainer that Robby had always loathed (my aunt Agnès is a big one for horses, Robby not so much) was remembering Robby’s first (forced) participation in a dressage show when I looked up to thank the person who was handing me a plate of cake and ice cream and saw that it was Mary Beth Farlow.
She was pretty, of course. Smooth skin, round eyes, swept-up brown hair, a general neatness and smallness and confidence as she handed me a plate and then walked away in her black ballet shoes. I found my uncle in the crowd, but he was not looking at Mary Beth Farlow. I stared hard at Robby, and I waited for him to look back at me.
Her, her, her, her
, I was trying to tell him as the black skirt and white blouse and brown twist of hair weaved in and out of tables, retrieving another plate of cake and melting ice cream, the secret of her tie to the man who was paying for the party hers alone, she supposed, and that was why she glided so neatly everywhere.
“I thank you all for joining us tonight to celebrate
mon petit
Robby, not
petit
so longer,” Agnès was saying regretfully, and Robby stood up politely and smiled his gray-eyed smile, which finally landed on me. He read my lips well enough to know I either had something to say or was dying of anaphylactic shock, and after kissing the cheeks of what seemed like fifty guests, he made his way to where I stood like the Grim Reaper. The caterers were swiftly dismantling the bar and hustling thetrays of food into the house, and because they didn’t always come back out, I had lost track of Mary Beth Fowler.
“What the
le
hell, girl detective,” Robby said.
“She
is
here,” I hissed.
“Didn’t we already know that?”
“She served me a piece of your
le cake
,” I said, my eyes on the white shirts passing to and fro, none of them hers.
This made him turn and survey the men and women who were in such a hurry to go home.
“Which one?” he asked.
“She went in the house with a pile of napkins and she didn’t come back out.”
He strode quickly ahead of me into the house, then remembered he had to let me lead. The kitchen was one of those giant modern spaces composed of granite and steel, and none of the men and women in it stacking trays or washing glasses was Mary Beth. I didn’t see my uncle Hoyt, either, although some of his friends sat on oversized leather sofas watching basketball on an oversized television set. Sometimes walking into Robby’s house made me feel like I’d climbed a bean stalk into the giant’s castle.
Fe, fi, fo, fum. “And Kobe scores!
”
I shook my head to let Robby know I didn’t see her, and, worried that my mother would come looking for me, I started for the front door, weaving in and out of neighbors and strangers who turned to say goodbye to Robby. He got nabbed by a group of affectionate elderly women, and by the time I reached the farthest row of cars, there was a meaningful gapwhere Mary Beth’s Avalon had been and a scab of mud where her tires had dug into wet grass.
Robby came up beside me and looked at the car hole. Stars shone above us, and the cold-water smell of the grove, a wet, rocky, pipe-clean odor, rose from the ground.
“What’re you going to do now?” Robby asked me, his voice glum. His shirt had come untucked, his tie was loose, and in the darkness I saw that if we were surfers, we were the ones who waited and waited for the right moment, afraid that in our ignorance we would not even know when the right wave was coming or when we should stand.
“I have to go home,” I said. “I’m grounded.”
“Why? Did your mom find out about Marcel Marceau?”
“There’s nothing to find out. I went off campus for lunch with Greenie and skipped the rest of the day.”
“Darn,” he said. “I was thinking about a swim.”
My mother might have let me swim in Robby’s pool, but I saw her coming toward us, looking fed up,
She was pretty, of course. Smooth skin, round eyes, swept-up brown hair, a general neatness and smallness and confidence as she handed me a plate and then walked away in her black ballet shoes. I found my uncle in the crowd, but he was not looking at Mary Beth Farlow. I stared hard at Robby, and I waited for him to look back at me.
Her, her, her, her
, I was trying to tell him as the black skirt and white blouse and brown twist of hair weaved in and out of tables, retrieving another plate of cake and melting ice cream, the secret of her tie to the man who was paying for the party hers alone, she supposed, and that was why she glided so neatly everywhere.
“I thank you all for joining us tonight to celebrate
mon petit
Robby, not
petit
so longer,” Agnès was saying regretfully, and Robby stood up politely and smiled his gray-eyed smile, which finally landed on me. He read my lips well enough to know I either had something to say or was dying of anaphylactic shock, and after kissing the cheeks of what seemed like fifty guests, he made his way to where I stood like the Grim Reaper. The caterers were swiftly dismantling the bar and hustling thetrays of food into the house, and because they didn’t always come back out, I had lost track of Mary Beth Fowler.
“What the
le
hell, girl detective,” Robby said.
“She
is
here,” I hissed.
“Didn’t we already know that?”
“She served me a piece of your
le cake
,” I said, my eyes on the white shirts passing to and fro, none of them hers.
This made him turn and survey the men and women who were in such a hurry to go home.
“Which one?” he asked.
“She went in the house with a pile of napkins and she didn’t come back out.”
He strode quickly ahead of me into the house, then remembered he had to let me lead. The kitchen was one of those giant modern spaces composed of granite and steel, and none of the men and women in it stacking trays or washing glasses was Mary Beth. I didn’t see my uncle Hoyt, either, although some of his friends sat on oversized leather sofas watching basketball on an oversized television set. Sometimes walking into Robby’s house made me feel like I’d climbed a bean stalk into the giant’s castle.
Fe, fi, fo, fum. “And Kobe scores!
”
I shook my head to let Robby know I didn’t see her, and, worried that my mother would come looking for me, I started for the front door, weaving in and out of neighbors and strangers who turned to say goodbye to Robby. He got nabbed by a group of affectionate elderly women, and by the time I reached the farthest row of cars, there was a meaningful gapwhere Mary Beth’s Avalon had been and a scab of mud where her tires had dug into wet grass.
Robby came up beside me and looked at the car hole. Stars shone above us, and the cold-water smell of the grove, a wet, rocky, pipe-clean odor, rose from the ground.
“What’re you going to do now?” Robby asked me, his voice glum. His shirt had come untucked, his tie was loose, and in the darkness I saw that if we were surfers, we were the ones who waited and waited for the right moment, afraid that in our ignorance we would not even know when the right wave was coming or when we should stand.
“I have to go home,” I said. “I’m grounded.”
“Why? Did your mom find out about Marcel Marceau?”
“There’s nothing to find out. I went off campus for lunch with Greenie and skipped the rest of the day.”
“Darn,” he said. “I was thinking about a swim.”
My mother might have let me swim in Robby’s pool, but I saw her coming toward us, looking fed up,
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