know whether she’s remembering those horrible weeks when my power started to emerge, or when her own did, which was probably pretty cool, knowing Gram.
For a minute, I can almost see her as a kid, long-boned and pretty, dark hair swinging around her face, all the future years still ahead, nothing more than a vague idea of being grown-up. I smile and twist my hand around to squeeze hers.
She squeezes back, and I can tell she is sorry for how different it was for me. “You know the thing that scared me most?”
I shake my head, and she tilts her head as if she’s trying to pick just the right words to explain it. “When my powers showed up, it was like being given the keys to a reliable, slightly dented, old Volvo. Nothing flashy, you know? But it ran, and that was enough.”
“And me?”
She sighs. “Like someone handed you the keys to a really cherry, brand-new Lamborghini.”
I roll my eyes at her use of “cherry,” but I can sort of see what she means. What I don’t understand is why I’m so different, and why Robin must be, too, since her power is already rattling in its cage.
But Mom is standing up, and the determined set of her shoulders means the conversation is over. But only for now, I tell myself.
She’s getting out bowls and reopening the cookbook, and her tone is ruthlessly cheerful when she says, “I think Gram had some stuff collected somewhere about the family history. I bet Mari has it. I’ll ask her to find it for you, okay?”
It’s a compromise, but for now I’ll take it.
I force myself to grin, pushing my questions to the back of my mind. “Okay. So. Let’s make some cookies.”
The house smells like warm sugar and vanilla, with tomato sauce on top, since we ended up ordering pizza for dinner. It also smells faintly like Mr. Purrfect, at least in the dining room, where I’ve stacked my books to study for exams.
What I’m really doing is cropping and resizing the photos I took this afternoon, using the laptop’s crappy basic software.
“We need a new computer,” I call into the living room, where Mom and Robin are watching TV.
“Gee, did I forget to shake the money tree again?” Mom calls back. “So sorry. Let me get right on that.”
I sigh, and push the cat a few inches farther away. He’s been sprawled on the table ever since I sat down, way too close to the laptop’s keyboard for me, since he likes to walk across it if I look away. He sniffs, and I growl, “Go. Away.”
I’m contemplating whether I can actually soup up the speed on the old machine when the doorbell rings, and my heart sinks.
Aunt Mari doesn’t ring the bell, and it’s almost nine, too late for any of Robin’s friends to show up without calling first. I close the photo software quickly, and summon up my best innocent smile when Robin grunts, “Gabriel’s here,” from the front hall.
I wave him in, wishing I had at least one book actually open. Even a notebook. But it’s too late, he’s already walking through the living room, cheeks pink with cold, his pale hair windblown.
And he looks hurt. I don’t think I’m imagining it, anyway, although it’s hard to tell with him sometimes. If Mom can be a turtle when she wants to, Gabriel can be . . . I don’t even know. Some weird creature that lives at the bottom of the sea in a cave.
“Hey.” I stand up and take his hand, peeling off the glove to rub his frozen fingers.
“You didn’t come by the store.” His eyes are nearly pewter in this light, too dark, and unhappiness is thick in his voice. “Did you lose your phone?”
I pretend surprise, even though I suck at it. “Oh, wow. I must have left it up in my bag. And Mom and I were making cookies, and then we had dinner. . . .”
I sound open, I think. Open and honest and completely innocent, like there’s nothing I’m keeping from him. Definitely not anything like the two kids who freaked me out for no reason earlier this afternoon.
I can see him wavering, his
For a minute, I can almost see her as a kid, long-boned and pretty, dark hair swinging around her face, all the future years still ahead, nothing more than a vague idea of being grown-up. I smile and twist my hand around to squeeze hers.
She squeezes back, and I can tell she is sorry for how different it was for me. “You know the thing that scared me most?”
I shake my head, and she tilts her head as if she’s trying to pick just the right words to explain it. “When my powers showed up, it was like being given the keys to a reliable, slightly dented, old Volvo. Nothing flashy, you know? But it ran, and that was enough.”
“And me?”
She sighs. “Like someone handed you the keys to a really cherry, brand-new Lamborghini.”
I roll my eyes at her use of “cherry,” but I can sort of see what she means. What I don’t understand is why I’m so different, and why Robin must be, too, since her power is already rattling in its cage.
But Mom is standing up, and the determined set of her shoulders means the conversation is over. But only for now, I tell myself.
She’s getting out bowls and reopening the cookbook, and her tone is ruthlessly cheerful when she says, “I think Gram had some stuff collected somewhere about the family history. I bet Mari has it. I’ll ask her to find it for you, okay?”
It’s a compromise, but for now I’ll take it.
I force myself to grin, pushing my questions to the back of my mind. “Okay. So. Let’s make some cookies.”
The house smells like warm sugar and vanilla, with tomato sauce on top, since we ended up ordering pizza for dinner. It also smells faintly like Mr. Purrfect, at least in the dining room, where I’ve stacked my books to study for exams.
What I’m really doing is cropping and resizing the photos I took this afternoon, using the laptop’s crappy basic software.
“We need a new computer,” I call into the living room, where Mom and Robin are watching TV.
“Gee, did I forget to shake the money tree again?” Mom calls back. “So sorry. Let me get right on that.”
I sigh, and push the cat a few inches farther away. He’s been sprawled on the table ever since I sat down, way too close to the laptop’s keyboard for me, since he likes to walk across it if I look away. He sniffs, and I growl, “Go. Away.”
I’m contemplating whether I can actually soup up the speed on the old machine when the doorbell rings, and my heart sinks.
Aunt Mari doesn’t ring the bell, and it’s almost nine, too late for any of Robin’s friends to show up without calling first. I close the photo software quickly, and summon up my best innocent smile when Robin grunts, “Gabriel’s here,” from the front hall.
I wave him in, wishing I had at least one book actually open. Even a notebook. But it’s too late, he’s already walking through the living room, cheeks pink with cold, his pale hair windblown.
And he looks hurt. I don’t think I’m imagining it, anyway, although it’s hard to tell with him sometimes. If Mom can be a turtle when she wants to, Gabriel can be . . . I don’t even know. Some weird creature that lives at the bottom of the sea in a cave.
“Hey.” I stand up and take his hand, peeling off the glove to rub his frozen fingers.
“You didn’t come by the store.” His eyes are nearly pewter in this light, too dark, and unhappiness is thick in his voice. “Did you lose your phone?”
I pretend surprise, even though I suck at it. “Oh, wow. I must have left it up in my bag. And Mom and I were making cookies, and then we had dinner. . . .”
I sound open, I think. Open and honest and completely innocent, like there’s nothing I’m keeping from him. Definitely not anything like the two kids who freaked me out for no reason earlier this afternoon.
I can see him wavering, his
Similar Books
