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Pickwicks.”
    “Yeah,” says the brunette who is poking around her sack lunch. “Maybe her mom cheated on your uncle—you know, has a thing for red headed guys.”
    My feet suddenly feel hot in my shoes, my hands hot on the book, my neck hot all the way up to my scalp
.
    Maggie in profile looks at the girl and then shrugs. Just shrugs
.
    And I hurt. Just hurt
.
    “Well…” The brunette wrinkles her nose as she carries a shiny red apple to her mouth. “That’s what your mom said to my mom.”
    Aunt Adele said that?
    Maggie peers into her sack lunch. “Then it must be true.”
    I’m not hungry anymore. And maybe I do need glasses, because my vision is blurry as I turn toward the cafeteria doors
.
    “Whoa! You okay, Piper?”
    It’s Trinity, and her voice carries
.
    “Yeah.” I hurry past her and out the doors
.
    Though I didn’t have much of a relationship with my Pickwick kin, from then on I made a concerted effort to dissociate myself from them. And the dissociation became more important when Maggie started hosting a different kind of popularity exclusive to boys. By her junior year, she was dating one guy after another, and word was that the relationships went beyond kissing. By her senior year, she was pregnant.
    The last time I saw her was the day we graduated from high school. In alphabetical order, we sat side by side during the commencement, cousins who shared only a surname. And I was grateful, because the last thing I wanted was to be the one whosegraduation gown was stretched over a basketball-sized bump. No matter how high Maggie held her head, she had further besmirched the family name.
    “At least she didn’t have an abortion,” Mom said in her defense. This was to be expected, not only because of my mother’s faith, but also because of the circumstances of my own conception.
    I blink and am returned to Cracker Barrel just in time to see my cousin’s head turn toward me. Quickly, I hunch over my plate.
    Come on, Piper, you’re oozing guilt. Sit up straight and pick up that fork!
    I comply, and as I cut through the pancakes I turn off the self-talk and turn on the God-talk
Lord, don’t let me blow my cover. Give me a little more time before it starts raining Pickwicks
.
    Chewing the pancakes with faux pleasure, I turn my chin and am relieved that Maggie’s attention is once more on her companion.
    Glad I wore the baseball cap, I allow myself to relax. This lasts until the table between us is vacated. I miss the human barrier and the noise that overrode the conversation at Maggie’s table.
    “No, Seth,” she hisses.
    Seth? Seth Peterson who dumped me in eleventh grade when he lost the glasses and braces and got a “hip” haircut that made Maggie take notice? Seth who crawled back to me when my cousin was finished with him (and whom I sent crawling back the way he had come)? It is, and while he once more wears glasses, they’re fashionable on a face that has gotten better looking with age.
    Maggie’s shoulders rise with a deep breath—classic body language for “I’m trying to be patient.” “I appreciate your offer,” she says in her husky Southern belle voice, “but I can’t accept.”
    “Why?”
    I attack a piece of bacon, but it isn’t crunchy enough to muffle my cousin’s voice.
    “My feelings haven’t changed.”
    “And let me guess: they aren’t going to now that you’re coming into money.”
    She is? I look from Maggie’s wide-eyed stare to Seth’s reddening countenance.
    Maggie leans across the table. “Who says I’m coming into money?”
    “Your uncle’s bad ticker, that’s who. Once people start having problems with their hearts, it’s only a matter of time.”
    Considering her chilly gaze, I’m surprised he isn’t quaking. “This conversation is over.”
    “Then let’s talk about the time and money I’ve put into our relationship.”
    She slaps the table. “That’s enough!”
    Assailed by the excitement that runs through the dining room at