miniskirt and sparkly top. I think she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Her hair is long and wavy, and I bet she can sit on it. Her eyes are blue-green, like the bay when there’s no seaweed churned up in the water.
I follow her into the kitchen, and her mom, who’s a cat in a black bodysuit, says, “Hey, little bird, I think we need to clip your wings if you want to be a waitress like my lovely daughter,” and a man in a rubbery President Nixon mask, who’s helping her open wine bottles, starts laughing like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Genevieve’s mom says, “Just call me Debsy,” and unties my straps, takes off my wings, and sticks them behind a bookcase. She’s holding a plate with rolled-up bacon and white bread stuck with toothpicks. “At this joint, we pay in bacon roll-ups.” She winks at Nixon, who puts his hands on her hips and squeezes. “Payday,” she says, and holds the plate in front of me.
“No thanks,” I say. I’ve never eaten bacon or ham before, since Mom doesn’t feel comfortable with them. We don’t officially keep kosher, but bacon and ham just aren’t on Mom’s radar. She loves clam strips, though. And steamers. And quahogs. Mr. Pialetti at the liquor store calls me Missy Quahog, since Dad came into his store on the night I was born to buy a bottle of champagne, so he knows that I’m a Cape Cod native, and all Cape Cod natives are nicknamed quahogs and know to say it “co-hogs.”
“Hard to find good help these days,” Nixon chuckles, and I think he’s making fun of me. My face turns hot.
“Leave the girl alone, Mr. President,” Debsy says, but she’s giggling while she gulps red wine. Shehands me the plate of bacon roll-ups and a stack of little napkins with ghosts on them that say “Have a boo-tiful night.” She gives Genevieve a plate loaded up with Ritz crackers with cream cheese and green olives. “Go get ’em, girls!” she says, and kisses the top of Genevieve’s head.
Everyone either pretty much ignores us or tries to guess our costumes, which is tricky in my case, since my wings were clipped and I took my papier-mâché mask off because it was too hot. I just look like a curly-haired girl in a white Danskin top and gray Danskin pants and pink sneakers, because seagulls have pink feet.
“Wow, what a beautiful fairy princess!” Prince Charming, who works at the hardware store, says to Genevieve. He has a deep voice and arm muscles and a silky purple cape, and he’s not a teenager but he’s not quite a real grown-up yet, either. He reaches out and runs his fingers slowly through Genevieve’s hair. She blushes and smiles. I feel kind of dorky just standing there, so I keep passing the plate, solo, until it’s empty, and then I go look for Rachel.
She’s not in the living room, and she’s not in the dining room, and she’s not in the kitchen. Upstairs, all of the doors are closed. I put my ear to one. I hear flushing. A devil comes out. I think she works at Flanagan’s. “Your turn, sweetie,” she says. I wait until she goes downstairs, and then I press my ear againstthe next door. Lots of laughing and talking. I put my hand on the doorknob and slowly turn it. Like a good detective, I push the door open carefully, carefully, without a sound.
A bunch of grown-ups are sitting in a circle on a bed with a green Indian-print bedspread in what must be Debsy and Genevieve’s dad’s room. Rachel is standing at the foot of the bed.
“Hey, Little Sister,” some guy in a sailor hat says. “Come on in and close the door.”
“Hey, Chirp,” Rachel says. “Come on in and close the door,” and everyone laughs. The room’s smoky. It smells like burnt-black popcorn.
“Does Little Sister belong to you?” Mr. Sailorman asks Rachel. She nods and smiles.
“My name’s Chirp. Rachel, I want to go home.”
“Home?” Mr. Sailorman says. “But the party’s just getting started, Little Sister.”
“We just got here,
I follow her into the kitchen, and her mom, who’s a cat in a black bodysuit, says, “Hey, little bird, I think we need to clip your wings if you want to be a waitress like my lovely daughter,” and a man in a rubbery President Nixon mask, who’s helping her open wine bottles, starts laughing like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Genevieve’s mom says, “Just call me Debsy,” and unties my straps, takes off my wings, and sticks them behind a bookcase. She’s holding a plate with rolled-up bacon and white bread stuck with toothpicks. “At this joint, we pay in bacon roll-ups.” She winks at Nixon, who puts his hands on her hips and squeezes. “Payday,” she says, and holds the plate in front of me.
“No thanks,” I say. I’ve never eaten bacon or ham before, since Mom doesn’t feel comfortable with them. We don’t officially keep kosher, but bacon and ham just aren’t on Mom’s radar. She loves clam strips, though. And steamers. And quahogs. Mr. Pialetti at the liquor store calls me Missy Quahog, since Dad came into his store on the night I was born to buy a bottle of champagne, so he knows that I’m a Cape Cod native, and all Cape Cod natives are nicknamed quahogs and know to say it “co-hogs.”
“Hard to find good help these days,” Nixon chuckles, and I think he’s making fun of me. My face turns hot.
“Leave the girl alone, Mr. President,” Debsy says, but she’s giggling while she gulps red wine. Shehands me the plate of bacon roll-ups and a stack of little napkins with ghosts on them that say “Have a boo-tiful night.” She gives Genevieve a plate loaded up with Ritz crackers with cream cheese and green olives. “Go get ’em, girls!” she says, and kisses the top of Genevieve’s head.
Everyone either pretty much ignores us or tries to guess our costumes, which is tricky in my case, since my wings were clipped and I took my papier-mâché mask off because it was too hot. I just look like a curly-haired girl in a white Danskin top and gray Danskin pants and pink sneakers, because seagulls have pink feet.
“Wow, what a beautiful fairy princess!” Prince Charming, who works at the hardware store, says to Genevieve. He has a deep voice and arm muscles and a silky purple cape, and he’s not a teenager but he’s not quite a real grown-up yet, either. He reaches out and runs his fingers slowly through Genevieve’s hair. She blushes and smiles. I feel kind of dorky just standing there, so I keep passing the plate, solo, until it’s empty, and then I go look for Rachel.
She’s not in the living room, and she’s not in the dining room, and she’s not in the kitchen. Upstairs, all of the doors are closed. I put my ear to one. I hear flushing. A devil comes out. I think she works at Flanagan’s. “Your turn, sweetie,” she says. I wait until she goes downstairs, and then I press my ear againstthe next door. Lots of laughing and talking. I put my hand on the doorknob and slowly turn it. Like a good detective, I push the door open carefully, carefully, without a sound.
A bunch of grown-ups are sitting in a circle on a bed with a green Indian-print bedspread in what must be Debsy and Genevieve’s dad’s room. Rachel is standing at the foot of the bed.
“Hey, Little Sister,” some guy in a sailor hat says. “Come on in and close the door.”
“Hey, Chirp,” Rachel says. “Come on in and close the door,” and everyone laughs. The room’s smoky. It smells like burnt-black popcorn.
“Does Little Sister belong to you?” Mr. Sailorman asks Rachel. She nods and smiles.
“My name’s Chirp. Rachel, I want to go home.”
“Home?” Mr. Sailorman says. “But the party’s just getting started, Little Sister.”
“We just got here,
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