in high school. I guess even if that boyfriend is a Class A-certified geek.)
There was nothing in the mail for me. There is never anything in the mail for me. All of my mail—such as it is—gets sent to me secretly from my friend Rosemary at 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU via Ruth, who then smuggles it over. But Rosemary was in Rhode Island visiting her mother for Thanksgiving, so I wasn’t expecting anything from her this week. The missing kids were just going to have to wait until next week to get found.
Except for Seth Blumenthal, if he really was missing.
Sighing, I pulled off my hat and gloves, stuffed them in my coat pockets, and went to hang up my coat by the door to the garage. A perusal of the fridge revealed that no one had been by recently with any interesting offerings in the form of food solace. I nibbled on some leftover persimmon pie, but my heart wasn’t in it. You would think I’d have been standing there thinking about what was going on across the street. I mean about Nate, and all. A sixteen-year-old kid, killed before he’d ever even gotten his driver’s license, and for what? Wearing the wrong gang’s colors?
But of course I wasn’t thinking about Nate at all. I was thinking about Rob, and how hurt he’d looked when I hadn’t introduced him to my mom. Well, how hurt did he think I felt when I found out about that wedding he hadn’t invited me to? He couldn’t have it both ways. He couldn’t insist that we can’t go out because of our age difference, then be hurt when I didn’t introduce him to my mom.
The two of us definitely had some problems in our relationship that needed working out. Maybe we needed to go on
Oprah
, and talk to that bald doctor dude she’s always having on.
“Doctor, my girlfriend is ashamed of me,” I could almost hear Rob saying. “She won’t introduce me to her parents.”
“Well, my boyfriend doesn’t trust me,” I would retort. “He won’t tell me what he got arrested for. Or invite me to his uncle Randy’s wedding.”
Yeah. The two of us on
Oprah
. That was so going to happen.
It wasn’t until I got upstairs that I heard the voices. I have to admit that my brother Douglas, even when he isn’t having one of his episodes, has a tendency to talk to himself.
But this time, someone was talking back. I was sure of it. The door to his room was closed, as always, but I pressed my ear up to it, and there was no doubt about it: There were two voices coming from Douglas’s room.
And one of them belonged to a
girl
.
I assumed it was Claire. Maybe she was consulting with Douglas over what to get Mike for a Christmas present. Or had gone to him for advice because their relationship had run into trouble… .
But why would she go to Douglas with something like that? Why not me? I was clearly the logical choice. I mean, I may be a freak and all, with my psychic powers, but I am way less of a freak than Douglas, much as I love him.
I couldn’t help it. I knew I shouldn’t, but I did it anyway. I thumped, once on the door, then threw it open.
“Hey, good lookin’,” I started to say. “What’s cookin’?”
Only it wasn’t Claire in Douglas’s room. It wasn’t Claire at all.
It was Tasha Thompkins.
My jaw sagged so loose at the sight of her, sitting all primly on the end of Douglas’s bed, in her black turtleneck and gray wool jumper, I swear I felt my chin hit the floor.
“Oh,” she said, when she saw me, her tear-filled brown eyes soft as her voice. “Hi, Jess.”
“Wh …” I said. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Never in a million years would I have expected to open Douglas’s bedroom door and find a girl in his room. Much less one to whom he wasn’t related by blood, or who was dating his younger brother. “Wh … wh … wh …”
“Close the barn door,” Douglas said mildly to me, from where he sat in front of his desktop computer. “You’re letting the flies in.”
I snapped my mouth shut. But I couldn’t think of
There was nothing in the mail for me. There is never anything in the mail for me. All of my mail—such as it is—gets sent to me secretly from my friend Rosemary at 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU via Ruth, who then smuggles it over. But Rosemary was in Rhode Island visiting her mother for Thanksgiving, so I wasn’t expecting anything from her this week. The missing kids were just going to have to wait until next week to get found.
Except for Seth Blumenthal, if he really was missing.
Sighing, I pulled off my hat and gloves, stuffed them in my coat pockets, and went to hang up my coat by the door to the garage. A perusal of the fridge revealed that no one had been by recently with any interesting offerings in the form of food solace. I nibbled on some leftover persimmon pie, but my heart wasn’t in it. You would think I’d have been standing there thinking about what was going on across the street. I mean about Nate, and all. A sixteen-year-old kid, killed before he’d ever even gotten his driver’s license, and for what? Wearing the wrong gang’s colors?
But of course I wasn’t thinking about Nate at all. I was thinking about Rob, and how hurt he’d looked when I hadn’t introduced him to my mom. Well, how hurt did he think I felt when I found out about that wedding he hadn’t invited me to? He couldn’t have it both ways. He couldn’t insist that we can’t go out because of our age difference, then be hurt when I didn’t introduce him to my mom.
The two of us definitely had some problems in our relationship that needed working out. Maybe we needed to go on
Oprah
, and talk to that bald doctor dude she’s always having on.
“Doctor, my girlfriend is ashamed of me,” I could almost hear Rob saying. “She won’t introduce me to her parents.”
“Well, my boyfriend doesn’t trust me,” I would retort. “He won’t tell me what he got arrested for. Or invite me to his uncle Randy’s wedding.”
Yeah. The two of us on
Oprah
. That was so going to happen.
It wasn’t until I got upstairs that I heard the voices. I have to admit that my brother Douglas, even when he isn’t having one of his episodes, has a tendency to talk to himself.
But this time, someone was talking back. I was sure of it. The door to his room was closed, as always, but I pressed my ear up to it, and there was no doubt about it: There were two voices coming from Douglas’s room.
And one of them belonged to a
girl
.
I assumed it was Claire. Maybe she was consulting with Douglas over what to get Mike for a Christmas present. Or had gone to him for advice because their relationship had run into trouble… .
But why would she go to Douglas with something like that? Why not me? I was clearly the logical choice. I mean, I may be a freak and all, with my psychic powers, but I am way less of a freak than Douglas, much as I love him.
I couldn’t help it. I knew I shouldn’t, but I did it anyway. I thumped, once on the door, then threw it open.
“Hey, good lookin’,” I started to say. “What’s cookin’?”
Only it wasn’t Claire in Douglas’s room. It wasn’t Claire at all.
It was Tasha Thompkins.
My jaw sagged so loose at the sight of her, sitting all primly on the end of Douglas’s bed, in her black turtleneck and gray wool jumper, I swear I felt my chin hit the floor.
“Oh,” she said, when she saw me, her tear-filled brown eyes soft as her voice. “Hi, Jess.”
“Wh …” I said. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Never in a million years would I have expected to open Douglas’s bedroom door and find a girl in his room. Much less one to whom he wasn’t related by blood, or who was dating his younger brother. “Wh … wh … wh …”
“Close the barn door,” Douglas said mildly to me, from where he sat in front of his desktop computer. “You’re letting the flies in.”
I snapped my mouth shut. But I couldn’t think of
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