did, man!” Gabriel exclaimed. “I heard it too.”
“People kept saying she could talk,” Ilan told his brother, “but I always thought it was, like, an urban legend.”
Fancy, who couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to be goaded into talking to strangers, ran out the back door.
Kit chased after her, calling:
“Fancy’s got a boyfriend, Fancy’s got a—”
“Shut up!”
Kit caught up to her, laughing.
“Where’re you going?” When Fancy realized her headlong dash down the street was attracting attention, she slowed to a fast walk. “To the Super Seven. We can meet Madda up there. I’m
not
waiting in that house another second.”
“Why? You in a hurry to tell Madda about your new
boyfriend
?”
“Stop saying that!”
“Well you must like him, or else why would you talk to him?” Kit was so giddy she was nearly screaming. “You
never
talk to people.”
“I wasn’t talking to him,” Fancy said. “I was just pointing out that . . . oh, shut up. Like I would ever be interested in a boy who could be so mean to his own brother. Even if his brother is a weirdo.”
“What’re you talking about?”
As the sisters hurried down Seventh Street, Fancy told Kit how Gabriel had behaved outside the music store.
Kit shrugged it off. “Who hasn’t picked up a stray head? Remember that time when we were little, back when people still liked us? A whole bunch of us found this severed head in a field and played kickball with it? And you—”
“Don’t make excuses for him,” said Fancy in her sternest tone. “It’s one thing to use somebody’s skull as a ball; it’s a whole nother thing to be whispering secrets into its ears. A person’s gotta draw the line somewhere, Kit. I mean, you should have
seen
him. It was so weird.”
“You wanna know what’s weird? You having a conversation with a boy.”
“I did not!” she hissed, since she couldn’t scream it the way she wanted to. The residential part of Seventh Street had given way to the business part and more people were crowding the sidewalks, and the last thing Fancy wanted was to attract anymore attention. “One sentence ain’t a conversation.”
“For you it’s more like the Gettysburg Address. Why didn’t you tell me you ran into them before now?”
“I don’t know. After I saw you with the shopgirl, it didn’t seem important.”
“I understand. Crushes are more fun when they’re secret.”
Fancy couldn’t tell if it was the heat or Kit’s teasing, but her head felt hot enough to explode. “Ilan is
not
my secret crush. Ilan.” Fancy said it again. “EE-lan. What kinda stupid name is that, anyway? French?”
“We’re more French than he is.
We’re
descended from the du Havens.”
“We were
owned
by the du Havens. Slight difference.”
“Spoilsport.” The bustle on the street came to a stop momentarily, as everyone, the sisters included, stopped to watch a funeral procession drive past. Fancy wondered, as she always did whenever a hearse drove by, how much such a car would cost. She was convinced it would be kick-ass to drive around in a hearse—as a person, of course; not as a corpse.
After the procession passed, the sisters continued on, and Kit said, “Gabriel’s cute, isn’t he?”
“No.”
“He is, liar. So’s Ilan, I guess. But Gabriel . . .” The bonelessness from the kitchen hadn’t faded; Kit was wobbling all over the sidewalk, grinning.
Fancy smacked Kit upside the head, knocking her cap into her eyes.
“Hey!” Kit righted her cap and barely avoided crashing into a parking meter.
“Don’t lose your head just because he was flirting with you. Our dad killed his dad. The only thing that boy could possibly want from you is revenge.”
Kit’s giddiness drained away, and she was silent a long moment before she admitted, “That’s what I’d want.”
“Exactly!”
“But the rest of the world ain’t like us, Fancy.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing. At least
“People kept saying she could talk,” Ilan told his brother, “but I always thought it was, like, an urban legend.”
Fancy, who couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to be goaded into talking to strangers, ran out the back door.
Kit chased after her, calling:
“Fancy’s got a boyfriend, Fancy’s got a—”
“Shut up!”
Kit caught up to her, laughing.
“Where’re you going?” When Fancy realized her headlong dash down the street was attracting attention, she slowed to a fast walk. “To the Super Seven. We can meet Madda up there. I’m
not
waiting in that house another second.”
“Why? You in a hurry to tell Madda about your new
boyfriend
?”
“Stop saying that!”
“Well you must like him, or else why would you talk to him?” Kit was so giddy she was nearly screaming. “You
never
talk to people.”
“I wasn’t talking to him,” Fancy said. “I was just pointing out that . . . oh, shut up. Like I would ever be interested in a boy who could be so mean to his own brother. Even if his brother is a weirdo.”
“What’re you talking about?”
As the sisters hurried down Seventh Street, Fancy told Kit how Gabriel had behaved outside the music store.
Kit shrugged it off. “Who hasn’t picked up a stray head? Remember that time when we were little, back when people still liked us? A whole bunch of us found this severed head in a field and played kickball with it? And you—”
“Don’t make excuses for him,” said Fancy in her sternest tone. “It’s one thing to use somebody’s skull as a ball; it’s a whole nother thing to be whispering secrets into its ears. A person’s gotta draw the line somewhere, Kit. I mean, you should have
seen
him. It was so weird.”
“You wanna know what’s weird? You having a conversation with a boy.”
“I did not!” she hissed, since she couldn’t scream it the way she wanted to. The residential part of Seventh Street had given way to the business part and more people were crowding the sidewalks, and the last thing Fancy wanted was to attract anymore attention. “One sentence ain’t a conversation.”
“For you it’s more like the Gettysburg Address. Why didn’t you tell me you ran into them before now?”
“I don’t know. After I saw you with the shopgirl, it didn’t seem important.”
“I understand. Crushes are more fun when they’re secret.”
Fancy couldn’t tell if it was the heat or Kit’s teasing, but her head felt hot enough to explode. “Ilan is
not
my secret crush. Ilan.” Fancy said it again. “EE-lan. What kinda stupid name is that, anyway? French?”
“We’re more French than he is.
We’re
descended from the du Havens.”
“We were
owned
by the du Havens. Slight difference.”
“Spoilsport.” The bustle on the street came to a stop momentarily, as everyone, the sisters included, stopped to watch a funeral procession drive past. Fancy wondered, as she always did whenever a hearse drove by, how much such a car would cost. She was convinced it would be kick-ass to drive around in a hearse—as a person, of course; not as a corpse.
After the procession passed, the sisters continued on, and Kit said, “Gabriel’s cute, isn’t he?”
“No.”
“He is, liar. So’s Ilan, I guess. But Gabriel . . .” The bonelessness from the kitchen hadn’t faded; Kit was wobbling all over the sidewalk, grinning.
Fancy smacked Kit upside the head, knocking her cap into her eyes.
“Hey!” Kit righted her cap and barely avoided crashing into a parking meter.
“Don’t lose your head just because he was flirting with you. Our dad killed his dad. The only thing that boy could possibly want from you is revenge.”
Kit’s giddiness drained away, and she was silent a long moment before she admitted, “That’s what I’d want.”
“Exactly!”
“But the rest of the world ain’t like us, Fancy.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing. At least
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