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next door to you.” Dork.
    â€œAh, yes, the young female next door who is always spying on me,” said Henry. “I believe I have noticed her. She should wash her bedroom window. I predict she’ll have a better view of my greenhouse that way.” Moron.
    â€œWell, you have a good shopping experience, Henry,” I said. “I gotta go.” A crab-like leg spiraled out and again blocked my path. It had a foot attached to it. The foot was wearing a raggedy pink sock and a thick brown shoe with black laces. The pants were green polyester and possibly came from his grandmother’s dresser drawer. The sock, I would assume, belonged to somebody’s Barbie doll. No one had ever accused Henry of being a slave to fashion.
    â€œI wouldn’t mind hearing about your project, Miss McKinnon,” Henry said, but it sounded more like hissing. “That is, if you’d be willing to share details with a fellow scientist.” I smiled my perfect fake smile, the one I created the first day I met Henry Helmsby.
    â€œActually, Millicent and I are keeping our project a secret,” I said. “But I understand yours is a marriage of the Maine potato and the red turnip. I’m sure they will be very happy together. I give you my blessing.” I imagined just then a potato and a turnip on the top of a wedding cake, instead of the usual little plastic bride and groom.
    Henry’s tiny eyes got beadier when I said this. His skinny neck turned his head so that the eyes could look right at me.
    â€œThe turnip is very historic,” said Henry, all important, like he was Gregor Mendel or something. Henry once wrote a book report on Mendel’s life, and his report was fifty pages longer than the actual book. “Early colonists brought it to the New World in 1609. It’s a member of the Brassica family.”
    â€œNo kidding?” I said, my eyes all glassy with boredom. “Well, I’m a member of the McKinnon family and I better get home before my supper gets cold, or Mom will kill me.”
    As I hurried down the aisle, I imagined my reflection caught in the lenses of Henry’s large spectacles.
    ***
    Sunday afternoon and night dribbled by slowly and painfully like the drip-drop, drip-drop of a leaky faucet, taking forever and driving me insane. At least the rain finally stopped. But without Marilee, my plan was still on ice. Finally, around five o’clock in the afternoon, I sent Marilee an instant message. I figured she would have her laptop at the motel. As much as it killed me, I hadn’t contacted her since Friday night. I hoped she could concentrate on visiting her dad and possibly even liking his girlfriend.
    AllagashRobbie: How’s it going?
    I’d forgotten about the message and was playing Spider Solitaire when the rooster crowed and a reply zinged back to me.
    MeMarilee: I hate her!
    AllagashRobbie: Give it time. Hang in there. See you soon. Tomorrow night: Peterson’s mountain!
    When she didn’t reply, I figured they’d probably gone out for supper, or “dinner” as they would be calling it, confusing the local waitresses.
    I can’t tell you why, but I hate Sundays. Everyone just seems to wander around like chickens without heads, waiting for school or work on Monday morning. So I got into bed early, flicked on my TV, and found America’s Got Talent. I watched a really cool kid dance. He was cute too. He looked a lot like Billy Ferguson, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Since that fiasco on Frog Hill, I had tried not to think of Billy in the way I often did. Sometimes, I would imagine him roaring into my yard on his four-wheeler, and instead of asking for Johnny, he’d say, “Is Roberta busy? Can she come riding with me?” And I’d put on my Fly helmet, which is pink and gray and white and has the word “FLY” written on it. I’d jump on the machine behind Billy and wrap my arms around his waist. Then off