talk to Mr. Philpot?”
“I can try.” But I knew he wouldn’t listen. Just this morning he’d accused me of turning the orchard into a love shack. He wouldn’t want his daughter exposed to a bizarre ménage à peach.
“I bet you won’t try hard,” she said. “Because you don’t like me.”
“Wrong.”
“Huh, you think I’m a brat.”
“You work hard at it.” I pressed my finger against her belly. “Inside, you’re Marshmallow Fluff.”
She giggled, then reached for my hand. “I shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”
I forced myself to give her a stern look. “Just don’t do it again.”
“Why? ’Cause you’ll get mad?”
“This isn’t about me. When you call people names, it doesn’t hurt them, it hurts you.”
She grimaced. “How?”
“Words have power. They can make you feel good inside or they can have a bite. And when you call someone a bitch, in a weird sort of way, you become a bitch. What you say about others is how you secretly feel about yourself.”
She pretended to gag. “That’s the suckiest thing you’ve ever said. If I called a squid a butthole, it would still be squid. And I wouldn’t turn into a butthole.”
“You’d be one on the inside.” I rubbed my forehead. I was going about this all wrong. She’d seemed liked a mini-adult, but now I realized she was still a child. And I was trying to make her grapple with mature concepts. I took a breath and started over.
“People are a lot more complicated than squid. We feel love, hate, jealousy. Some are honest. Others can’t tell the truth to save their lives. Mostly, people are a mixture of good and bad. Some are sweet. Some are tart.”
“Like a smoothie?”
“Right. But it’s not your job to judge the smoothie.”
“How am I supposed to know the difference between good and bad if I can’t judge?”
“You watch and learn, just like you study animals. Then you put it all together and decide what kind of girl you want to be. Kind people teach you to be caring and thoughtful. Gossips teach you to hold your tongue. Selfish people teach you how to be generous.”
I didn’t know where these words were coming from, but they felt true. I wasn’t just talking to Emerson, I was talking to myself.
She sighed. “I don’t know what a bitch is, but I felt bad after I called you one. I might not show it, but I’m easily hurt.”
“We all are, honey.”
“Even the Philpots?”
“Yep.”
“Mr. Philpot isn’t coming over for a while. I’ve got time to soak up some rays.” She tugged my hand. “Why don’t you lay out with me? Not to be rude, but you could use a little tan.”
* * *
Lester’s silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway at eight-thirty. He got out, his brown suit waffling around his long legs, and frowned at the house. Den of iniquity, his eyes said.
I led him into Aunt Bluette’s cozy parlor with the rag rug, pictures of dead Templetons, and the old walnut hi-fi, where vinyl records rose up in black columns. He sat on the sofa, twisting his hands together, casting suspicious glances in my direction.
“Where are your boyfriends?” he asked.
“In the backyard, fighting a duel.”
My answer seemed to disappoint him. He undid the top button on his collar, and light brown hairs sprang out around his Adam’s apple. “It’s so hot outside,” he said. “My throat’s parched. Could I trouble you for a glass of iced tea?”
On my way to the kitchen, I passed by the stairs. Emerson had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. What if she’d planned to escape? She could climb out the window and shimmy down the trellis. My stomach twisted. I ran up the stairs and knocked on the door.
“You okay?” I called.
“Can’t a girl primp in peace?” she yelled.
I ran back down to the kitchen and fixed the tea. Lester hadn’t asked for pie, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I cut a slice anyway, and set it on a china plate.
Even assholes needed comfort food.
I resisted
“I can try.” But I knew he wouldn’t listen. Just this morning he’d accused me of turning the orchard into a love shack. He wouldn’t want his daughter exposed to a bizarre ménage à peach.
“I bet you won’t try hard,” she said. “Because you don’t like me.”
“Wrong.”
“Huh, you think I’m a brat.”
“You work hard at it.” I pressed my finger against her belly. “Inside, you’re Marshmallow Fluff.”
She giggled, then reached for my hand. “I shouldn’t have called you a bitch.”
I forced myself to give her a stern look. “Just don’t do it again.”
“Why? ’Cause you’ll get mad?”
“This isn’t about me. When you call people names, it doesn’t hurt them, it hurts you.”
She grimaced. “How?”
“Words have power. They can make you feel good inside or they can have a bite. And when you call someone a bitch, in a weird sort of way, you become a bitch. What you say about others is how you secretly feel about yourself.”
She pretended to gag. “That’s the suckiest thing you’ve ever said. If I called a squid a butthole, it would still be squid. And I wouldn’t turn into a butthole.”
“You’d be one on the inside.” I rubbed my forehead. I was going about this all wrong. She’d seemed liked a mini-adult, but now I realized she was still a child. And I was trying to make her grapple with mature concepts. I took a breath and started over.
“People are a lot more complicated than squid. We feel love, hate, jealousy. Some are honest. Others can’t tell the truth to save their lives. Mostly, people are a mixture of good and bad. Some are sweet. Some are tart.”
“Like a smoothie?”
“Right. But it’s not your job to judge the smoothie.”
“How am I supposed to know the difference between good and bad if I can’t judge?”
“You watch and learn, just like you study animals. Then you put it all together and decide what kind of girl you want to be. Kind people teach you to be caring and thoughtful. Gossips teach you to hold your tongue. Selfish people teach you how to be generous.”
I didn’t know where these words were coming from, but they felt true. I wasn’t just talking to Emerson, I was talking to myself.
She sighed. “I don’t know what a bitch is, but I felt bad after I called you one. I might not show it, but I’m easily hurt.”
“We all are, honey.”
“Even the Philpots?”
“Yep.”
“Mr. Philpot isn’t coming over for a while. I’ve got time to soak up some rays.” She tugged my hand. “Why don’t you lay out with me? Not to be rude, but you could use a little tan.”
* * *
Lester’s silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway at eight-thirty. He got out, his brown suit waffling around his long legs, and frowned at the house. Den of iniquity, his eyes said.
I led him into Aunt Bluette’s cozy parlor with the rag rug, pictures of dead Templetons, and the old walnut hi-fi, where vinyl records rose up in black columns. He sat on the sofa, twisting his hands together, casting suspicious glances in my direction.
“Where are your boyfriends?” he asked.
“In the backyard, fighting a duel.”
My answer seemed to disappoint him. He undid the top button on his collar, and light brown hairs sprang out around his Adam’s apple. “It’s so hot outside,” he said. “My throat’s parched. Could I trouble you for a glass of iced tea?”
On my way to the kitchen, I passed by the stairs. Emerson had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. What if she’d planned to escape? She could climb out the window and shimmy down the trellis. My stomach twisted. I ran up the stairs and knocked on the door.
“You okay?” I called.
“Can’t a girl primp in peace?” she yelled.
I ran back down to the kitchen and fixed the tea. Lester hadn’t asked for pie, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I cut a slice anyway, and set it on a china plate.
Even assholes needed comfort food.
I resisted
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