Edge by M. E. Kerr

worked.
    Drew parked outside, waiting for her, another couple in the back of his car. They were all old friends who’d been sailing their Stars and Comets alongside one another and swimming at the club together since they were little.
    Drew had given Tory an envelope with a fifty-dollar bill inside.
    â€œIs this money?” Horacio said, not waiting for an answer. He shook his head and handed back the envelope.
    â€œIt’s not from me, Horatio. It’s from Drew.”
    He had on a long white apron, and he was carrying a mop. He was cleaning up after someone who’d dropped a jar of pickles on the cement floor.
    â€œBut how can I ever return the favor?” Tory asked him. “It’s not fair to make me indebted to you, Horacio.”
    His shirtsleeves were rolled. There was a silver identification bracelet clanking against his Timex.
    Drew never wore jewelry, not even a class ring.
    Neither did Tory’s father.
    Both of them agreed rings were not right for men, not even wedding rings.
    â€œI like books,” Horacio said. “You can buy me a paperback. You can buy me any paperback by Gabriel García Márquez.”
    Tory wrote down the name, since she had never heard of that author.
    â€œA gift for the maid’s boy?” Mrs. King said, amazed.
    â€œI told you about it. You never listen.”
    â€œI listen. It’s a little extreme, darling. Do you know why Maria moved to Arcade?”
    â€œI suppose you’re going to say she’s some prisoner’s relative.”
    â€œI’m afraid I am. … Her husband is in Arcade Prison.”
    Tory remembered her father’s harangues about the “riffraff” moving right into Arcade, instead of just visiting their jailbird relatives. Mr. King often said he didn’t mind paying taxes for schools and roads and hospitals, but he did mind shelling out for welfare for the “junkies’ families.”
    â€œThose are junkies inside those walls. They’re not like our old convicts,” he’d say, as though he had fond memories of thieves and murderers from bygone days.
    â€œMaria works hard,” Mrs. King told Tory while Tory tied a red ribbon around the package for Horacio. “But her husband got in there because of drugs, so I thought I’d just not mention anything. You know how your father hates addicts.”
    â€œWhat about some of his friends up at the country club? You could pour them out of there weekends.”
    â€œOh, that’s apples and oranges you’re trying to compare, Tory. Why, you even drew one of your little sketches on the wrapping paper, and is that a note you’re enclosing?”
    â€œIt’s just a thank-you note, Mother … and yes, I did one of my little sketches on the paper.” Tory hated that certain condescending tone her mother would get at times.
    This is the note Tory’d written to Horacio:
    I read a little of this and I love it, so I bought a copy for myself too.
    Thanks for telling me about this author, Horacio.
    Next time I see you we can discuss Love in the Time of Cholera . I do have a secret wish. It is to be a painter.
    She’d signed her name Victoria, though no one called her that except for him, that first time on prom night.
    Another story Mr. King enjoys telling always begins with the time he called upstairs to his wife, “Laura? Guess who’s back in town, dear?”
    He often retells it when they’re out dining with their special crowd, all long-time Arcadians, all with clear memories of Richard Lasher.
    Only teachers called him by his first name.
    He was a troublemaker from the start, so good-looking more than one Arcadian said some talent scout ought to see him. Let Hollywood deal with Lasher!
    Mrs. King thought he was like some wild and beautiful weed appearing suddenly on a grand green lawn.
    He’d come to Arcade because of the prison, too.
    But he’d come as the new warden’s