arms buried in soapy water, two pies cooling on the counter.
She wears black shorts and a black T-shirt. It’s strange not to see the hoodie hanging from her shoulders.
Macey looks up from the soapy water and drops the bowl she’d been scrubbing.
“Hi,” I say with an awkward wave.
Mrs. Kellingsworth stands with her hand clasped to her chest. “I’ll let you two girls chat. I know at this age there’s so much to chat about. School and clothes and movies and boys. Chat. Just chat.”
“I am so adopted,” Macey says to the dishwater after her mother leaves.
“Your mom has nothing on my Aunt Evelyn.” Although ever since the procurement of Red Rocket trees, Auntie Ev’s been less antagonistic, which has led to a little less snark from my corner of the bungalow.
I pull out a chair at the table and sit. The air in Macey’s kitchen is warm and heavy with sweet smells. My nose twitches. “Cinnamon?”
“Nutmeg.” Macey gnaws on her bottom lip as she slips the bowl into the drainer and jams her hands back into the soapy water.
“I rented a tandem bike,” I say.
She washes two forks.
“I thought maybe you’d like to ride it with me.”
She scrapes gunk off a large spoon. “Ride? With you?”
“Yeah.”
Measuring cups and spoons clank as she plunges them into the water and shakes her head.
“It’s a nice day, and it’s fun,” I say.
Another head shake.
“Listen, Macey, I need to ride a tandem bike with someone.”
Macey scrubs at the dishes, rubbing so hard and fast, the suds multiply. “Ask that guy Nate. He seems to like you.”
Only when no one’s watching. I picture Nate dropping my hand when he recognized his friends. I feel the coldness spreading across my skin. I get up from the table, grab a dish towel on the counter, and dry the bowl in the drainer. I rub and rub until the cold goes away. “Please, Macey. I need someone to do this with me.”
Her hands and the suds grow still. “I can’t.”
I knot the dish towel around my hands. “Why?”
“I need peaches.”
“Peaches? You need peaches?”
The corner of Macey’s mouth tilts a fraction, and her eyes brighten. “I need to go to the farmers’
market. The first peaches of the season arrive today.”
I toss the dish towel onto the counter, tension lifting from my knotted fingers. “I can deal with peaches.”
“The hardest thing is starting,” I tell Macey, imparting all my newfound tandem wisdom from Bubba the Bike Sage. “Rest your right foot on the pedal, and when I push off, push. Got it?”
Macey looks as if she’s about to dive into a tank with Herman the shark, but she nods. Like me, she doesn’t seem too thrilled with the whole let’s-connect-on-a-bike thing. I don’t know much about her life, and for a moment I wonder how she ended up here with me. Maybe she too was homeschooled and missed the lesson on how to play nicely in the sandbox. Or maybe she had some kind of trauma that made her turn inward. Or maybe it’s none of my business.
I push off the bricks around the salsa garden. The tandem lurches forward. Macey and I sway to the right. “Lean left!” I scream. We lean, but not fast enough. We tumble onto Macey’s front lawn.
“We can do this. We have to do this.”
I untangle my legs from the bike and stand. Macey lies on the grass, her pale, thin hair spread out like a spiderweb, her mouth curved in a grin. Her teeth are unexpectedly bright. I hold out my hand.
She reaches, and the sleeve of her hoodie pulls back and exposes her forearm. My fingers twitch. A series of lines stripe her skin. Some are short and thick, others long and narrow, the width of a few strands of hair. All are the color of old chalk. Macey yanks her sleeve over the scars and scrambles to her feet. A speckled red creeps up her neck.
I haul the bike upright and straddle the frame, facing forward. “Let’s try this again. I think we pushed off too slowly.”
Behind me Macey remains motionless. In my head I see
She wears black shorts and a black T-shirt. It’s strange not to see the hoodie hanging from her shoulders.
Macey looks up from the soapy water and drops the bowl she’d been scrubbing.
“Hi,” I say with an awkward wave.
Mrs. Kellingsworth stands with her hand clasped to her chest. “I’ll let you two girls chat. I know at this age there’s so much to chat about. School and clothes and movies and boys. Chat. Just chat.”
“I am so adopted,” Macey says to the dishwater after her mother leaves.
“Your mom has nothing on my Aunt Evelyn.” Although ever since the procurement of Red Rocket trees, Auntie Ev’s been less antagonistic, which has led to a little less snark from my corner of the bungalow.
I pull out a chair at the table and sit. The air in Macey’s kitchen is warm and heavy with sweet smells. My nose twitches. “Cinnamon?”
“Nutmeg.” Macey gnaws on her bottom lip as she slips the bowl into the drainer and jams her hands back into the soapy water.
“I rented a tandem bike,” I say.
She washes two forks.
“I thought maybe you’d like to ride it with me.”
She scrapes gunk off a large spoon. “Ride? With you?”
“Yeah.”
Measuring cups and spoons clank as she plunges them into the water and shakes her head.
“It’s a nice day, and it’s fun,” I say.
Another head shake.
“Listen, Macey, I need to ride a tandem bike with someone.”
Macey scrubs at the dishes, rubbing so hard and fast, the suds multiply. “Ask that guy Nate. He seems to like you.”
Only when no one’s watching. I picture Nate dropping my hand when he recognized his friends. I feel the coldness spreading across my skin. I get up from the table, grab a dish towel on the counter, and dry the bowl in the drainer. I rub and rub until the cold goes away. “Please, Macey. I need someone to do this with me.”
Her hands and the suds grow still. “I can’t.”
I knot the dish towel around my hands. “Why?”
“I need peaches.”
“Peaches? You need peaches?”
The corner of Macey’s mouth tilts a fraction, and her eyes brighten. “I need to go to the farmers’
market. The first peaches of the season arrive today.”
I toss the dish towel onto the counter, tension lifting from my knotted fingers. “I can deal with peaches.”
“The hardest thing is starting,” I tell Macey, imparting all my newfound tandem wisdom from Bubba the Bike Sage. “Rest your right foot on the pedal, and when I push off, push. Got it?”
Macey looks as if she’s about to dive into a tank with Herman the shark, but she nods. Like me, she doesn’t seem too thrilled with the whole let’s-connect-on-a-bike thing. I don’t know much about her life, and for a moment I wonder how she ended up here with me. Maybe she too was homeschooled and missed the lesson on how to play nicely in the sandbox. Or maybe she had some kind of trauma that made her turn inward. Or maybe it’s none of my business.
I push off the bricks around the salsa garden. The tandem lurches forward. Macey and I sway to the right. “Lean left!” I scream. We lean, but not fast enough. We tumble onto Macey’s front lawn.
“We can do this. We have to do this.”
I untangle my legs from the bike and stand. Macey lies on the grass, her pale, thin hair spread out like a spiderweb, her mouth curved in a grin. Her teeth are unexpectedly bright. I hold out my hand.
She reaches, and the sleeve of her hoodie pulls back and exposes her forearm. My fingers twitch. A series of lines stripe her skin. Some are short and thick, others long and narrow, the width of a few strands of hair. All are the color of old chalk. Macey yanks her sleeve over the scars and scrambles to her feet. A speckled red creeps up her neck.
I haul the bike upright and straddle the frame, facing forward. “Let’s try this again. I think we pushed off too slowly.”
Behind me Macey remains motionless. In my head I see
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