Paint by Magic by Kathryn Reiss

recognize.
Our
vegetables came nicely trimmed, labeled, and wrapped in plastic.
    All the kids were just standing there, looking at me as if they could tell I wasn't from around here.
    "What?" I said. They made me nervous, staring like that.
    "Where'd you get those duds?"
    "What duds?" What
are
duds?
    The kids all laughed—especially Homer. He was the one I'd heard laughing from upstairs, the one who sounded like a maniac goblin.
    "Guess they have other words for clothing over in San Francisco," said Betty with a smirk. But she gave me a long look like maybe she suspected I wasn't really from San Francisco at all. Which of course I wasn't. "Your shoes—well. Never mind," she said.
    I just shrugged. Back in my own time these shoes were the coolest thing in the whole middle school. But it wasn't worth discussing my
duds.
There were more pressing things on my mind. "Um, about your uncle," I said.
    "You've met him? Where?" Betty's eyes were wide.
    "Um—up in his studio," I stammered.
    "He never lets
us
up there." Her voice was challenging.
    "I was posing for a portrait," I said. "But he got really ... weird. Mean."
    "Mama says he's a hot-blooded, hotheaded artist," said Homer. "As if that's any excuse. He's just plain grumpy."
    Betty sighed. "He is grumpy these days," she agreed. "But he wasn't always like that. You kids don't remember him any other way, but I do. He takes things hard, Mama says. For years he felt guilty that our father died in the war." She sank down onto the grass near the garden and stared up at the blue sky. "Uncle Fitzy was ex- 'empted from battle because he had rheumatic fever as a child and it weakened his heart," she told me. "He's not supposed to exert himself or he could die."
    "But our father was strong, and he did go off to fight in the Great War," Homer said sadly, "and so
he
was the one who died."
    I sat down next to Betty on the grass. It was damp and cold on the ground, but the sun was warm on my face. "I'm sorry about your dad," I said. "That's really tough."
    "Well, you know how it is," she said. But again there was that challenging note in her voice, like, did I
really
know?
    "So we're nearly orphans, too," said Elsie mournfully.
    "Chester and Elsie never knew him," Betty told me. She plucked some blades of grass and rolled them into a little green ball. "But I was five, and Homer was three, and I remember. Our dad didn't actually die in the war, not really. He came home wounded, and I remember how we all tiptoed around the house a lot, not wanting to disturb his rest. And the doctor was always coming by. For a while it seemed he was getting better. It was a chest wound, and he was weak, but he could sit up in a chair during the day, and even walk out here in the garden." She ducked her head and her hair hid her face. Her voice faltered. "But then he developed pneumonia, and he ... he died, anyway."
    "That's really sad," I said. It made me uncomfortable, listening to them talk about their dead dad. I mean, I know plenty of kids whose parents are divorced, but only one with a dead parent. That's Lissie Albertson, whose mom got hit by a car when she was crossing the street. Everybody feels so terrible for Lissie, but nobody knows what to say about her mom.
    They were all silent for a second. Betty cleared her throat hard a few times.
    "I remember Daddy, too!" insisted Elsie.
    "You couldn't!" objected Betty, raising her head to frown at her sister. "You were only a one-year-old baby—and Chester wasn't even born yet."
    "I was
almost
born!" said Chester indignantly.
    "So your uncle's been in a bad mood ever since your dad died?" I looked around at the four kids. "And painting can't help him feel better? You know, like therapy?"
    "Nothing made him feel better," said Betty. "Until Pammie came."
    I got that weird, sick sort of feeling in my stomach again. "Tell me about her," I said, trying to sound casual.
    "No, Connor," said Betty. "How about
you
tell us about her?"
    I'd been expecting