laughed, a tinkly sound, like music at a carnival. âIâve brought something.â Getting out of the car, she reached into the backseat and picked up a balloon-patterned gift bag with curly white ribbons tumbling out the top. âFor you,â she said.
I brightened. Who wouldnât, at the sight of a gift-wrapped package? Plus, Zoë fished another pair of cupcakes from her bag and handed them to me. I unwrapped and stuffed my face at the same time. âThis is very nice of you,â I said somewhat indistinctly. I was glad Mother wasnât there. She would have told me to refuse the gift since I didnât know Zoë that well.
Maybe I was still in fairy-tale mode after that chase through the Grimm-like forest, but Zoë reminded me of some magical character. Glinda the Good Witch, maybe. (When I was little, Dad, a mega-fan of Judy Garland, had played lots of her cds and movies for me. Now I was a mega-fan too. I mustâve seen The Wizard of Oz twenty-three times. So far.) Like Glinda, Zoë always arrived just when I needed cheering up.
Underneath the ribbons was a rectangular, clear plastic packet with green showing through. I tore the packet open. The green unfurled â an inflatable turtle!
âWow,â I said, gulping down the last of the second cupcake. âThanks!â
âRead the card,â Zoë urged.
I untangled a small envelope from the ribbons. Inside was a silver card with stilted writing:
Sorry about the crash into the pool. Sorry for scaring you. Sorry I wrecked your turtle. Hope this replacement turtle makes up for it.
â Rock Cordes, Jr.
p.s. Sorry.
Zoë explained, âI told the councillor about the pranks and your turtle. He spoke to Rock Junior. Weâre all very â â
âPlease.â I held up a sticky hand. âI donât think I can handle another apology. Anyhow, this is really nice of you guys. I can spend the rest of the afternoon floating on my new turtle and reading Deathstalkers Conquer Jupiter .â
âErâ right,â Zoë said uncertainly. Then her doll-like smile twinkled back. âI have a gift for you too, Dinah, because I know how much you like hang gliding.â
She handed over another envelope. Inside, not, as Iâd feared, another apology, but â wow. A pass for two to a High Spirits Hang Gliding show, July 17 on Grouse, where, as the pass said, High Spiritsâ own instructors will swoop and dive for your viewing pleasure . Not only that, but thereâd be food as well: barbecued hot dogs, salad buffet, French fries and make-your-own sundaes.
âDouble, triple wow,â I exclaimed.
Zoë patted my shoulder. âYou choose a friend to bring along, and Iâll take you both there myself. And youâre not to worry about Rock Junior. Heâs been told to stay away from this street. Heâs caused you and your neighbors enough trouble!â She teetered off on her spike heels to the pink car.
âWait,â I said as she prepared to take off again, Glinda-like, in a swirl of pink. âDo you happen to know if Rock Junior, has a buddy whoâs bald?â
Zoë stared. âA bald buddy,â she repeated, puzzled. âNo, I canât say that I do. But then Rock Junior would hardly confide in me about his social life.â
When Madge got back and let me in, I faxed my memo off to Jack. Then I tried out my new turtle.
âBombs away!â I shouted at an incoming hang glider. But the fun had gone out of the game for now. I was too bothered about Jack.
What if he went the rest of his life without speaking to me? Suppose he and Madge had kids. Jack would refuse to introduce them to me. One day little Madge Junior might paw through a box of family photos and find a snap of a pudgy, bespectacled, red-haired girl.
Whoâs this, Dad?
Oh, thatâs Aunt Dinah. We donât mention her name in this household.
And r-r-rip ! Jack would tear up
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