Zipped by Laura McNeal Page B

I’m working tomorrow. It wouldn’t look that good to miss my first day.”
    His father was nodding in agreement. “Work first, fun second.” He turned his eyes on Mick and his whole expression softened. “Night, Mick.”
    â€œNight, Dad.”
    But his father didn’t leave. He said, “You know how when there was some little problem like a broken water heater or a late mortgage payment, I would always say, ‘It’s not my wife and it’s not my life’?”
    Mick nodded.
    â€œWell, I said it that way because I heard it somewhere and it has a nice ring to it, but the truth is, I should’ve said, ‘It’s not my life, it’s not my wife, and it’s not my kid.’ ”
    Mick felt his throat getting tight.
    His father took a deep breath. “I know you’re reading and everything, but do you think you could just come downstairs and play the piano? I’d like it and I know Nora would like it, too.”
    Mick looked at his father, then marked his place in his book. “Sure, Dad.”
    Nora had made popcorn, and Mick took a handful when the bowl was offered. He drank the hot chocolate she gave him. He started one of the Inventions, but then pulled out an old book of ragtime tunes. There was one called “Solace” that he liked because it was slow and sad and easy enough that as his fingers moved, his mind could float. Images appeared of Lisa Doyle’s coppery red hair, and of Myra Vidal’s breasts, and of the dream Nora standing at the top of Reece’s stairs. Mick turned to Nora sitting on the couch knitting something brown and fuzzy, probably thinking of Alexander Selkirk. She was like a replicant in one of those movies, a body inhabited by an alien.
    When he finished, Mick’s father said, “That was good, Mick.” He winked. “Gooder than good.” He turned to Nora. “How about you play one of those études?” He made it sound almost like two words. Aye. Tudes.
    â€œLet me get to the end of this row,” Nora said, holding the needles closer to her face and slipping their points in and out of the moving yarn. Then she stabbed her needles into the ball of yarn and said, “There.” She found her Chopin book, and if it was an alien playing, the alien had Nora’s piano style down cold. She played as she always played, impressively fluttery on the trills, impressively massive on the fortes.
    Nora finished, Mick and his father clapped lightly, and she turned the page to play one more. She was wearing tight Levi’s and a beige, soft-looking sweater. She sat with perfect posture, erect, which made her breasts more pronounced. Tomorrow, Mick suddenly thought. Tomorrow he would actually talk out loud to Lisa Doyle.
    Tomorrow.
    No ifs, ands, or buts.

CHAPTER TEN
    Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho
    Maurice Gritz grinned at the jeeps huddled in front of him. It was eight o’clock Saturday morning and they’d all been issued flannel-lined Village Greens parkas and Village Greens work gloves, but they all stood before him cold and wooden faced. He took a quick roll—everyone was there—then he snapped a pink bubble and said, “Well, let’s just pretend it’s balmy and everyone’s happy to be here.”
    Everyone seemed too cold to respond except the boy named Traylor, who chuckled to show that he actually was happy to be there. Mick noted Traylor for a half second—he had a loose-jointed, eager-to-please look to him—then turned back toward Maurice, who had pulled out his clipboard.
    â€œOkay,” Maurice said, “let’s check the nature of this morning’s jeeply fun.”
    While Maurice silently read through the page attached to his clipboard, Mick sneaked a glance at Lisa Doyle, who stood opposite him in the half circle. She was looking down at her boots, so he was able to let his gaze rest fully on her. She’d dressed for work—her red hair