She grins.
Yes, we’re talking total nonsense while we make sure Lola’s not sneaking back to listen in on our conversation, butyou’re supposed to make it?
Never—ever—have we made things foranyonefor holidays or birthdays. Or any other occasion.
Even the paintings and art projects at school when we were kids went into thespecialpile, only displayed when we needed to look like a solid, functional family.
And food?
Not a damn chance.
Even though I’ve taught myself to cook—mostly sweets, not gonna lie—there’s such an air ofdon’t eat that, sweetheart—your metabolism won’t support itin our family that none of us would ever admit to cooking at all.
I sigh. Funny all gone.
Phoebe peeks out the door again. “You took Dylan to the place,” she whispers.
“He didn’t want to go home, and I didn’t want to bring him here, and I don’t know who his best friend is—I mean, I do, but I’m not talking about that anymore, because I learned my lesson—and when I asked him where he wanted to go, he was all, ‘Sandy the Giraffe,’ which I think was probably a combination of the concussion and the painkillers.”
“He’s onTylenol.”
Look at that. I can still lie to my sister, and she’ll believe me. The day is saved.
Not.“I still don’t know who his friends are.And I definitely didn’t thinka freaking goatwould’ve been loose in there! How did it even get in?”
She makes a Phoebe face that means,It’s my fault and I don’t want to admit it. “I miscounted when I put them back after I accidentally let them out last night. And you don’t do a great job of locking the front door ofthe place, and Chester apparently learned how to use his horns on things.”
“I never unlock the front door. I don’t gointhe front door.”
She stares at me a beat.
I stare back.
“Who else has a key?” she asks quietly.
Just the owner.
Whom I willnotbe admitting to knowing.
Admitting I know Floyd—Tickled Pink Floyd, not Deer Drop Floyd, because apparently Floyd is a common name in these parts and the locals have stories about both Floyds—would be like admitting I knew he wasn’t actually a ghost when we first moved in and the townspeople were testing us by making the school sound haunted.
“Who’d you rent the building from, Tavi?” Phoebe presses.
“Weird random person in a back alley.” I mean, that’s definitely true. But telling Phoebe how long I’ve known Tickled Pink Floyd wasn’t a ghost won’t win me any points right now.
“I can ask Teague.”
“Great. One more person who will want to know secrets that they shouldn’t have to carry.”
“Like that’s the biggest secret he’s ever carried in his life.”
We stare at each other another beat before I realize I don’t actually know if I’m supposed to laugh or cry at that.
“How’s it all coming?” she asks me.
I hold up my thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “This close.”
“But notthereyet?”
