Her answer instantly reminds me of how badly I wanted to grow up when I was her age. “So you’re basically eight already.”
She nods, and the grin she gives me shows that she’s happy I get how important those extra months are.
“What grade are you in?”
“Grade three.”
“How do you like school?”How many boring questions can I ask in a row?
“I like it all right,” she shrugs.
“What’s your favorite subject?”Apparently quite a few.
“Art class. Oh, but I alsoadorescience.” She selects a cracker and bites the tiniest bit off the corner.
“I liked those classes too.” I look out the window for a minute. I have no idea what else to say to her. “Do you play any sports?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither.” I stare at her for a moment. “Grown-ups ask the worst questions, don’t we?”
She nods at this universal truth, and we both laugh together at the acknowledgment of it.
I imitate myself. “What grade are you in? How old are you? Do you like school?”
She seems to like this and is now covering her mouth with one hand while she giggles away. “You’re funny.”
I blush a little, surprised by how good it feels to be on the receiving end of this small compliment.
“Would you like to meet my cat, Walt Whitman?”
She nods, her eyes lighting up.
I gesture for her to come stand by me, then wait while she slides off the kitchen chair. I crouch down near the end of the table and point, lowering my voice. “He’s hiding on that chair.”
She crouches too, then whispers, “Is he scared?”
“Maybe. He’s never met a child before.”
“Never in his whole life?” she asks, clearly shocked by this revelation.
“Not even one time.”
Tilting her head so they can see each other, Olive uses a gentle voice. “Hi Walt. I’m Olive Wright and I’m what you call a child. Some kids—oh, that’s another word for child—some of us are really loud and rough, mostly boys, but not me. If you want to play with me, I’ll be very careful, and I promise I won’t touch your eyes.”
Looking up at me, she says, “My grandma’s neighbor has a cat, Pickles, and one time my cousin poked him right in the eye with a stick. And Pickles didn’t like that one bit.”
“I would guess not.”
“My cousin’s a goofball.” She looks back at Walt. “Will he come out and play?”
“Tell you what, if we get him some treats and a couple of toys, he may just decide he’s not scared anymore.”
Olive stands and gives me a confident smile. “That would totally work on me.”
“Me too. Except with beer and Cheetos.”
Chapter Sixteen
