Oh, to ride in that Jeep Wagoneer, a chariot being driven by a prince.
As they glide out of their drive, Mom inches forward, careful to wait until they’ve almost made it to the end of their street before falling in behind them.
Their castle is on a giant hilltop, and my stomach turns as we coast down the street.
Pine cones the size of footballs crunch under our tires; I feel like I’m at the arcade playingMs. Pacman, trying to see how many pellets we can eat before getting gobbled up by ghosts. The ghosts, of course, are our missions. Always are. I won’t say I feelskittishexactly—I’m too used to it for that. But before each one, I do feel kinda sick in my gut. Never know what’s gonna happen.
We’re on the main road to town now, trailing them.
Mr. Andersen puts their left blinker on and turns into the shopping center.
Mom pulls into the parking lot, still keeping her distance.
They’re in front of a place called Talk of the Town Salon. Mrs. Andersen hops out, then disappears inside the beauty shop.
Mr. Anderson climbs out, too, but he walks a few doors down to Smithy’s Goods. I’ve been in there once so far with Mom and Pa; it’s like a general store but witheverything. Hunting andfishing gear, a sandwich counter, deer feed, you name it.
“What’s our plan?” I ask.
“I don’t know!” Mom snaps. I can tell her nerves are frayed, too. “Let’s just go,” she adds, her voice stern but shaky.
I grab the cardboard box of oils from the floorboard as I exit, then kick the door shut with my foot.
A bell clangs against the glass door as we enter. It feels like all eyes in the place land on us.
Of course, wearea sight, me and Mom in our handmade dresses, out of step with the times.
I spot the top of Mr. Andersen’s head right away. He’s down a few aisles over. “Mom,” I whisper, jerking my head in his direction.
She tugs at my elbow, and I follow her, sweat stinging my eyes, my nerves heading into overdrive.
He stops at the end of Aisle Three, his hand tracing a row of boxed ammo.
Mom pauses, then grabs my elbow again, pulls me down Aisle Two, moving fast toward the end. She grabs the box from me, races around the corner, and—what do you know?—bumps into Mr. Andersen.
“Oh! I’m sorry! Didn’t see you there!” Her voice is full of sunshine. “I blame it on this,” she says, smiling down at her oils.
“No worries!” Mr. Andersen says, grinning at both of us, but especially Mom. “Hey, we met the other night—” He cocks his head to one side, runs his eyes over her chest.
She usually dresses very modestly, verybiblically, but I sawthat before she approached him, she tugged down the top of her dress, putting her serious cleavage on full display.
He’s kind enough not to say,Hey, we met the other night, and my daughter called your daughter here a skank.
Mom hitches the box onto her hip, sticks out her hand. “Yes, we did. I’m Abigail. Abigail Swift. And this here’s Jane, my middle one.” Dimples pucker her cheeks, and she’s beaming so hard at him, her face might crack.
“Pleased to see you again, Mr. Andersen,” I say, giving him my warmest smile. “I’m Nellie’s age,” I add, not sure why I just brought her up. Mom shoots me a look that says,Shut it.
“Hey, honey,” Mom says, as if she always uses this pleasant tone with me (never happens), “could you go find the twine? The mason jars?”
I don’t want to budge, but I mind her. I head to the far end of the store, where the goods are. But instead of staying there, I creep back toward Mom and Mr. Andersen. Walking up Aisle Two, I keep my steps as quiet as possible.
I hear laughter.
Shifting a can of dog food to one side, I peer through the opening.
Mom’s got her hip jutted out even more, head tossed back as she laughs, throat bared, and she’s let the shoulder slip down on her dress so that her bra strap is showing.
Mr. Andersen’s hungry eyes are moving all over her body. I’m close enough to see that they’re deep blue, electric. He’s even handsomer this close up. Pa’s handsome, too, but this man couldbe a print model.
