“She’s doing okay,” her mother said, still speaking in a hushed tone. “Una called to ask about her, too. She wanted to know if she could take the kids to the movies, but I told her I had plans for J.J. and Jill. She went on and on about how Jill is super allergic to poison ivy and about the wasps she’s seen flying around the lot next door. It was bizarre.” After another pause, she said, “No, I’m doing cold calls from home today. Stop over after you see Elaine if you want.”
Her mother hung up, and Jill slipped into the bathroom.
In the mirror, she saw a girl with a sleep-swollen face and mussed hair. She took her brush out of the top drawer and began working through the tangles. The stiff bristles crunched as they passed over a mass of knotted hair at the nape of her neck. She had to use her fingers to pull some of the strands apart. Jill’s scalp prickled with pain, but she kept going.
When she finished, her hair was smooth, and her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. She blinked them away and filled her cup with water. She drank the water in three gulps and felt a little better. After wiping her mouth on the hand towel, she stared at her reflection, wondering if she looked like someone who knew two dead boys. Boys whose bodies might have been mangled by propellor blades. Or sharks.
Jill imagined being interviewed by a reporter. She thought of how she’d describe the fog and the shrillness of Charles’s scream. She’d explain how it had given her goose bumps. How she’d been so scared.
The reporter would hang on her every word. All her friends would see her on TV. They’d tell her how good she looked. They’d admire her big hoop earrings and her full-bodied hair. They’d tell her she looked a little like Michelle Pfeiffer. The next time she ran into Aaron, he’d say, “I saw you on TV,”and smile at her in a way that meant he liked her back. Then he’d take her hand, pull her behind the snack bar, and kiss her.
“Breakfast!” her mom called from the kitchen.
Jill shoved her brush into the drawer and exited the bathroom just as Justin zipped past her down the hall, Lady right on his heels.
To Jill’s surprise, there were mini cinnamon rolls on her plate along with a small mound of scrambled eggs.
“I thought you could use a treat today,” her mother said, pouring orange juice into Jill’s empty glass.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Jill made a show of eating her eggs first. She tried not to wolf them down, even though she really wanted to bite into a cinnamon roll while it was still warm. The moment her mother left the room to call for J.J., she grabbed one of the pastries and shoved the whole thing into her mouth. As the sugary, buttery sweetness coated her tongue and sank into the grooves between her teeth, her entire body tingled with pleasure.
Her mother returned to the kitchen and busied herself at the sink. A few minutes later, J.J. shuffled in.
“Why can’t I sleep in for once?” he complained. “We have the day off.”
“From the yacht club, but not from other things.”
Jill wanted to tell J.J. that Una had offered to take them to the movies, but if she said a word, her mother would know that she’d been eavesdropping.
Why did Una mention poison ivy? And wasps?
Jill picked up the second cinnamon roll. She wanted to eat it slowly, nibble by nibble, until only the central spiral was left. When that was gone, she wanted to lick her icing-flecked fingers, one by one. But she was afraid of drawing her mother’s attention, of being reminded for the umpteenthtime to eat like a lady, so she took a demure bite and watched her brother’s face darken with indignation.
“All of my friends are sleeping in—probably Jill’s, too. What do we have to do today? Wait! Are we going to look for the kids from Huntington?”
“Other people are doing that. Anyway, when something like this happens, it’s best to stay busy.”
J.J. groaned. “Lemme guess. Chores.”
“Yard work.Paidyard work.”
At this, J.J. became more alert. Jill knew he was thinking about the boom box he wanted to buy. “Here?”
“No, at Mrs. Smith’s. She’s offered to pay you and Jill ten dollars an hour.”
J.J. and Jill exchanged stupefied glances. Ten dollars an hour was a fortune. But working for Mrs. Smith? The idea was insane. Other than the small lawn in front, her yard was an untamable, frightening place. Her house was scary. And she was a mystery—a ghostly presence creeping around behind gray walls.
“Did you talk to her?” Jill asked when she got her breath back.
“She put a note in our mailbox. She wants you to start in the back garden. Pull weeds, cut vines, and clear the path. The door to the garden will be unlocked. You’ll need gloves, garbage bags, clippers, and a rake. I’ll ring the bell when it’s time for lunch.”
J.J. waved a forkful of eggs in the air. “What garden? It’s all pricker bushes and poison ivy. We’d be better off with a flamethrower.”
“Start with the vines on the fence. You’ll figure out what to do after that.”
Jill pictured the skinny windows on Mrs. Smith’s second floor. “Will she be watching us?”
