Right.
Mary the secretary is married to Barry the banker.
“Oh.” I pick up a rogue pencil from the floor and twirl it mindlessly between my fingers. “Yes. A big accounting error.”
She makes an exaggerated frown. “I watched stories like that on20/20,” she says. “Lost everything. They found out later the lady that gave the money away had Alzheimer’s though.” She pauses and dips her chin, looking at me over the top of her glasses. “Your mom have something like that going on?” Before I can respond, she adds, “Barry said he saw your car parked at Dr. Mott’s after you left the bank.”
I snap the pencil right in half, making us both look at the splintered yellow wood.
“Sorry,” I murmur, setting the two pieces on her desk. “She’s just fine. A mole.” At once, the lie my mother told herself makes perfect sense. “It was great to see you, Mary. Is there anything else you need help with before school is out for the year? You know I’m happy to help.”
“You just take care of finding that money.” She tosses the check into a basket of papers. “We’d hate to see Miss Bennie not be able to come back because of something so awful.”
She says it like it’s just that easy. Like I didn’t spend all night trying to figure out how we can scrounge up every dollar possible. Like the whole rest of my day isn’t a planned series of stops in hopes of scraping together every cent I can find for this very reason.
“We’ll be fine,” I tell her. “She’ll be back.”
The look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe my promise any more than I do.
“You should buy a lottery ticket.”
On the off chance she’s right, I stop at a gas station and buy a scratch off.
I lose four dollars.
Standing in the beaded doorway of Psychic Sylvia’s and holding a crystal ball, it’s hard to imagine anyone purposefully coming in here for serious guidance. There’s fog sputtering across the floor, a stick of incense leaking a snake-like trail of smoke, and a flickering neon sign advertisingSpirit Guide. This place is my worst nightmare.
Behind a glass case displayingpremiumtarot cards and bundles of overpriced sage, Sylvia stands. Her box-dyed red hair is tied back in a bandana, and she’s wearing a purple dress so large it could double as a tent.
“No refunds,” she says, infuriatingly indifferent after hearing my sob story.
I gesture with the ball. “Please.”
“No. Refunds,” she repeats. “It belonged to Jeane Dixon.”
I do not growl like I want to.
“Give it time,” she says in a drawn-out spooky voice. “I see the right buyer finding you.”
I hate her.
“Didn’t you hear me?” I ask, trying to stay calm. “My mom has—” I grip the ball. “Was not of sound mind when she bought this. We’re broke. That’s dirty business.”
Sylvia shrugs, casually pulling a ciabatta roll along with the largest jar of mayonnaise I’ve ever seen from somewhere behind the counter. She opens the lid, spoons out a heaping pile of mayo, and smears it on the roll.Sick.
“Sandwich?” she asks.
“No,” I snap, both annoyed and disgusted. “Refund.”
She takes a bite of the mayo-monstrosity, crumbs scattering across the display case as white clings to the corners of her mouth.
“Iris told me about you,” she finally says. “You’re the serious one.”
I frown.
“There’s the one who can’t laugh—you—the one who can’t stop working, and the one who doesn’t know who she is.”
That tracks with my sisters, but ...
