“I’m not hungry.”
“What’s with the moonakis plant?” Kasey asked.
Liz gave her a quizzical look. “The what?”
Kasey nodded at the pot. “That.”
“It’s my marriage,” Anne said. She blew her nose again with a honk.
“What?”
“Gift from the groom’s grandmother,” my mom explained.
“What did you say it was called?” Liz asked.
Kasey reached over, pulling the pot closer. “Moonakis plant. They’re pretty rare. Only bloom once a year, but you never know exactly when. It’s a weather-slash-germination thing.”
Liz furrowed her brow. “So they’re unpredictable?”
“More like a mystery,” Kasey squinted, twisting the pot. “Can’t plan on them at all.”
Anne made a small squeaking noise and got to her feet. Her chair banged against the window as she left it and went to the bathroom.
“Really?” Liz said. “They couldn’t just give her a fern?”
“Who wants a fern?” Kasey said. “This is much cooler, in my opinion.”
Liz sighed, then reached down into a bag at her feet, pulling out a few pads of paper and a sheaf of the same stickers that already dotted the cabinets in the kitchen. “Okay. So I figure we just divide the house up by rooms. List everything on a pad for the record and do stickers for anything not already marked. Green, we sell; blue, we keep; yellow is the dump run.”
“I saw a lot of blue in the living room,” my mom observed. “Where are you going to put all this stuff?”
“Not your concern, is it?” Kasey asked as Anne returned, sniffling.
“It was just a question,” my mom said.
Hurriedly, Liz began handing out pads and stickers. One for my mom, one for Kasey, herself, and then Anne, who was morosely regarding the moonakis plant. Then, despite the fact I was in the doorway still, watching from a distance, she extended one to me as well.
I thought of the day before, when I’d seen that girl in my spot beside Colin. So jarring, still. Maybe, though, having a place here would help. Even if I was only just now finding out what it was.
“Hold up. Is that a bat?”
I froze.
“Nope, just a wasp,” Clark said.Slap!“All clear. Come on up.”
I was on the second floor, which was much like the first: same woodwork, rooms filled with sheet-draped or stickered furniture. Next to the bathroom—which had a real claw-foottub—was a door that led to a staircase. Clark, whom I’d accompanied, had gone right up, but I was a bit unnerved by the weird chemical-like smell and the cobwebs hanging overhead. Talk of wasps and bats didn’t exactly help.
Just then, I heard someone on the landing. It was Ben, carrying a box of trash bags and a wide flashlight. His ringer tee readSOUTHPORT SAILORS, anchors hanging from both theS’s. It seemed to be a theme, these shirts. “Hey,” he said when he saw me. “Liz said we should use these for anything, and I quote, ‘disgusting or that needs investigating,’ unquote.”
“Are we expecting that?”
“It’s an attic of an old house. No telling what could be up there.”
“Damn!” There was another slap from above us. “I hate wasps.”
Yikes. Ben nodded at the open door. “Go ahead,” he told me. “I’m right behind you.”
I stepped back, waving. “Please. You first.”
