how he’s interpreting that. It’s all Roger can do not to laugh out loud.
“Nothing like that, I promise,” he says. “We’ve mostly been arguing about the language used to describe math. She’s pretty vehement when it comes to getting things right.”
“That’s my girl,” says Peter, and he’s smiling, and maybe things are going to be okay.
When Erin emerges from the bathroom—canary yellow and cream, with pictures of whales on the walls and scented seashells on the windowsill; it couldn’t scream “Californian” any louder if it tried—and lets Smita push past her, she finds Dodger in the hall. She stops, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes?” she asks.
“Do you think my dad’s going to kill Roger?” Dodger blurts the sentence out as a single breath, like she’s been holding it clasped between her teeth as long as she’s been waiting.
“Probably not,” says Erin. “I mean, I guess he could, but it would be hard to get rid of the body, and it would probably mean dinner would be served late. Best not to risk it.”
Dodger looks alarmed. That can be amusing—when Dodger blows her stack, she tends to do it in a huge, theatrical way, which is better entertainment than most of what’s on television. At the same time, Erin really does want to eat on time and isn’t interested in fomenting conflict today. There’s enough conflict to come. No need to start things before their time arrives.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she says. “I know there was some stuff with a boy from Boston—don’t look so shocked, I know how to use a search engine, and there was no way I was moving in with you without looking you up—but I also know Roger wasn’t here when it happened. He and your dad will glare at each other and things will be fine. It’s patriarchal bullshit and we should hate it as feminists, but we should also find it endearing, because they’re so cute when they puff their feathers out and try to show off for one another.”
Dodger blinks before she asks, “Do you think my dad thinks I’m dating Roger?”
Privately, Erin doesn’t think anyone who watches the two of them together for more than thirty seconds could see them as anything other than adult siblings. “Why would he? Roger’s your brother, remember?”
The look of guilt on Dodger’s face is almost comic. “Um. About that . . .”
“It’s okay. I know the two of you were adopted. Your father doesn’t know, does he?”
“No,” says Dodger, shaking her head. “We haven’t had a chance to tell him.”
Erin smiles. “Won’t this be a fun dinner?”
Her smile endures until Smita emerges from the bathroom. Erin turns and heads for the back door, slowly enough to encourage Dodger to trail along behind her like a duckling following its mother. She doesn’t want to shake the girl more than she already has been. Fun as it is to see Dodger off-kilter and unsure of her next move, there’s such a thing as taking it too far. If she pushes Dodger past her limits, there’s a chance she’ll snap, and the consequences could be dire. The timeline can’t handle another reset this close on the heels of the last one. Worse, a timeline reset might result in Roger going to Boston, and that would be bad.
In the backyard, Roger is still stringing popcorn and cranberries, while Peter is back at the grill. Erin steps aside to let Dodger see, and watches the other girl sag in relief.
“Oh,” she says. “No blood.”
“See?” says Erin. “I told you. They just needed to sort things out. Come on.”
The three of them reclaim their seats. Roger doesn’t look up, but slides a cranberry onto the needle and says piously, “I’m not going to forget that the two of you took Dodger and left me alone. You may not understand the import of what you’ve done, but I assure you, you have made an enemy this day.”
“I shall make a note in my day planner,” says Smita. “I’m sure I’ll rue the day.”
“Isn’t it cute, how he thinks he knows how to sound scary?” asks Erin. She picks up a strip of construction paper. “Somebody give me some glue.”
“I thought you were terrifying,” says Dodger, passing a glue stick to Erin.
“Thank you,” says Roger. He glances up long enough to flash her a smile. “It’s all good. We just needed to talk a few things out. No one got punched, and I think he’s cool with me being here now. Or well, maybe he’s not