she said. “Oh, hush,” Mrs. Malone said, trying to get the smell of onions off her hands.
“You use a lemon,” Maggie said. “You rub it on your hands and then rinse them off with cold water.”
Mrs. Malone looked over her shoulder in surprise. “Forty years old last month and I’ve never heard that,” she said. “Does it work?”
“My mom does it.”
Mrs. Malone opened the refrigerator. “I’ll try it next time,” she said. “I’ll buy a lemon.”
Debbie snorted. “Listen to Maggie,” she said. “She knows everything.” Mrs. Malone had looked from one girl to another and then turned back to the sink when there was a noise behind them. It was Helen, dropping some shopping bags and a big purse shaped like a shopping bag into a chair. She smiled at Maggie, put her finger to her lips and glided across the kitchen. She was wearing pink ballet slippers and a white dress that looked like a slip with pink flowers embroidered on it. Maggie could see that beneath the dress she wore no underwear except for tiny underpants. She had never seen such tiny underpants before.
“Guess who?” Helen said, putting her hands over her mother’s eyes.
Mrs. Malone jumped and whirled around. She looked as wiry as an old man next to her soft, slightly rounded daughter. But a resemblance was there, in the clean planes of their faces, in the delighted, dazzled look they both wore.
“You’re early!” Mrs. Malone said.
“Early?” Helen said, falling back a bit. “I live here!”
“Not anymore,” said Debbie.
Helen whirled around and studied Debbie narrowly. Then she grinned. “You’re right, Deb,” she said lightly. Her hair was growing longer, and a heavy line of blue beneath her lower lashes made her eyes look even bluer. She stooped over the bassinet and ran one finger along the side of the baby’s face. “He looks like a water balloon,” she said.
The kitchen had begun to be crowded with Malones. Aggie was asking Helen about her show, and trying not to look down the front of her sister’s dress. Some of the younger children were begging to open the shopping bags. Mrs. Malone leaned back against the sink, her arms folded, and stared at Helen. From behind Maggie, Debbie snorted. She went out of the house onto the front steps and Maggie followed her, although she wanted to stay with everyone else.
“You’re going to get the back of your dress really dirty,” Maggie said, as Debbie sank down on the dusty concrete stoop.
“Who cares?”
“Why are you so mad at me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m going to leave,” Maggie said. “I’m sorry your mother invited me if it makes you so mad.”
Debbie acted as if she had not heard. “She’s just like your cousin,” she said. “She gets away with stuff because she’s pretty. I don’t even think she’s that pretty. Her nose is really pointy. She used to try to squish it up with her fingers, but it still points.”
Maggie sat down, too.
“I hate it when I go to school and somebody goes, ‘Are you Helen Malone’s sister?’”
“People always ask me if I’m John Scanlan’s granddaughter,” Maggie said.
“That’s completely different.”
From where they sat they could hear voices in the living room. The street was very quiet except for the sound of a truck on the next block spraying what was left of the vacant lot for mosquitoes. Small clouds of insecticide rose above the roofs across the street, and a sweet smell drifted toward them. “Certainly not,” they heard Mrs. Malone say, and then Helen said with a laugh, “All right, then Coke. I thought you really meant ‘Would you like anything to drink?’” Then there was a murmur from Mr. Malone.
“I got my dress for the wedding,” Maggie said. “It’s really nice. I have to get a garter belt to wear under it.”
“Bridget says that I’m better-looking than Helen. She says that Helen’s eyes are too close together.”
“Bridget’s a moron.”
“Oh, I forgot,” said Debbie. “You’re Helen’s best friend. Who would have figured that out?”
“I used to be your best friend.”
“Things used to be different.”
Maggie felt her eyes water and hoped it was only the insecticide. She thought she could hear hammering, very faintly.
Behind them the door opened and Helen stepped out onto the steps. “You’re going to get your dress dirty,” she said to Debbie.
“Who cares?” Debbie said.
Helen looked at Maggie and shrugged. “So do you guys want your presents or not?” Debbie could not help herself; she turned and looked up. From behind her back Helen produced two small boxes.