when I can’t take it any longer, “do you want to meet Mr. Pritchard?”
Sarah glares at me, but Emma looks interested. “How do you know him, anyway?”
So I explain about my dad’s latest oral history project and Mr. Pritchard’s yard art. “I’ve seen the cross a couple of times,” I say, sounding like a ten-year-old bragging about her latest trip to Disney World. “It’s really cool. In the summer, there are flowers blooming all over it.”
“It sounds obscene!” Mr. Lyman declares. “A burnt cross in your yard. It should have been taken down as soon as the flames were put out.”
“I think it sounds amazing,” Emma says quietly. “Totally amazing.”
The sudden sound of a motorcycle engine revving out on the driveway spurs everybody into action. “Time to head upstairs,” Emma says, pushing her chair away from the table with a loud scrape.
Mr. Lyman throws down his napkin. “No, you’re not, Emma! I told you I was going to call the police the next time he showed up.”
Mrs. Lyman stands and picks up her plate. “Another dinner ruined,” she says with a sigh. “Oh, well, I do think the local beef really is better.” She turns to me. “Tell your mom I said so.”
“Follow me!” Sarah grabs my arm and pulls me into the living room, where she presses her face against the window. “There’s Todd!” she says, signaling for me to look too. “He does this almost every night.”
“Is your dad going to call the police?” I ask, looking out the window at Emma’s boyfriend, who is standing in the shadow of the garage and looking up in the direction of Emma’s room. He laughs at something Emma calls down to him, then blows her a kiss.
“No, although he always says he’s going to. Trust me, there’s already been one big scene in our front yard. My dad doesn’t want another one.”
We head back into the kitchen, where we help Mrs. Lyman clear the table and volunteer to do the dishes. “So, when are you going to ask Emma if she wants to help us?” I ask Sarah as I scrub grease off the stovetop. “We probably should get to work pretty soon.”
“Well, I was thinking, maybe she could give you a ride home tonight,” Sarah says in a sort of dreamy voice. “And I could go too, and then we could—”
“Not going to happen,” Mrs. Lyman says from the other side of the kitchen counter, where she’s sorting through the day’s mail. “I’ll take Janie home. The way things are going, your father won’t let Emma out of the house until graduation.”
“Could Emma come along for the ride?” Sarah asked hopefully. “Or, you know, maybe she could be the one who drives us around for our project? We need someone to drive us, right? And you and Dad don’t have time, and it would help us get a good grade.”
Mrs. Lyman considers this. “Your dad might let Emma drive you for your project. Emphasis on the word ‘might.’ We should probably underplay the fact that the project is for a women’s studies class, however.”
“Good thinking, Mom,” Sarah says, smiling at Mrs. Lyman, who smiles back and says, “Well, that’s what they pay me for.”
I scrub harder at the spot on the stove, trying not to be jealous of how well Sarah and her mom get along. Oh, they have their disagreements and their bad days, and Sarah’s very vocal about her mother’s insufficiencies as a recycler, but in general they like each other. Maybe they have to, since Mr. Lyman and Emma so clearly don’t. Maybe you need at least one stable parent-child relationship in every family for the whole thing not to collapse.
Sarah comes over and squeezes my arm. “If my parents let Emma drive,” she whispers, “then she’s in the bag, believe you me.”
I smile at her and imagine driving around town in Emma’s VW. That’s one way not to blend in, I tell myself, and then I can’t decide if I find that idea exciting or absolutely terrifying.
Chapter Twelve
The Rock ’n’ Roll Diaries: An Afterschool Special
A week and a half into our gig as library buddies, Verbena and I are actually discussing whether or not we should venture out of the library and into the cafeteria. We discuss this in whispers, as if it’s too scary a subject to give full voice to.
“It’s the only way we’re going to get ourselves out there,” Verbena insists in a hushed tone. “In the public eye. I mean, there