okay. You’re a little girl. It’s the grown-ups’ job to make sure you’re okay.”
The irony is not lost on me. How many times have I been the one frantically trying to please? I’m just a little more subtle about it at seventeen than she is at six.
Gracie smiles. “That’s what Izzy says too. Sometimes people are in bad moods and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
After ice cream sandwiches, Gracie goes back to her book and I do the dishes, wondering what her life was like in DC. Were there slammed doors and fights and ominous silences there too? Was Erica the one to initiate the separation, or was her husband? Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone putting up with her for seven years, but maybe she hasn’t always been like this. Isn’t that what she keeps saying? That it’s our fault, not hers? I don’t want to believe it, but—
“Hey there, chickadee,” Luisa says, coming in with a load of laundry.
“You should get a raise,” I point out. “You’re taking care of five of us now.”
“Don’t you worry. The Professor already offered me one.” She nods at the dishes. “You can leave those if you want. I’ll get them.”
“It’s good thinking time,” I say. There’s no reason I can’t do my own dishes.
“What’s on your mind?” She sets the basket down on the kitchen table and begins to fold towels: Granddad’s brown ones, the pink polka-dot ones that showed up with Grace, the blue ones I now share with Erica and Iz.
“How’s Alex?” I ask, instead of answering. Though maybe that’s an answer in itself.
“Been in a mood all week. Going out with his friends from the baseball team a lot after work.” I try to hide my frown. Alex works part-time at the hardware store’s garden center. That leaves a lot of time for hanging out with the guys, drinking beer, and potentially trash-talking me. “I noticed he hasn’t been around here much. Did something happen at the party last weekend? You two get in a fight?”
I rinse the metal measuring spoons, considering how to answer. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to put her in the middle. “You should probably ask him.”
“I did, but he’s a teenage boy. He won’t tell me anything. And he’s not the only one I worry about.” Luisa’s voice is soft. Kind. So different from my mother’s. “Heard there’s another party tonight. You going?”
I busy myself scrubbing the cookie sheet. “I am. I sort of…have a date.”
Connor put his number in my phone yesterday, and we’ve been texting all day, sending each other silly pictures: him making coffee at Java Jim’s, my chocolate-chip ice cream sandwiches, a selfie of me and Grace. He and I are going to the bonfire together. I didn’t want him to pick me up, so we’re meeting there. At what he referred to as “our” bench.
“I thought it might be something like that,” Luisa says, and I spin around, half expecting to see accusation in her eyes, but I don’t. She’s sporting a big smile. “Someone special?”
“Maybe. I—you know I love Alex, but—”
“But not like that,” she finishes. “That’s okay, honey. You don’t have to apologize for your feelings. You can’t make yourself fall in love with somebody.”
She’s being so nice that I want to cry. Tears actually start gathering in my eyes and I brush them away with the back of my hand, embarrassed. “Don’t tell Granddad, okay?”
She stops folding. “About your date? Is it someone he wouldn’t approve of?”
“It’s Connor.” I know she’s heard Granddad talk about Connor, even if she hasn’t met him yet. I think she’d like him. But I’m kind of biased.
“His student? The one you’re working on that project with?” Luisa laughs. “I know the Professor can be strict about boys, but I don’t think he’d have a problem with that. Why don’t you want to tell him?”
“I don’t know.” I brush my hair behind my ears with wet, soapy fingers. “It’s still so new. I don’t want him weighing in on it yet.”
“Well, if Connor is important to you, it won’t stay secret for long. You can’t keep the different parts of your life in little boxes, all nice and neat,” Luisa says. “Especially with him working for your granddad. But I see what you’re saying. There’s a lot going on around here. Connor makes you happy?”
I smile, remembering how he sent me a picture of a poem he was reading. I don’t know any other