“No.” I pretended to adjust a plastic tray on my dresser. “He was working. In England.”
“That’s so cool.” Isabella took off the hat and put it on the wrong hook. “I wish my parents had a cool story of how they met. Something romantic. But they knew each other their whole life. It was practically an arranged marriage.”
I made a noncommittal noise.
“And it wasn’t a big deal? Her being from Arabia and all?”
Woodenly, I repeated the phrase Dad had made us practice. “My parents were married legally in the United Kingdom and my mom’s naturalization was approved in 1947,” I said.
Isabella rolled her eyes. “I knew that,” she said.
I didn’t think she really did know that.
“I mean, didn’t your dad’s parents throw an absolute fit?”
“Not really. Granny—my grandmother—she likes my mom. I guess it wasn’t a big deal.”
“That’s neato,” she said again. “My grandmom is an old bat.” Isabella turned around and caught sight of Dubs, my stuffed bear, on the shelf above my bed. She picked him up with a swoop. “And who’s this?”
I winced. Why hadn’t I thought to hide him? “Some toy.”
“Yes, but aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Just then, Mama knocked on the floor with the broom. Isabella turned to me, her eyebrows high on her face.
“That means it’s suppertime.”
Isabella laughed, tossing Dubs on the bed. I laughed too, though it had never struck me as funny before.
I swallowed. “Will you stay for dinner?” I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted her to stay for dinner. Things were going so well, it seemed like gambling to ask for more. “You don’t have to, I mean, maybe you have—”
“No, I’d love to stay,” Isabella said, picking up Treasures of Italy again.
My heart bopped in my chest. “You don’t need to ask your mom?”
“She’s still at the club.”
I ran downstairs, two steps at a time. “Mama, I have my friend here can she stay for dinner?” I said breathlessly, bursting into the kitchen.
Mama was sailing between the fridge and the oven, a half smile on her face. I evaluated her through Isabella’s eyes. Her apron was clean; her navy blouse was conservative, unobjectionable. Though she never wore mascara, her eyelashes were enviably dark. She would pass, I decided. Through the door into the backyard I could see the back of Dad’s head on a lawn chair, where they had evidently been sitting for some time, since the ashtray was full.
“Of course, Budgie. I’ll just set an extra place.”
“Her name’s Isabella.”
“OK, Budgie. Sounds great.” Mama opened the oven door. “Go get your sister.”
I ran back up the stairs. “Mom says it’s OK,” I yelled to Isabella, who nodded behind Treasures of Italy. I stuck my head through into Rhona’s room. It was thick with a sort of nap-time stuffiness. “Supper, Rhony.”
She sat up groggily from her bed. “Is someone here?”
“Yes, my friend Isabella,” I said.
“Sophie’s friend?” Rhona said, rubbing her face.
I shrugged.
“I’ll be down in a minute.” She reached for a sweater on her ottoman.
“Your hair is all messed up from the pillow,” I said, unable to help myself.
Rhona’s face appeared through the neck hole in her sweater and she shot me a frigid look. “Don’t worry. Her Majesty won’t be inconvenienced by my uncombed hair.”
“Thank you.” I tried to apologize with an extra-wide smile. Still, I left before she stood up, so I didn’t have to see the knobs of her spine moving through her sweater. Something about Rhona’s back always made me feel kind of odd. Like she was really a fish and that was her fin.
Mama had made lasagna. It was the special way I liked it, with bread crumbs on the top to make it extra crispy. Isabella sat next to me and the table jiggled every time she kicked the leg, although thankfully Dad didn’t tell her to stop.
While we waited for Rhona to come downstairs, Mama set out her saucer of carrots and another of buttered bread. “Rhony is on a special diet,” she said to Isabella with a deliberate breeziness.
I held my breath, staring down at the tablecloth.
But Isabella just nodded. “Sure.”
Rhona came to take her usual place opposite me, and as promised, her hair was combed and pinned back with a green bow.
“Your hair looks lovely, darling,” said Mama. “How lovely you all look.”
Rhona gave Mama a stiff smile. “Hi,” she said to Isabella; then, sitting down, she flipped the bread over to check it hadn’t been buttered on both sides. When Mama went to refill my milk glass, I watched as Rhona scraped a thin layer of butter off the slice with her knife and wiped it into the napkin. She caught me watching and let her knife fall on the side. I didn’t say anything.
As we ate, Dad lectured us about the dangers of fireworks even though nobody asked. Then we got onto lightning, and then he told us about a storm from when he was a boy and how the hailstones were as big as eggs. Isabella said she’d once read about a storm in Hawaii that sucked up a bunch of frogs, carried them over to another side of the island, and rained them down again.
“Raining cats and frogs, eh?” Dad said, overloudly, to Rhona.
Rhona gave him a blank smile and crunched another small mouthful of carrot. She took a gulp of water, and I could see the movement of the water through her throat as she swallowed. I turned my attention back to my lasagna, hoovering it up at great speed.
“Would you like some more lasagna, Isabella?” Mama said.
Isabella shook her head. “Thanks, Mrs. Ryan, but I’m full to burst.”
“More for you, Budgie?”
Everyone else had put down their forks. “Yes, please, Mama,” I said.
“Young ladies,” Dad said, standing up and tipping an imaginary hat to us. He went into the kitchen and I heard the rustle as he picked up a newspaper.
“Is it true you have a private tutor?” Isabella said to Rhona. A jolt of panic rattled through my eardrums. I definitely had never told her that.
“Yes,” Rhona said icily. “Is it true you have a horse?”
“Yes,” Isabella said.
“But she doesn’t ride it,” I added, although that made it worse.