“Pebbles. He’s more like a big gerbil,” Isabella said, kicking the table leg again. “Strictly for petting.”
“Rather an extravagant kind of gerbil,” Rhona said.
“Yeah. And I also had a private tutor, so I guess I win the brat contest,” Isabella said with an audacious smile.
Rhona shot me a look that was a blend of question mark and amusement.
Mama came back and put down my plate with an extra square of lasagna on it. She kissed me on the top of my head, and I tried my best not to squirm away.
Isabella leaned over and grabbed hold of my wrist, pulling my watch toward her. “Say, I should probably jet off. Sorry, Mrs. Ryan.” She looked at me. “I’m supposed to meet Ralph.”
“Oh.”
I walked her to the front door, handing back her shoes, her coat. My face was throbbing. Of course she wasn’t going to stay and hang out with me. Of course she was rushing off to see Ralph. If I hadn’t had her bracelet, she would never even have come. And now she was leaving. Leaving for the whole summer. Next year I’d have to go back to staring at her from behind during class, hoping that the force of my interest alone would be enough to charm her. Like being watched by a sentient potato.
“Are you coming to Sophie’s birthday next Saturday?” Isabella adjusted the cuffs on Ralph’s jacket.
I swallowed. “I don’t know.” But I did know, as I hadn’t even been invited.
Isabella frowned at me. “You have to come.”
“Maybe.” I tried to look indecisive.
She flicked her hair over her shoulder. “I insist,” she said. “I’ll remind her to remind you.”
“You will?” A gate swung open in a meadow, a staircase appeared in the chute of a waterfall, a woman in a scarlet dress reached into the audience and ushered me onstage.
“Sure.” She shrugged. “Don’t think any more of it.”
3.
July
It began raining on the way to the LeBarons’ house, and Mama was driving so slowly I even saw the mailman pass us by. She was wearing the wide-brimmed hat normally reserved for Mass, and a blue neckerchief. I inspected her out of my peripheral vision, suspicious about how much she had fixed herself up just to give me a ride. But it wasn’t every day we got to drive up to the door of the LeBaron mansion, so I appreciated her need for preparedness.
We drove past the iron gates at the front of their property and down a long, straight gravel driveway. Mama pulled up on the left of the house. White roses bloomed over the doorway and a silver balloon tied to the front porch bounced under the raindrops, reflecting lozenges of light into the car.
Mama snapped opened her purse, took out her compact mirror, and reapplied her lipstick. I realized then she was going to come in with me and tried to climb out of the car as quickly as possible.
“Bye, Mama,” I said, gathering Sophie’s gift from under my seat.
“One second, Budgie.” She rubbed her index finger over the front of her teeth.
But I had already slammed the door. “I don’t think there are many grown-ups there, Mama,” I said through the window.
“Sweetheart, it’s rude if I don’t thank her for inviting you.”
I cursed myself for not expecting this—Rhona was usually so good at predicting when we would have to discreetly detach ourselves from Mama in advance.
“OK,” I called over my shoulder, taking long steps toward the front door. If I put as much distance as possible between us, maybe it wouldn’t seem like we were there together. I heard Mama’s car door slamming behind me as I reached the porch. The door was propped open and a white ribbon was tied around the knocker. I paused and took a breath. I pictured myself on horseback, charging across a drawbridge and into a watchtower. The fortress that would unlock Isabella.
The front hallway was decorated in fern green wallpaper, and something about the dim light and the smell of wood polish lent it the worn grandeur of a museum. A huge oak staircase on the right disappeared off onto a second landing. Loitering at the base of the staircase, I looked over a narrow table boasting photos of Sophie in various stages of childhood dorkery—milk-toothed on horseback, diapered and gripping the threadbare ears of an ornamental tiger-skin rug. A door on my left opened and I caught the smell of broiled salmon.
“Afternoon, miss.” An older black lady wearing an apron approached me. “Can I take that for you?” She gestured to the gift.
“Thank you,” I said, looking up at her. “It’s from Bridget,” I added.
“Oh yes, there’s the card.” She smiled appreciatively at my drawing of a birthday cake. I had copied it from one of Mama’s cookbooks. It was supposed to be a wedding cake, but I didn’t think Sophie would mind having her birthday treats promoted.
“Would you like some ice tea?” she said. Before I could answer, Mama came behind me and rested her hand on my shoulder. Suddenly glad she was with me, I nodded at the maid.
“Thank you,” I said.
I saw her look from Mama to me. “Mrs. LeBaron and the other ladies are in the garden.”
We walked in single file down the corridor, past four or five doorways. On the right, an open door revealed a cavernous wood-paneled room with a real glass chandelier. I craned my head, hoping for a glimpse of the famous carpet.
“Don’t dawdle, Budgie,” Mama said, pressing me forward.
We came into a large kitchen with a stainless steel refrigerator and marble countertops. I touched them in case they were painted Formica, but the surface was cool under my palms. On the right was a winding staircase leading down, and I tried to peer into the gloom in case the LeBaron basement was superior in some way I’d never thought basements could be.
Through the back door I could see ladies in pastel day dresses milling around beside a kidney-shaped pool. There was a banner hanging from one side of the garden to the other: SOPHIE’S SWEET SEVENTEEN. I stepped out, searching among the crepe de chine for Isabella. The garden was the size of a hockey field, lined with urns of purple heliotrope. At the back was an imitation Greek pool house, where mothers I recognized from the clothing drives and charity fairs at school were sheltering under the awning, smoking and patting hairdos fluffy with drizzle. It was easy to spot Mrs. LeBaron. She was wearing a peach silk dress stained with raindrops, giving instructions to three young men in dinner jackets wrestling with a patio umbrella.
There weren’t any girls from school in the garden, and I had an irrational moment of panic that I might have come on the wrong day. Mrs. LeBaron stared at me a moment, then waved me toward her. Her fingernails were painted with dark lacquer.