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though, and people would have to ask permission to use it.
    At the time, I thought this idea dropped down out of the blue, and I didn’t know it would become so important. It didn’t occur to me that I might be escaping something or even chasing something. It didn’t occur to me that it would seem selfish. As for the zinnias and naming the trail after myself—well, I suppose I wanted to be known as something other than the strangest and stingiest dirt-daubing doodlebug, as something more than a little mashed-up fritter at the bottom of the pot. I suppose I wanted people to know exactly which Taylor I was, and for me to be something other than Zinnia Taylor: killer.
    But I didn’t know all this then. I only knew I had to undertake this mission. I had to. And I had to hurry, to complete it before the end of the summer, for in my morbid mind, I believed that if I didn’t complete it by then, something horrible would happen. Whatever this horrible thing was would be a punishment for killing Aunt Jessie. I had decided that God had given me a chance—one chance—to redeem myself.
    When an idea like that takes root in my brain, it grows like weeds on the riverbank.
    And I needn’t have worried about my brothers or sisters taking over my trail. They lost interest after a few days of clearing the debris, and it was mine once again.

CHAPTER 11

P RESENTS
    O n Sunday, the day after Jake had given me the bottle caps, I was outside at the squirt gardens when Jake returned. He said he’d just stopped by for a minute. In his hand was a small box, punctured with holes. “Here,” he said, whisking it under my nose.
    The contents of my stomach were tumbling around like socks in the clothes dryer. A present, from Jake . But then, in a flash, I thought, Here we go again: another Tommy Salami bribing me with gifts so he can win May. I will not be swayed.
    â€œOpen it,” he urged. “It’s for you. It’s a thermometer.”
    I lifted the lid and quickly replaced it. “Very funny,” I said, handing it back. “Looks more like a cricket to me.” Why did he have to look so eager? Why was he going to so much trouble when May was already falling all over herself trying to attract his attention?
    â€œWhich one of those windows is your room?” he asked.
    Reluctantly, I played along, pretending I didn’t know what he was really after. “That one, up there. I share it with Bonnie and Gretchen and—May.”
    â€œWhere’s your bed?”
    â€œThere—by that window. May’s is by the other window.”
    He didn’t even flinch when I mentioned her name. Stop it! I wanted to yell at him. Quit pretending!
    â€œPerfect,” he said, leading me to the oak tree which grows beside the house, its branches tapping against our bedroom window. “See this tree?” He opened the box, tilting it against the trunk. The cricket hopped out and clung to the bark. Jake seemed mighty pleased with himself. He said, “Do you have a clock near your bed? With a second hand?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNow tonight, if you listen for this cricket and count the number of chirps in a minute, divide by four, and add thirty-seven, that’ll be the temperature. Don’t that beat all?!”
    May surfaced as Jake’s truck disappeared down the drive. “Was that Jake? Where’d he go?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œWhat’d he want? What’d he say?”
    â€œJust fuss and feathers. Nothing special.”
    â€œDid he ask for me?” May said.
    Gretchen came outside. “Was that Jake? What did he want?” May took her by the arm and led her toward the house, whispering. I didn’t hear what May said, but Gretchen said, “He’s probably just shy. He probably wanted to ask for you, but he probably got embarrassed, that’s all. He’ll probably be back.”
    A few minutes later, Bonnie