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havoc: stomping on the floor, slamming drawers, opening the door, yelling down the hall. She spent another minute mocking his Jiminy Cricket night-light.
    They watched his TV. The Late News. Late Sports. The Late Movie. Seeing the word “late” made David feel both giddy and proud. He was willing to bet that the geek up the street with the snot-green yo-yo never saw late anything on TV.
    He put on his yo-yo belt and holster, poised himself like a gunfighter, told her to count to three, and showed her how fast he could whip out his many-colored Spitfire and skin the cat.
    He showed her his all-time favorite
Beetle Bailey
strips, laminated by his father and hanging on the wall. She turned on the light and read every one. She kept laughing louder and louder, forcing David to clamp his hand over her mouth.
    It was during a pillow fight that they heard footsteps coming down the hall. David jumped into bed; Primrose darted behind the door. The door opened. David’s grandmother, in bathrobe and slippers, said, “David, my goodness. Still awake? Light on? TV? Is that the noise I hear?”
    David said, “Yeah,” and he tried to stop there; but behind the door, inches from his grandmother, Primrose had jammed her forefingers into the corners of her mouth and stretched her face into such a preposterous shape that David could absolutely not help himself: a laugh grenade exploded from his mouth and nose.
    His grandmother looked baffled. David quickly croaked, “Something funny on TV.” His grandmother beamed, and David knew why. It was the first time since moving here that he had laughed in her presence — and Primrose had tricked him into it.
    “Well —,” his grandmother said, oozing happy surprise, “shall I turn out the light?”
    “No,” he said.
    “Okay.” The way she looked at him, the way she tilted, David knew she wanted to dash across the room and hug him. He made his face say,
Don’t try it.
She didn’t. But she did say, “ ’Night, Davey,” and closed the door before he could say, “My name is David.” At times like this it struck him how slick a grandmother could be.
    They watched the Late Late Show. They sat on the bed, leaning back against the wall. Then Primrose sat in front of David, cross-legged, and David unwound the rubber band from the end of one of her braids, and then he unwound the braid itself and let the brown hair spill down her back. And then, after she showed him how, he tried it, parting a stream of hair into thirds and layering it left over, right over, left over, right over, the whole thing, finishing with the rubber band. She pulled it around front and examined it. “I’ve seen worse,” she said.
    He fell asleep then and did not know when she left. He did not see her turn off the TV and turn out the light. He did not hear her crying as she climbed out the window.

15
     
    When they weren’t “shopping” or dining at Dunkin’ Donuts, they were roaming the aisles of the all-night Super Fresh supermarket or checking out the all-night 7-Eleven or hanging around Primrose’s four-wheeled room or cruising the dark streets and alleys of town, she on her skates, he on his bike, sipping Mango Madness all the while. There was one place they were almost sure to go every night, sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for hours: Refrigerator John’s.
    Refrigerator John did not measure up to his name. He was neither as tall nor as wide as a refrigerator. In fact, he was not a hair taller than Primrose, who backed up to him every night for measurement. “Any minute now,” she would say, “I’m going to pass you.” “Have a cigar,” he would say in a kidding effort to stunt her growth.
    John knew something about stunted growth. His own right leg had been withered since birth. When he walked, the leg flapped out sideways, as though he were shaking a dog loose. “Hey, Shake-A-Leg!” teenage drivers would yell over thumping subwoofers and crackling mufflers as they hauled eggs down to