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She wasn’t into looking at pictures of the past—except for clothes. But Ma Maw had always gotten on her for not caring enough about people history. She eased her phone out to text Orlando.
    FND DRE?
    NAH. WRU?
    @MS M. She had never texted Miss Martine’s name before today, so she hoped Orlando was using his whole brain.
    TM2H! Too much to handle? What was he talking about? After all his flakiness lately, he had texted to let her know he was evacuating. Then he had come to ask her about Dr é . And then that kiss! Why hadn’t he explained himself?
    Did it mean what she thought it might mean? Ayanna was always talking about kids at school who were “more than friends.” Was that what was happening with Orlando? Reesie really wished that she could talk to him now, live and in person.
    She stared at the tiny screen, but she didn’t call. And she didn’t text, either. Neither did he, she told herself, slipping her phone back into her pocket.
    â€œTeresa?” Miss Martine was calling her.
    â€œComing!” Reesie answered, hurrying up from the table. When she stepped into the shadowy dining room, her feet sank down into the thick shag carpet. She eased around the huge table, bumping into one of the heavy thronelike chairs.
    The dining room opened through a curved arch into the living room, where Miss Martine had stopped. Reesie stood in the arch, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.
    There were books everywhere: piled on top of two faded velvet sofas and balanced on small dark tables. Behind the sofas, tall bookcases stretched up to touch the low ceiling; through their glass doors Reesie saw paperbacks jammed next to expensive-looking leather-bound volumes with gold letters on their spines.
    Miss Martine flipped on a fancy brass table lamp, and the space was suddenly glowing. Every inch of the living room’s wall space was covered in frames. Reesie gasped and moved closer.
    There were yellowed flyers from shows on Bourbon and Rampart Streets, dated sixty years ago. She saw programs from plays at New York’s Broadway theaters. There were wild old movie posters and black-and-white photos of people dressed to kill.
    â€œWow! This is like a museum!” Reesie stopped to read the autograph scrawled across the bottom of one photo.
    Teenie, write a song for me sometime! Love, Louis. Reesie’s brain registered the man’s round face and wide grin. She spun around.
    â€œLouis Armstrong! You knew Louis Armstrong, Miss M?”
    â€œChild, I’ve known lots of people.”
    Reesie turned back to the picture to check out Louis Armstrong standing with his arm around a tall curvy-bodied young woman. She wore her wavy hair parted down the middle and slicked close to her head. Her dress draped low across her chest and flowed into a tight fit at the hips, with a scissor-pleated edge on the skirt. Thrown across her wide shoulders was a plump dark fur that seemed to have both an animal’s tail and head attached to it. The woman was smiling wide, and she had dark full lips.
    Those lips were the same as Miss Martine’s ruby red mouth.
    â€œBut this is you!”
    â€œIt’s me.”
    â€œAnd you’re wearing a killer dress, and a fur !”
    â€œCalled a stone marten,” Miss Martine said.
    â€œWere you a singer?” Reesie tried to wrap her mind around Miss Martine and this long-ago glamorous life.
    â€œLet’s say that I didn’t always make cakes. Here.” Miss Martine held out a small red book. Reesie dropped her eyes to the fading silver print on the leather cover.
    Woman Everlasting … Poetry and Stories by Martine Odette Simon, 1949 . Reesie looked up at her neighbor in wonder. “Miss M! You’re famous!”

 
    Chapter Eight
    â€œNo, no.” Miss Martine gave Reesie a half smile. “I only wanted to be a writer. But none of my family even finished grade school, and they didn’t think much of my