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birth. Plus, it was hard to concentrate at home, where there were real mysteries to be solved.
“Do you have a maid?” she asked, changing the subject.
“A maid?”
Did he think she was dumb for asking? Amy slid down in her seat, feeling like an idiot. They were in his station wagon, driving past the fishing docks. This part of town smelled like clams, flounder, and powdered oyster shells. Amy breathed deeply, loving it. Her father had been a long-liner, and fishing was in her blood.
“You know, someone to clean your house,” she said.
“Not exactly,” he laughed, as if she had said something outlandish.
Amy tried not to feel hurt. He was rich, a doctor-he could afford it! He didn't wear a wedding ring, and once she had asked him whether he was married and he'd said no. So he was alone, he needed someone to take care of him. Why shouldn't it be Amy?
“I love to clean,” she said.
“You do?”
“It's not exactly a hobby, but I'm very good at it. Mr. Clean smells like perfume to me-why do you think I like your office so much? Can you think of many other people who like the smell of doctors' offices?”
“It's a rare quality,” he said. “And I appreciate it.”
Turning inland, he drove onto the so-called expressway. In Hawthorne they had three kinds ofroads: the beautiful ones down by the harbor, this one-mile highway leading away from downtown, and the ugly streets near the marshlands, where Amy lived.
“I could do it part-time,” she said.
“What about schoolwork?”
“I'd fit it in.”
Dr. McIntosh was pulling onto her street. The houses here were small and crooked. Hardly anyone had nice yards. Broken refrigerators leaned against ramshackle garages. Stray cats-half of which Amy had tried to save-roamed in packs. It was a neighborhood where kids didn't do their homework and parents didn't make them. The air was sour and stale.
“You know I want to help you,” he said, looking at her house. “Is it really bad, Amy? Do you want me to call Ms. Arden?”
“No,” Amy said with force.
“I know you worry about your mother. Maybe it would be good for you to stay somewhere for a little while, see if we can get her some help.”
“I'm not leaving,” Amy said. The whole idea filled her with panic. Her mother might die if she weren't there. She would fall asleep and never wake up. Or her mother's boyfriend, Buddy, might hurt her. Or- and this was the worst fear-her mother might just run away with Buddy and never come back.
“Do you have friends? Girls you hang out with?”
Amy shrugged. He didn't get it. Her best friend was Amber DeGray, but Amber smoked and wrote on her legs with razor blades. Amy was scared of her. Other kids didn't like Amy. She believed she wore her life on her person, that good kids would look at her and see her mother depressed in bed, Buddy'sangry fingers plucking out “Midnight Rambler” on his expensive electric guitar, Buddy's new dog cowering in the back of its cage.
“I'm asking,” Dr. McIntosh said, “because I know someone you might like. She's a young mother with a daughter. Do you ever baby-sit?”
“No,” Amy said. Who would ask her? Besides, Amy wanted only Dr. McIntosh for her friend. He already knew her and didn't think she was gross. He was kind and funny, and she trusted him.
“It's my sister-in-law and niece,” Dr. McIntosh said.
Amy gasped. She hadn't known he had a family! Suddenly she felt curious, excited, and horribly jealous all at once.
“Julia's disabled. She needs a lot of attention, and sometimes Dianne gets pretty worn out. They live nearby-I know they'd like you.”
“You do?” Amy said, feeling so happy he thought she was worth liking, her eyes filled with tears.
“Sure I do,” he said.
Amy swallowed her feelings. Disabled , he had said. Was Julia one of those children with braces and crutches, hearing aids and glasses? Amy sometimes saw kids like that and felt just like them: different, set apart, very badly hurt.
“I used to be special …”