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Julie’s mother is.”
    “Yes you do. Mrs. Hollingberry. Today she was standing barefoot in the front yard, wearing an African robe and ‘reading’ her wind chimes. She invited me in for a cup of gingko nut tea and when I tried to say no, she insisted on giving me a pouch of herbs to heal the incongruities in my aura. Last week she offered to do my astrological chart, and the week before she roped me into a tarot reading only to warn me of my ‘impending doom.’ There are puppets and marionettes scattered all around the house. I can only imagine what she keeps behind closed doors.”
    “Right.”
    Charles’s father takes a large bite of salad. Charles’s mother continues. “It really is too bad. I mean, poor Julie. She must be so embarrassed. At the school play last fall, Mrs. Hollingberry was sobbing by the end of it, and you could hear her throughout the entire auditorium.”
    “No father?”
    “No, just the two of them.”
    Charles’s father looks up from his food. “How does she support the child without a husband?”
    “I heard that a few years ago she published a very popular book on the occult, and I imagine there must be some sort of inheritance as well. Plus, from the looks of her house, they live on nothing.”
    “Mom, can you pass the spaghetti?” Charles asks. There’s an edge to his voice. His mother hands him the pot without seeming to notice.
    “Charles, you’ve been spending a lot of time with Julie lately. You should invite her over for dinner. I don’t imagine Mrs. Hollingberry devotes much time to grocery shopping or other more practical matters.”
    Charles’s father looks up from his plate and gives Charles a strange smile. “Aren’t you glad your father is a scientist and not some sort of spiritual quack? Let me see that book you were reading.” He reaches across the table. “What are you studying up on? Electromagnetism? Stoichiometry?”
    “Nah, it’s okay. No books at the table, right?” Charles says, pulling the book away.
    “Come on, Charles, show me the book.”
    “I said no.”
    “What, you think I won’t understand it?” Charles’s father slams his fork against his plate. “You think you’re smarter than I am just because—”
    Charles stands up. “Mom, I’m not hungry anymore—may I be excused?”
    “Charles, you answer me when I speak to you!”
    Just then the doorbell rings. “Why don’t you go see who that is?” his mother says. Charles picks up the textbook and takes it with him. He hears his father from behind him, stuttering, his voice catching, the snuffling of Charles’s mother in tears.
    When Charles reaches the front door, he peers through the peephole and then draws back. He runs his fingers through his hair to smooth it out.
    “Charles, is that you?” calls out a young woman’s voice.
    “Yeah, one sec!” Charles says, trying to smooth out his hair more vigorously now. It’s impossible.
    “Whatcha waiting for?” the voice calls out, and Charles opens the door. They stand for a moment, neither saying anything. The girl is Julie, around fifteen years old, wearing a purple paisley dress and hemp sandals that wrap around her ankles. Her hair is short and springy, a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She carries a knapsack filled with carrots and art supplies, and her perfume smells faintly like almonds.
    “Want one?” she asks, handing Charles a carrot. “They’re fresh from the garden.”
    “Yeah, sure,” Charles says. Charles puts it in his pocket with the green stem sticking out. “I’ll, uh, I’ll save it for later.”
    “So did you finish it? What did you think of the end?” Julie asks. Charles opens the textbook and pulls out a comic book from the middle.
    “Cause of your dad?” Julie says.
    “Yeah, he’d think it was a waste of time. Or at least, he would’ve. Now that he’s crazy and all doped up, I don’t know what he thinks,” Charles says. He hands the comic book back to Julie.
    Julie nods. “What did you