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I’d never even had a boy look in my direction in Adams Park. I come to visit Tilly and within hours I had the full attention of a handsome, very handsome, boy. Harlem was looking better and better by the minute.
    “Yeah, maybe,” I told him. Of course he’d see me around. I was already planning Tilly’s next grocery list in my head and we hadn’t even paid for this cartful.
    Tilly giggled like this was all a part of her plan for me this summer and pushed the cart off toward the checkout counter. I followed her back to her apartment like a stray cat. She couldn’t stop giggling at me. Not only was Amir probably thinking what a klutz I was, but my own grandmother was making fun of me. Tilly smiled at me and pulled on her “Grandmothers know everything” apron as soon as we walked into her kitchen. I put the groceries away while she preheated the oven.
    “It isn’t funny,” I told her.
    “Oh, yes it is and you know it, girl,” she said, “but don’t worry, Amir is as nice as they come. He won’t hold it against you.”
    Yeah, right. I rolled my eyes.
    Tilly’s apartment looked exactly as it always did, just one step away from needing serious help from an interior decorator. Tilly had definitely gone crazy with the apple decor she loved so much. There were green and red apples painted on a border around her windowsill to match the bowl of fake apples sitting on her table, which complemented the apple place mats and teacups in her cabinets. I was always sick of apples by the time I left Tilly’s place.
    “The place looks good, Tilly,” I told her, looking around.
    It was pretty small for a one bedroom. She had a tiny kitchen with just enough space for a bar table with two stools, a living room with a nice view of the alley in between buildings, and one bathroom. I walked around, taking it all in, until I was back in the kitchen on one of Tilly’s stools.
    “Thank you, baby,” Tilly answered. “As you can see I’ve been redecorating.”
    Before long, Tilly had macaroni and cheese baking in the oven—the real recipe with milk, eggs, and sour cream, not the Kraft noodles I usually microwaved from the box. Her collard greens were boiling on the stove. And the room smelled sweet from the apple pie sitting on the counter.
    “So, Tash, this is going to be a great couple of weeks for you,” Tilly said. “And I hope you’ll decide to stay even longer.It will be good to have you with me and helping out at Amber’s Place.”
    “Okay, that’s nice,” I said, half listening to her, but moving toward the stove. I hovered over the greens like a watchdog, ready to pounce as soon as they were ready.
    “Girl, back away from that stove before you get burned,” Tilly said, pushing me away. “Why don’t you set that table already? And you know to use my good china.”
    “Okay, Tilly,” I said.
    I pulled down one of her good sets, the white glass plates with a pink rose pattern around the rim, the only thing in the kitchen without apples. Tilly reached for a cup of already-used grease.
    Tilly had a tendency to go overboard with a cup of grease and a frying pan. Chicken was her specialty, but she’d go as far as a fried pickle sandwich if no one stopped her. She leaned against the sink with her cup-o-nasty in one hand and a bag of flour in the other. I watched her pound the meat onto a paper towel full of flour.
    She coated a wing piece and flung a dusting of flour at me. I laughed and tried to duck out of the way.
    “What are you thinking about over there?” Tilly asked. “Why are you so quiet?”
    “Nothing, Grandma, I’m okay,” I said, hearing my mistake before I could correct it. I waited for her to explode.
    Tilly turned sideways and picked up a Cutco frying pan.
    “First of all, if you call me ‘grandma’ one more time, I’m gonna have to knock you out. Do these hips look like theybelong to someone’s grandmother? And secondly, I know when something is wrong with my favorite granddaughter or my