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Mr. Gossling says. “What we’re really looking at is Tamara’s truancy and, I must say, her rather amazing repertoire of petty subterfuges.”
    Now there’s a mouthful. We all look at him. Even Mr. Mussbacher.
    Mr. Gossling blushes, his forehead and cheeks taking on a bit of the sunset color of his tie.
    â€œSince the Shadbolts are willing to allow Tamara to continue staying with them, I think what we need is an action plan.”
    It takes another three quarters of an hour to hammer one out. Shirl has to leave halfway through to get back to her daycare job. I have to agree to all the points in the plan. Mr. Gossling even has the secretary type it up and makes me sign it.
    â€œIt’s a contract,” he says. “You mess with this and you may not like the consequences.”
    I wait until I’m back at the Shadbolts’ to read it through and really think about what I’ve signed.
    Personal Action Plan
    I agree to the following:
    1. I will attend classes faithfully and give each course my best effort.
    2. Permission to remain home due to illness must be obtained through Mr. Gossling personally. Failure to do so will result in immediate suspension.
    3. I will be proactive in assisting the Shadbolts with household chores, babysitting, etc.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
Signed: Tamara Tierney
    â€œProactive,” Mr. Mussbacher explained, “means don’t always wait to be asked to do things to help your foster family. Jump in and offer.”
    I go into the kitchen and poke through the cupboards. There’s one shelf entirely filled with bags of pasta. Shells and bow-ties and stuff that looks like bird nests. Spaghetti, linguini, macaroni, lasagna noodles. Next shelf down there’s pancake mix and Bisquick and packages of stovetop dressing.
    Proactively, I put some water in a big pot, add some salt and, when it’s boiling, dump in half a package of bow-ties.
    What else does Shirl do to get supper on the go? There’s half a jar of Cheez Whiz. I scrape that out into a pot and add a can of mushrooms. Sauce for the bow-ties.
    And, hey, there’s lettuce and tomatoes in the crisper. As I rinse the big wrinkly Romaine leaves, I hold up the last one. It’s as wrinkled as the skin on Miss Barclay’s hands.
    Mr. Mussbacher’s always talking about turning over a new leaf.
    I turn it over and begin chopping.

8
    Skinnybones in Seattle. In Vancouver. When I wake up, the possibility continues to tease, hovering like a bothersome cat. An amazing amount of determination for someone her age. And I have to admit she does have an arresting presence. Eyes that don’t allow you to look away. But she needs shaping, smoothing. Heaven knows she’s got more rough edges than a block of firewood.
    I phone Byron and ask him to bring my travel diary from the house.
    â€œReliving some of your trips?” He handles the book with its tapestry cover as if it were something feminine and fragile. “New York. Santa Fe. London. All those concert tours.”
    â€œYes, dear.” We’re in the cafeteria and I try my best not to rush him through his coffee and cinnamon bun.
    â€œLogged a few miles on the Buick. Those trips to Seattle, and didn’t you drive to San Francisco once?” He licks the icing from his fingers.
    I wait until he’s gone to open it. Reread the inscription written on the front page in calligraphy by the art teacher in that last school:
    For Jean Barclay on her retirement. The adventure begins...
    Then I flip to the back pages. Good. Ricardo’s phone number is there. On the blank page just before the addresses and phone numbers, I begin composing a list, and by the time a student nursing-aid