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forefinger.
    He jerked his head away, scooted a few inches back. “This’ll only make things worse.”
    “Worse than what?” I asked, really wanting to know, but the sound of the sliding doors followed by Claude calling for us caused Alex to scramble to his feet.
    “We’re here,” he answered, then said in a harsh whisper. “You better hide that notebook if you want to keep it.”
    I tucked it underneath a low bush and left it in the dirt. He had been so quick to let his father know where we were, and so quick to know I didn’t want anyone taking the notebook. Was that why he had been looking for me in the first place? Because Claude had asked him to? I frowned as Alex pulled me to stand next to him.
    “What are you two doing?” Claude asked, his face illuminated by the light of the house.
    “Just talking,” said Alex, at the same time that I said, “Having sex.”
    The breeze whistled a funny little note, filling the answering silence. The last of the sun slipped behind the mountains, leaving the sky a dark, bruised purple. Claude squinted at both of us. Alex brushed at his jeans and tried to move past his father, but Claude stopped him with a hand.
    “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, then dismissed Alex with a nod toward the house.
    After Alex disappeared, he held my gaze until I felt smashed and bent. I stepped back.
    “From the first moment I saw you, I knew you’d be thetough one,” Claude said, in a way I knew he meant to be sincere, wanting to compliment, wanting to make me feel special.
    “You’re scared of me.” He seemed surprised, as if no one would ever think of him as anything other than kind and jolly.
    “Terrified,” I replied with as much sarcasm as I could, but he was right: He scared me more than anything in the world. I tried to leave, but his big hands clamped around my upper arms.
    “Wait a minute, this is serious. Alex means well, but it hasn’t been easy for him since—” Claude bit off what he was going to say, then paused and searched for different words. “Promise me you’ll be careful around him.”
    “We were just talking,” I said. Hasn’t been easy because of what? What was he going to say? My mind whirled with possibilities.
    “Talking is fine. In the house. Or at school. But you stay away from him. Do you understand?”
    The crickets chirped and the half-moon rose to the top of the sky. He struggled to say more but seemed unable to come up with the correct words. “Go on,” he said. “It’s late.”
    He stepped aside and let me pass.
    THE NEXT DAY , AS I sat at the dining table pretending to read a magazine, there was a loud knock on the front door followed by the
ding
of the doorbell.
    A hush followed, a collective holding of breath. Claude was in the living room, the phone once again pressed to hisear. My mother emerged from the kitchen, very pale apart from the twin spots of color on each cheek. Claude waved at her, indicating she should answer the door. She didn’t move. He waved at her again, continuing to listen to whoever was on the other end of the phone. It took her a moment, but she went to the front door and opened it. It was a man in a service uniform. The house heaved a sigh; no damning visit from Child Services yet.
    He said he had a delivery for Claude Fisk. “Oh,” said my mother, slow to recover. The man waited with a blank expression until she said, “Yes, of course, come in.”
    It was new furniture for the front room. My mother stood in the middle, pointing to one area with a cigarette in hand. “This way,” she said, and the men set the furniture down in an L pattern. “No, actually,” she said, “that won’t work,” and the men changed the configuration again at her bidding. And again. There were only so many ways a love seat and two armchairs could be arranged, but she could not be satisfied. From my vantage point, I watched the weary deliverymen as they moved the furniture yet again. They didn’t understand that no