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to eat lasagna on a miserably hot day?”
    “I could eat your lasagna on any kind of day,” my father said. “I could eat your lasagna on a hot day or on a cold day.” He paused, shook his head up and down, and added, “And I could eat your lasagna hot or cold or ... ” Another pause. “Or room temperature. Nobody makes lasagna like you.”
    My mother lifted her chin, but she still pretended to be undecided. “And what about dessert?”
    “Can we have a German chocolate cake from Kings?” I said.
    “Well—I don’t know if Beth likes chocolate cake. And Mrs. Lattimore—she’s probably one of those people who doesn’t eat sweets at all.”
    “Who cares?” said my dad. “We like chocolate cake—right, Molly? So that’s what we’ll have.”
    “I suppose we could always pick up some strawberries too,” my mother said. “People like Mrs. Lattimore always seem to like strawberries. And I’ll make lemonade.” My mother nodded and began to look comfortable. ‘‘We’ll get up early and do the shopping, and I’ll start the sauce and then assemble the lasagna. I’ll just have to pop it in the oven for forty minutes, and maybe we can ask Alex to bring over his fan. Okay, if you really want me to, I’ll make lasagna.”
    That settled, I could get back to my problem. “She’s sleeping on my bed,” I said. “She took a shower, and then I guess I was on the phone to Cindy, and when I got back to my room, she was asleep on my bed. And she won’t wake up.”
    “I made up the trundle bed for her,” Mom said.
    “I know you did. I even showed her that you put on a brand-new sheet and a new pillowcase— in blue and white since she kept saying how much she hated pink. She knew you were making up the trundle bed for her.”
    “Don’t make a big deal of it,” my dad advised. “It’s only for one night.”
    “She did it on purpose,” I said, “just to be mean. She’s the meanest kid I ever met.”
    “No, no,” said my mother. “It’s not her. It’s her mother. She’s the one who ... who ... ”
    The three of us drew together and spoke in whispers.
    “She seems nice to me,” said my dad. “A little wishy-washy but I think she really cares for Beth. And I think Beth is happy although she is kind of crabby ... ”
    “I guess it all worked out for the best,” said my mother, looking very, very tired.
    “Did you see the bracelet Beth was wearing?” I asked them. “It’s a charm bracelet, and every charm is different and—"
    “Now you stop that!” said my mother. “You just stop it!”
    “Stop what?”
    “Just stop it! I think it’s crazy to let a kid wear an expensive piece of jewelry anyway. She could lose it or somebody might steal it.”
    “I bet she never takes it off,” I told them. “I wouldn’t if I had a bracelet like that.”
    “I’m warning you,” my mother snapped. “You just cut it out!”
    “Karen! Karen!” my father murmured, “Molly didn’t mean anything. You can’t blame her for admiring something beautiful.”
    “It has a gold heart with a tiny diamond. When she moves her arm, it flashes, and then there’s a little ... ”
    “All right now—that’s enough!” Now it was my father snapping at me.
    “It’s her mother’s fault,” said my mom. “She probably gives her anything she wants.”
    * * * *
    I thought about Beth as I lay on the trundle bed later that night. My window was wide open, and the curtains were tied back, but there was no breeze stirring. My pillow heated up, and I kept turning it over and over to find a cool spot.
    Beth slept. Even though I thumped my pillow around and muttered out loud on purpose about how hot it was, she went right on sleeping, curled up and facing the wall, the way I did.
    Why was she here in the first place? And why was she so mean in the second place? I turned my pillow over and found one small, coolish spot over near the bottom which quickly warmed up after I lay my hot face on it. And why was she especially