and quiet.
B.T.B. points to Mary Carlsonâs friend. âThatâs Gemma. Marnie looks like her.â
Mary Carlson looks shocked. âB.T.B., youâre going to hurt Jo . . . annaâs feelings. You canât talk about Marnie when sheâs here.â
âI canât?â B.T.B. looks between us.
I shake my head and he shrugs, but his grin doesnât die. âOkay,â he says.
Iâm spared from any further conversation by the entry of the youth pastor. A guy, of course. Just once Iâd like to walk into something like this and see a woman leading the group.
One of the benefits of the other teenagers thinking Iâm with B.T.B. is nobody expects me to answer any questions or join in any discussions. Theyâre happy to let us sit in the corner, eating cookies and smiling. I whisper to B.T.B., âDonât you ever want to be a part of this?â
âI am,â he says. âI even have an elephant tie.â
âThat you do.â
When the lesson is wrapped, thankfully more about the love of Christ and less about the onus of the Spirit, Pastor Hank reminds the youth group about Wednesday study, pizza, and movie night, then releases us into the hallway. I donât think he noticed me, because I feel certain I would have been called up in front of the group and made to announce all my vital statistics.
Iâm actually relieved when I make it to the car and find Three waiting.
âHow was it?â she said. âDid you meet some of the others?â
âYeah, B.T.B.âs sister and her friend. Mostly I laid low.â
I unlock our doors and am getting in, when I hear Mary Carlson across the parking lot. âOh, look, B.T.B.Your friend drives a car. If she can do it, I know you can.â
Three gives me a strange look and I start the engine before they get any closer. âWhat was that about?â
âNo telling,â I say.
At after-church lunch, the buffet at the local steak house, Three recounts her walk with me to the youth group room and how delighted she was to see that Iâd already made friends with the Bailey kids.
Mrs. Foley dabs at her mouth with her napkin. âThe daughter is delightful. Such a shame about the boy.â
Three stiffens and Tater sighs.
I cough up a bread stick. âYou mean B.T.B.? Heâs awesome. Heâs been incredibly kind to me this first week at school.â My you canât be serious glare lands on my step-grandmother.
Tater pats my hand. âDonât listen to her. She doesnât always think before she speaks.â
âYou two are always twisting my words to make me out as a monster.â Mrs. Foley huffs. âI only meant that with their parentsâ good genetics and even better family name, Iâm surprised that God would have sent them such a trial.â
âMom, Barnum is a blessing, not a trial.â Three looks annoyed, and for the second time today it makes mequestion my stepmom misery plan.
âOh, you know what I mean.â Mrs. Foley flags her napkin onto her lap.
âYes, dear,â Tater says. âI think we actually do.â
Mrs. Foleyâs mouth stretches into a thin line as she stabs her fork into a green bean. The rest of the lunch is silent.
Seven
I FEEL LIKE A GUEST in my own room. I did choose the color, a cool smoky purple with an off-white, barely lavender trim. And the bedspread is this gorgeous shiny pewter fabric I found at an Indian import store. It has tiny bits of mirror sewn into a raised curly embroidery pattern all over it. I even picked out some purple and cayenne colored throw pillows to pile over the matching pillow shams. But for some reason I havenât been able to unpack my boxes of books, my ancient stuffed animals, or any of my twisted attempts at craftiness. There are a few black and white photos on the walls, botanical images from a summer trip my mom and dad took before I was born. Dad says Mom was a skilled