I stayed with them all morning. I stayed while we all had lunch in Poppy’s new house. (We ordered pizza. There’s nothing in the fridge yet.) And then I got up to leave and Lily squawked, “There he goes.”
“Scrap it,” I said.
“Did you see he only ate one slice of pizza? He usually eats four. He can’t wait to get out of here.”
I had my hand on the doorknob.
“He hates me, Poppy.”
I should have left right then. I knew better. I knew she was just getting started.
The grown-ups were chuckling.
“I don’t think he hates you,” said Dad.
Lily plowed on. “He doesn’t go riding with me anymore. We don’t play cards. We don’t sleep in the same room anymore. We don’t do squat together.”
Dad got a kick out of that one.
Lily threw her pizza down. “Yeah, laugh.” She glared at them. “You don’t know what it’s like to be entangled with somebody”—boy, am I sorry Poppy ever told us we’re entangled—“and then that somebody dumps you and you’re left all alone with nothing to do but pick your nose.” My parents’ cheeks were bulging trying to hold in the laughs. Poppy looked at her like she was making sense. She jabbed a finger at me. “Look at him. He’s drooling to get away. His grandfather just came here to live, and all he wants to do is go kiss Bump Stubbins. They might as well get married, since they spend all their time together. I’m surprised he still comes home to sleep.”
She gave her mouth a rest for a second. Mom said, “Jake loves you, Lily.”
Lily snickered. “Yeah—sure.” Then as I opened the door, her question speared me: “Is that right, Jake? You love me?”
I looked at my parents, my grandfather. I pointed to my head. “She’s cuckoo,” I said, and went out the door.