15

On Friday they left New York late, after Tess and Amanda had had dinner. It was summer, the evening was long, and when they started out it was still light. Peter drove, with Emma beside him in the front. Amanda, who was eight, and Tess, four, knelt, facing each other, in back. The long slippery backseat was a separate country, wild, filled with adventure, inhabited only by them. They were playing Wonder Woman.

Amanda described the action as it occurred, in an urgent undertone. She clung precariously with one superstrong hand to the back of the seat, dangling in space from the side of a skyscraper. Tess watched, avid: she was Wonder Woman’s helper.

“Now the kidnappers are leaning out the window above me,” Amanda whispered. “They’re trying to cut my magic lariat.”

“They can’t,” Tess said, shaking her head firmly. “You can’t cut it.”

“I let it out further,” Amanda said, ignoring Tess. “I slide down the skyscraper until I see an open window. I’m forty-seven stories above the street.”

“And the wind comes up,” Tess suggested.

“They’re banging at the rope from above, trying to wham me against the side of the building,” Amanda said. She pushed herself back from the seat, her hands springing against the cushion.

Emma turned around to look at them. “How are you girls doing?”

“Fine,” Amanda said.

“We’re playing Wonder Woman,” said Tess, bouncing once on the seat. “I’m the helper.”

“Good,” Emma said. “And what’s happening?”

“We’re winning,” Tess said. “The kidnappers almost trapped us, but we’re getting away.”

“Good for you,” Emma said, and turned again to the front.

“Now he leans way out the window,” Amanda whispered. “He’s trying to shoot me.” Amanda flattened herself against the seat.

“Use your magic bracelets,” Tess suggested.

“Wonder Woman puts up her magic bracelet,” Amanda said, not looking at her. She held her wrist up. “Ping! Ping! The bullets bounce off it. Then I make the other end of my lariat into a noose, and throw it at Black Bart.”

“It goes over his head!” Tess said triumphantly, clapping her hands.

Amanda looked at her. “Tess,” she said, in a different voice, “I’m telling this.”

“Okay, okay,” Tess said fiercely.

Amanda went on in the secret whisper. “The magic lariat pulls him out of the window. Wonder Woman reaches out as he passes, and catches him with her superstrength!”

“Why did you catch him?” Tess asked, in her normal voice.

“Because,” Amanda said, in hers, “Wonder Woman is good. She never kills people. Anyway, it’s too soon for it to be over.”

Amanda stretched an arm out clinging with her other hand to the backseat. “Wonder Woman holds on to him as she bangs against the building.”

“When am I going to do something?” Tess asked.

“Soon,” Amanda said, “as soon as Wonder Woman gets inside.”

“You always say that,” Tess said.

“She’s got hold of the windowsill,” Amanda whispered, “she’s just about got it.”

Tess sat up, pulling her knees up to her chin, her feet apart. She banged her knees together impatiently.

“She gets inside!” Amanda said triumphantly. “She gets inside and sees her helper!”

“What do I do?” Tess asked.

“Wonder Woman gets Black Bart in through the window,” Amanda said, struggling and pulling, “and her helper is waiting with a big huge book. A dictionary. The helper hits him on the head with it as he comes inside. She knocks him out!”

“Amanda,” said Tess, “I want to use the magic weapons. I don’t want to use a dumb old dictionary. Why can’t I ever use the magic things?”

“Because, Tess,” Amanda said, her voice urgent. “They belong to Wonder Woman. They only work for her. Anybody knows that. No one can use them except Wonder Woman.”

“Then I don’t want to play anymore,” Tess said. She turned away and stared straight ahead, her mouth set. “Or I want a game where I’m Wonder Woman,” Tess said. “I want to be Wonder Woman.”

“Tess, look,” Amanda kept her voice down. She did not want Emma to hear this. “I’m bigger. Wonder Woman can’t be smaller than her helper.”

“Okay, fine, Amanda,” Tess said. “You be Wonder Woman. I’m not playing anymore.” She folded her arms, her face stony.

“Okay, fine, Tess,” said Amanda. “But you’re going to miss the big important thing that the helper does. She saves Wonder Woman.”

“I don’t care,” said Tess angrily. She leaned into the front seat. “Mommy?”

Emma turned her head.

“Can I come in the front with you?”

Emma lifted her arms, and, traitorously, Tess clambered into the other world, with the grown-ups.

Amanda, alone, sat in the backseat. The world that had populated it—vivid, crowded, demanding—suddenly vanished. She was nowhere now. She was alone in the backseat. She looked out the window. Cars streamed past, in the relentless monotony of the highway. Amanda kicked her legs. She put her finger to her mouth and chewed on her nail. Boredom rose in her like a wave.

She leaned against the back of the front seat, behind her father. She looked at the back of his neck, the collar of his plaid shirt. The hair was cut short and plushy down at the base, and it grew longer and featherier as it went up on his head. Amanda brushed the back of his head with her hand.

“Dad?”

“Hi, Nanna,” Peter said.

“When is it my turn to sit in the front seat?” she asked.

“You mean on Emma’s lap?” Peter said. Tess, her thumb in her mouth, eyed Amanda suspiciously.

“Tess always gets to sit there,” said Amanda. “I should have a turn in the front.”

Tess pulled her glistening thumb from her mouth. “No!”

“It’s not fair,” Amanda said to Emma. “Why does Tess always get to sit in your lap and I don’t?”

“Because she’s so much smaller than you,” Emma said, her voice light and brisk. “My lap isn’t big enough for you, Amanda, you’re such a big girl!” Emma smiled at her brightly.

There was silence for a moment.

“Amanda is too big to sit in your lap?” Peter said to Emma.

“Amanda is actually quite big,” Emma said. Her voice was still brisk, and she didn’t turn to look at Peter. “Amanda is growing up. Her arms and legs are longer than you think.”

Amanda waited, her head pressed against the seat behind her father, but her father said nothing more. Tess lay against Emma’s chest, her thumb back in her mouth. Amanda looked at her, and Tess pulled her thumb out and stuck out her tongue at Amanda. Amanda made a mean face, squinting her eyes. Then she sank away into the backseat. She threw herself down on the seat, flattened by boredom and resentment. She hated Tess. She hated both Tess and Emma. Emma always did that. One time when her father was away and Amanda had been staying with them, Emma had let Tess sleep with her. Amanda had asked if she could sleep there too, and Emma had said there wasn’t room.

Amanda lay in resentful silence, watching the wild headlights slip past. She hated her father for saying nothing. The car slid from lane to lane, from one stream of headlights to another. Cars rushed past in the other direction, endlessly, slipping past forever. The car beneath Amanda surged along through the night. Alone in the backseat, in the roaring darkness, she slept.

She awoke at the silence, when the car stopped.

“We’re here,” Peter said, and opened his door. Outside it was dark and quiet. There was only a quiet rushing sound from the wind. Amanda could smell the sea. Tess had been asleep too. Her eyes were bleary.

“Everyone take something,” Emma said, but she really meant Amanda. She and Peter were carrying things anyway, and Tess was too small. Amanda carried her own suitcase, and they set off on the little path toward the house.

The Kirklands were waiting for them at the front door. Mr. Kirkland, who was tall and frightening, kissed Emma and Tess. He shook hands with Peter and Amanda.

“Hello, Kirk,” Peter said to him, setting down a suitcase. “You remember Amanda, my daughter.”

“Hello, young lady,” Mr. Kirkland said, looking down at her from underneath his eyebrows. He was very tall.

“Hello, Amanda,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “I’m glad to have you here.” She leaned over and put her arms around Amanda. Her arms felt strange and uncertain. She kissed Amanda’s cheek. Amanda waited without moving for her to stop.

“Gonny!” Tess shouted loudly, showing off. She threw herself against her grandmother, closing her eyes to show rapture.

“Well, I don’t know what you’ll find to do here,” Mr. Kirkland said loudly to Amanda.

Emma stopped and turned to her father.

“She’ll find lots to do here, Daddy,” she said. “She and Tess will do things together.”

“Good, good,” Mr. Kirkland said. He frowned all the time.

Upstairs, they crowded along the hallway. Tess, holding on to her grandmother’s hand, led the way, bossily. “This is my room, Amanda,” she said, looking back at Amanda. They were to share it. There were two beds and a faded rag rug. Between the beds, in a battered gold frame, was a picture of a girl in old-fashioned clothes: a black cloak and hat, with a fur muff. Shelves, built into the walls, held china mugs, a pincushion, a collection of shells. All the furniture was painted white. Nothing looked new.

Tess sat on the bed closest to the door. She bounced on it and declared, “This is mine. I get this bed.”

“Now, Tess,” Mrs. Kirkland said, “remember that you’re the hostess. You ask your guest what she would like.”

Tess looked at Amanda. “Amanda, would you like that bed?” She pointed to the bed near the window.

Amanda shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t care,” she said.

The next morning, Amanda woke first. Resisting, her eyelids shuttering against the light, she finally opened her eyes. It was the light that had wakened her; the room was awash, aglare, with brightness. There was nothing to keep it out: at the windows were only thin white curtains, not drawn. Flimsy white shades kept out only the sight of the ragged pines and sandy flat lawn outside. Nothing at all kept out the sun, which had entirely invaded the small room with brilliance.

At home, Amanda was never awakened by light. In her bedroom, the blue-and-white-checked curtains were always drawn at night, and the heavy white shade was pulled securely down to the windowsill. The window itself was tightly shut against the night. The enclosed air moved peacefully through her lungs again and again through the night. She was surrounded by a breathing, murmuring web she wove herself, warm, familiar, close.

The nights were different when Amanda was with Emma and her father. Nights with them were not safe. Emma always made Amanda sleep with the window dangerously open: anything could get in from outside. The dark wind came into her room at will. And last night Amanda had heard strange noises. There were rushing noises outside, and inside there were creaks and incomprehensible patterings. At home in New York there were no sounds like that. There was only the sound of traffic, or the rising song of a distant siren, or normal noises like that. In the mornings there was the strident familiar racket of heat rising powerfully through the pipes. All of these sounds were known and comforting.

Amanda slid further up on her pillow and looked around. Tess, of course, was asleep. Tess slept all the time, she took naps, she went to bed early, she woke up late. Her head was pressed deep into the pillow, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth slightly open.

Amanda looked around the room. It was shaped wrong: the ceiling, instead of being flat, slanted down on either side of the window, cutting the space into strange uneven shapes. But everything here was strange.

The house made Amanda uncomfortable. It was old and the furniture was rickety, the rugs were frayed and there were holes on the chair arms. Amanda’s mother would never have lived in a place like this. Amanda had been to her real grandparents’ house, Caroline’s parents’, to their whitewashed brick house. There, the floors were smooth and polished, and the walls had no cracks in them. The furniture was not faded, and there were no holes in the chair arms.

This house, Emma’s parents’, was poor. Emma seemed unembarrassed by it, but to Amanda its poverty was shaming. She held herself aloof from it: the faded slipcovers, the shabby floors, the dusty corners. None of it had anything to do with her. She was only marking time here, waiting to leave. She had to be here. Her father made her come. The games with Tess were the only times she was not waiting to leave.

Amanda looked around the room: there was nothing for her to do here. There was nothing in the room but books. Books made her restless. Emma made Amanda listen while she read to Tess when she put them both to bed, too early. Emma made Amanda go to bed at the same time Tess did, even though Tess was four years younger. When Amanda told Emma that at home she went to bed at nine, Emma said, “Your mother lets you stay up until nine?” Her voice rose as she asked this. She looked concerned, as though Amanda had said her mother let her play with guns.

Emma acted as though the bedtime reading was a treat. Tess lay under the covers, and Emma sat by her pillow. Tess listened breathlessly, her eyes fixed on her mother, her face intent, as though she were picturing every word Emma spoke. Amanda lay on her back, her hands clasped under her head, and stared up at the ceiling. As Emma read, Amanda’s foot jiggled, a steady restless beat. Emma read slowly, as if it were exciting, changing her voice affectedly for the different characters.

Emma looked up often at Tess; she turned often to smile at Amanda, too, but Amanda never looked back at her. Emma read about the unpleasant girl in the horrible dark house in England, the stupid robin and the so what garden. The long incomprehensible words, and nothing to watch but the ceiling. Amanda tried to block it all out, to concentrate on something else, a TV movie she liked, instead.

At home Amanda never had to read or to listen to reading. Her own mother never read books to Amanda, and seldom to herself. When her mother did read, it was a new book, something with a bright cover, usually with a beautiful woman on it. Those were what Amanda felt were the right kinds of books to read. But mostly Caroline read magazines. She liked to watch television with Amanda. Sometimes she made a bowl of popcorn, and she and Amanda lay together on Caroline’s bed, making a nest out of the down quilt.

Emma never watched television, and neither did Tess. They never knew what Amanda was talking about if she said something about one of her favorite shows, something that everyone else knew. Emma just shook her head and smiled, as though it were normal to be so stupid. But Tess eyed Amanda, envious. She was not allowed to watch television, and Amanda would have even felt sorry for her if she had permitted herself.

Amanda got out of bed. She was wearing pajama bottoms and the short-sleeved striped jersey she had worn the day before. Amanda liked sleeping in the clothes she had spent the day in. Emma disapproved, and told her not to. When Amanda did anyway Emma got cross. Her mouth turned angry and she said, “I told you not to do that, Amanda!” Maeve would never have let her wear day clothes to bed either, but she wouldn’t have gotten angry. Maeve would have called her a monkey and told her to get right out of bed and into her pajamas, but she wouldn’t have been angry. Maeve never got angry at her, never. Emma got angry at everything.

The Kirklands’ house was quiet, and it felt early. Amanda was too awake to stay in bed. She would go and find the television. She would watch cartoons, keeping the sound down low. Even though Emma’s parents were poor, they would have a television set, even very poor people had television sets. Maria had a television set.

If Amanda were at home now, she would put on her red plaid dressing gown that her mother gave her for Christmas. She would go into the library and watch cartoons. Amanda had always watched cartoons on Saturday mornings. When she was little she had carried around with her a yellow blanket with a smooth satin binding. She would lie on the library rug with pillows from the sofa, wrapped in her yellow blanket and watching the Road Runner. She held her blanket up to her face, folding the satin edge of it around her nose and mouth, and breathing in its familiar smell. She lay like that, squinting at the TV, sometimes watching it and sometimes closing her eyes, letting the chatter of the Road Runner and the Coyote wash over her, all of it blending into a comforting hammock of sound. And sometimes, while she was lying there, her eyes half shut, wrapped in her blanket, breathing through its tattered satin edge, Amanda would feel the sole of her foot slowly invaded, a delicate trail of sensation, a diabolical feathering across her skin, warning of delight and hysteria: the unbearable bliss of tickling. Her mother had found her. Then her mother would sit down next to her, wrapping the two of them in the blanket. Her mother had watched cartoons when she was little, the Road Runner, and Tom and Jerry, rampaging across the screen, and that made Amanda feel safe, comforted to know that she was growing up in the same world as her mother.

Amanda stood watching Tess, but Tess did not stir. She went to the bedroom door and looked out into the hall. She considered going back into her room and sitting on Tess’s bed, staring at her until she woke up. Tess was company, even if she was only four. She was also protection from Emma. Amanda would be blamed for anything that happened if she were alone, but if there were two of them, Emma would relent. Still, waking Tess was totally forbidden. Even if Tess said she wouldn’t tell, Emma would be suspicious if Tess got up early. And if Tess and Amanda had a fight later, Tess would threaten to tell, and if she did tell Amanda would get in trouble.

When Amanda got in trouble Emma would say, “Amanda, would you come in here for a second? I’d like to speak to you.” Emma’s voice would be light and brittle. Amanda would go into the room with her, and Emma would close the door. Then Emma would sit down, slowly and carefully, to make sure Amanda understood how serious all this was. Then she would fold her arms across her chest and look at Amanda, her face hard and dark.

“Now, Amanda,” Emma would say. “I want to talk to you about waking Tess up in the morning.” She would pause, looking straight at Amanda. “Tess is younger than you. She needs more sleep than you do. She is a little girl.” She would pause again.

Amanda, standing up, would shift her weight from one leg to the other. One knee would jiggle, waiting.

“But I’ve told you this before. How many times, do you think, have I told you that you are not to wake Tess up?”

Amanda knew that she didn’t have to answer this question. She would sigh, as loud as she dared. She would be waiting for this to be over.

Emma would sit still, staring at her. “It’s not just waking Tess up,” she would go on. “It’s the fact that you do it over and over, even though I’ve told you not to.”

Of course Amanda did it over and over: Tess was always asleep when Amanda woke up. Amanda would look sideways, then back at Emma. She would be waiting for Emma to finish. Emma acted as though Tess were the most important person in the world, and as though waking her meant the end of the universe, as though Tess were some wonderful princess who could not be touched, who would shatter into pieces if Amanda woke her up half an hour early. It was safer to leave Tess asleep.

Amanda tiptoed down the hall and down the front stairs. The TV would probably be in the living room, she thought, though she hadn’t noticed it there last night. She looked around now in the daylight: there were more bookcases, but no TV in sight. Turning back into the hall, Amanda quietly explored the rest of the downstairs. She prowled through a small room by the front door, with one armchair in it and an oak desk. She opened a door onto a huge closet, jammed with stuff: sailing gear, slickers, tennis racquets, jackets and rubber boots. Another back room had a big white metal rack with plants on it, and an old striped sofa, but no TV. Amanda wondered where they kept it.

She went back through the living room and dining room, then through the swinging door into the kitchen. Mrs. Kirkland, in a faded cotton dressing gown, was sitting at the table. An open book was propped up in front of her, against a jar of marmalade. She was wearing glasses that came only halfway up, and she was reading as she ate. On a plate sat an egg in a cup, and she was scooping its insides out with a spoon. She looked up, over her glasses, as Amanda appeared in the doorway.

“Well, good morning, Amanda,” she said. “You’re up early.”

Amanda came all the way into the room, and Mrs. Kirkland smiled at her.

“Would you like some breakfast?”

Sidetracked, Amanda nodded, and slid into a chair across from Mrs. Kirkland.

“What would you like?” On Mrs. Kirkland’s plate was a blackened piece of toast, with a cold slab of butter partly smeared across its surface.

“French toast,” answered Amanda.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Kirkland doubtfully. She looked up at Amanda. “French toast.”

Amanda said nothing, kicking her heels against the chair.

“I guess you’ll have to wait until Emma comes down for that,” Mrs. Kirkland decided. She smiled again at Amanda and returned to her book. Amanda watched in silence.

“Where’s the television set?” asked Amanda finally.

“What television set?” asked Mrs. Kirkland, looking up.

“The one here. I couldn’t find it.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Kirkland smiled deprecatingly and shook her head. “I’m afraid we don’t have one. You’ll think we’re very old fashioned, I guess. We’ve never wanted one here. It changes the evenings. It’s good for some things, I know. We have one at home, in Cambridge. We watch the news on it, but we don’t really want it here.” She smiled again at Amanda. She seemed pleased.

“You don’t have one?” asked Amanda, still confused.

“Not here.”

Amanda turned and looked out the window. Even Emma had one, in her apartment. It could be turned on for special things. The thought of a whole house without a television set discouraged Amanda. She had not really paid attention to what Mrs. Kirkland had said, but to choose not to have a TV, and to smile proudly about it, was mystifying to her. It was like cutting off your foot and boasting about it: two feet were all right for some things, but they made it too easy to get around. What was wrong with spending the evening watching TV, wondered Amanda.

It was warm already, later it would be hot. Amanda stared out at the summer-dead lawn. Beyond the lawn were the wooden railings going down to the dock, and a flagpole. The flag was moving gently, dreamily, in the early breeze.

“Is the flag yours?” Amanda asked.

Mrs. Kirkland nodded.

“Why do you have it?”

Mrs. Kirkland looked outside. “Oh, just, you know, out here along the water. Lots of people have them, for some reason.”

Amanda stared at her. “Does it stay up all the time?”

“It stays up all summer. We take it in for the winter. Would you like some regular toasted toast?” She held up the flattened, blackened rectangle. “We have some honey,” she offered, as a special treat.

Amanda shook her head, but she now felt hungry. “Is there cereal?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Mrs. Kirkland. “Look in the larder. Right back there, that door, no, that one.”

Amanda found the door.

“On the second shelf. Do you see some?”

“Yes,” said Amanda, but did not reach for it. It was a tasteless kind, sugarless, without interest. The kind you had to chew all morning. Emma had tried to give her some once. The cover of the box had only writing on it, no cartoon creatures, no colors, no excitement. At home there was a whole shelf of different cereals, with interesting names, Honey this, Captain that. They were all sweet, bright, colorful, launching themselves into her day. Now Amanda shut the cupboard door and came back, dispirited, to the table.

“Didn’t you find it?” Mrs. Kirkland pushed back her chair and stood up to help.

“I don’t like that kind,” said Amanda.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “I’m sorry there’s nothing you like here.” She sat down again.

Amanda went over to the refrigerator and opened it.

“Don’t stand with the door open too long, Amanda, you’re letting out the cold air, you know.” Mrs. Kirkland sounded anxious. Amanda, staring at the chill contents of the shelves, did not answer.

At home, the refrigerator was full of things Amanda might want. Her mother kept treats for her in the kitchen: Oreos, and sodas, and ice cream bars in the freezer. Amanda was allowed to have one ice cream bar in the morning before her mother got up. Often she cheated and had two, hiding the stick and the wrapper of the first under the bedskirt. At Emma’s, in spite of the fuss Emma made about good food, there was nothing good to eat in the refrigerator. There were no cookies, no sodas, no ice cream. There was nothing sweet. And if Amanda asked why she didn’t buy snacks, Emma’s face would get that I’m-better-than-you look. Her voice would get light and hard, and she would say that sweets weren’t good for you, and that’s why she didn’t buy them. Then she would offer Amanda a cold green apple, which Amanda hated.

Amanda shut the refrigerator door. There was nothing there for her either—nothing delicious, nothing comforting.

The swinging door opened and Emma appeared.

“Hello, Mum,” she said cheerfully. Then her voice changed, just slightly, into a harder, higher tone. “Good morning, Amanda! I didn’t know you were up.”

Emma smiled, first at her mother, then at Amanda. Amanda watched her warily. Emma came over to her by the refrigerator.

“Where’s Tess?” she asked.

Amanda shrugged her shoulders.

“Still asleep?” Emma asked, and when Amanda nodded she said, “Good.” Emma leaned over and lowered her voice. “Now, Amanda, what about that jersey you’re wearing? Didn’t you bring your pajama top? I thought we’d talked about that already, not wearing clothes to bed.” Smiling, she looked at Amanda, who did not answer. Peter came into the kitchen behind her. He was dressed for the day in jeans and a polo shirt.

“Well, hello, lovey,” he said to Amanda. “You’re up early.” He smiled at her. He looked at Mrs. Kirkland. “Good morning, Aline.”

“Oh, good morning, Peter,” said Mrs. Kirkland. “Isn’t this awful, here I am in my bathrobe. I get so used to being alone, you know, I’m just not used to visitors.” She smiled at him shyly, lifting her shoulders.

“Why don’t you run up and get dressed, too, Amanda?” Emma said. “Remember to brush your teeth. And make your bed if Tess is awake.” She stood up and patted Amanda on the head as though she were a show animal.

At home Amanda never had to make her bed. When Maeve had been there, she had made it. Now, during the week, Maria did. On weekends it stayed unmade all day. If her mother saw it unmade, she would frown and say, “Your room looks like the glacier stopped here,” but then she would forget about it. The bed didn’t really matter.

With Emma things were different. Emma smiled at Amanda all the time, but not the way Maeve had smiled at her, and not the way Emma smiled at Tess. Emma smiled at Amanda as though they were in a play, and the smile was for the audience.

Amanda always forgot about making her bed when she was at Emma’s. She didn’t care about remembering, it was stupid. She stood leaning against the counter, sliding one finger back and forth along the chrome edge. She watched Emma and did not answer.

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Kirkland brightly. She looked around, smiling, at them all.

“Amanda?” said Emma. Her voice was a little louder, now. She was inviting Peter to listen.

“Amanda,” said Peter, meaningfully. Amanda said nothing. She looked down at her hand, then looked up at her father. He and Emma were both staring at her, their faces were turning hard.

“Amanda?” her father said again. His voice was now angry.

“What?” Amanda said. She raised her eyebrows, aloof, indifferent.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked. “Did you hear what I said?”

Amanda ducked her head and did not answer.

“Now, wait,” said Emma, in a calming voice. Amanda could hear that she was now trying to undo what she had started. “Amanda, let’s not make this into a big deal. Just run upstairs, get dressed and make your bed.” There was a pause. Amanda did not look up or speak, but Emma, instead of noticing, deliberately turned her back on Amanda. She began pulling pots out of the cupboard. “Off you go,” she said, her back still turned. Mrs. Kirkland smiled at Amanda, raising her eyebrows and blinking.

Amanda drew herself slowly upright. Her father was still standing angrily in front of her. Ignoring him, Amanda turned.

“Let’s go up together, Amanda,” said Mrs. Kirkland, standing up. Amanda didn’t answer, and Mrs. Kirkland raised her eyebrows kindly and said, “Anyway, I’m going up. Why don’t you come with me?” She left the room.

Amanda walked behind her, sauntering. As Mrs. Kirkland climbed the stairs. Amanda hung back. From out in the hall, she heard her father in the kitchen. His voice was low and tense, and Amanda stopped, listening.

“Don’t give me that look,” Peter said. “She drives me crazy too.”

“She doesn’t want to be here,” Emma said. “Why do you make her come to you every weekend?”

“I want her,” Peter said stubbornly. “She’s my daughter.”

When Amanda heard her father say that, “I want her,” she felt a strange painful jump in her chest.

“You’re making her miserable,” Emma said.

“Thank you,” Peter said. He gave a short horrible laugh.

There was a silence, and then Peter asked, “Do you think you’re making her happy?”

Right away, as though she’d been waiting for this, Emma said, “Do you think she’s making me happy?”

“She’s a child, Emma,” Peter answered, his voice angry and loud. “You are a grown-up.”

“And you are a bully,” Emma said. “You shouldn’t do this to her.”

“I’ll decide what I should do,” Peter said. There was a pause, and then he said, “I wish you loved her.”

Amanda waited, holding her breath, but Emma did not answer. There was no more talking. Amanda heard more pots banging, she heard the cupboard door slammed, and then she heard water running at the sink. No one spoke, and finally Amanda turned and went on, very quietly.

She climbed the stairs and opened the door to her room. Tess was still asleep. Amanda walked in and sat down, harder than necessary, on Tess’s bed. Tess lay on her side without moving, her head tucked into her pillow, her hands spread open, one palm up, one down. She breathed without making any sound at all.

Experimentally, Amanda rose slightly and sat down again, slightly harder than before, rocking the mattress. Tess frowned. Her fingers clenched, then spread. She relaxed into sleep once more. Amanda drew closer. She put her hands on either side of Tess’s face and leaned over it. She stared down at Tess’s soft open mouth, her closed eyes, the bluish veins beneath the skin. Tess was a baby, really, thought Amanda. She put her hand out! it hovered over Tess’s face. It descended, directly over the nose; delicately she pinched shut Tess’s nostrils.

Tess frowned and shook her head. She opened her mouth to breathe, then opened her eyes. She saw Amanda and frowned more, her mouth tightening angrily.

“Amanda, you’re not supposed to wake me up,” she said, peremptory.

“I didn’t,” said Amanda, cool and scornful. Her hand was back at her side. “I was just sitting here and you woke up. I was just waiting to see if you would. Your mom is downstairs already.”

Tess sat up quickly, blinking, trying to catch up with the day. Amanda stood and drifted toward the door.

“Where are you going?” asked Tess, anxious.

“To the bathroom,” said Amanda, indifferent. She turned away.

“Wait,” said Tess, scrambling herself out of bed. “Can I come with you?”

“You can’t. You have to make your bed first,” said Amanda, without looking back.

“No, I don’t,” Tess answered. “I’m not going to.” She pattered barefoot out into the hall after Amanda. Amanda, moving swiftly, went into the bathroom and shut the door just as Tess arrived. Tess knocked. Inside was silence, irresistible.

“Amanda!” said Tess.

Silence. Tess knocked again, urgently.

“Amanda!” she said, her voice rising.

Amanda heard the rising voice. Emma would hear it if she weren’t careful. She stepped closer to the door.

“What?” she asked, her voice low.

“Can I come in?” Tess asked, her own voice lowered in response.

“What’s the password?” asked Amanda.

There was silence.

“You can’t come in without the password.” Amanda moved audibly away from the door.

“Amanda!” Tess said loudly, frustration in her voice. “I don’t know the password. Let me in!”

Amanda moved quickly back to the door. “Okay,” she said. “Listen, Tess. Put your head down next to the door.” She put her own next to the other side. “Can you hear me?” Amanda was whispering.

“Yes,” Tess whispered back.

“Okay. Now, listen,” Amanda said. “The password is”—she paused—“caramba.” She said the word with a rolled r, making it foreign and exotic.

“Caramba,” said Tess obediently, her r hard.

There was no response.

Tess, anxious, repeated the word, louder. “Caramba!”

There was still no sign from inside the door, where Amanda stood listening.

“Caramba,” screamed Tess, the word filling her throat. She was desperate.

Without a word Amanda opened the door, and Tess stepped quickly inside. Amanda closed the door behind her. Tess stood waiting, her hands docilely behind her back. She watched Amanda, eager, worshipful.

“Okay. Now,” said Amanda slowly, sternly, “this is the game.”