67

Something itches at me. It’s itched for weeks now, ever since Bo started coming around for reading lessons.

I stand at the counter peeling potatoes and Bo practices her u sounds. “ ‘Muck, luck, truck, stuck,’ ” she reads, her index finger a magnet that pulls her through each word.

But it’s not Bo that’s making me itch; it’s Agatha. She waits at the table every afternoon for Bo. She looks up from whatever bean she’s snapping or tomato she’s chopping and watches Bo read.

“Corney, I don’t know this word,” Bo says, looking up from her book. I put my knife down, ready to walk over to her, then pick it up again. The itch runs deep. “Ask Agatha,” I say, looking over at my aunt. “I got to get this done.”

Agatha looks down to the dried beans she’s picking through, hunting for bits of pebble and dirt.

“I’d need glasses for words that small,” Agatha says quickly.