Fawn’s outfit was the best yet: a white dress with big yellow polka dots and shoes to match. Her hair was pinned up, with just a couple of perfect curls coming down the side of her neck. I wanted to flick them with my finger just to see if they were real. I would have if we weren’t sitting around the formal table. I was surprised Flip hadn’t done it yet. He caught me looking at the curls and made a motion like he was pulling one down so it could boing back up.
Flip wore a wrinkled outfit I hadn’t seen before. An orange shirt with a little yellow chick on it. Below the picture, it said, “This chick loves you.”
“I don’t get your shirt,” I said.
He looked down like he had forgotten what he was wearing.
“Me neither. I just thought it looked Eastery.”
Brady came out of the kitchen balancing a carton of eggs on the back of his hand. My mom freaked out.
“Hey — be careful with that! What are you — ”
“Relax, honey,” Dad said. “It’s part of his act. Go on, Brady.”
Brady began his little speech:
“Welcome to Easter dinner, everybody. And what is Easter without eggs? Be careful, they’re very fragile. Or are they?”
I nudged Rusty under the table. “He’s so dramatic,” I whispered.
Brady continued: “You may think you can crush an egg in the palm of your hand, but you’re wrong. The egg is stronger than your hand. No matter how hard you squeeze, the egg will remain in one piece. Do we have any volunteers?”
“I’ll try first. My shirt is junk. I’ve got nothing to lose.” Flip grabbed an egg out of the carton and placed it in his hand.
“So, I just wrap my fingers around it and squeeze as hard as I can?”
“Yes, that is correct,” Brady said.
Flip did just that. I waited for the explosion. But it never came. The egg stayed in one piece.
“You’re holding back,” Bob Hansen said. “Let me try.”
Bob grabbed an egg and tried the same thing. Nothing.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said.
“Bart, have you tried this already?” Mom asked.
Rob Peterson tried next. He couldn’t break the egg either. “That’s amazing.”
“Do we have a female volunteer? Maybe the women are stronger.” Brady knew which button to push with us.
“Yeah, hand it over, kid,” Mom said. “I have strong hands.”
She squeezed. Nothing.
“What have you done to these eggs?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s sheer science.”
Both Rusty and I tried it next. I thought maybe a smaller hand would bust the egg. No luck.
“What about you, Fawn?” Brady tried handing her a brand-new egg out of the carton.
“No, thanks,” she said.
“Aw, come on!” Flip said. “You’re not going to disappoint a little kid now, are you? What if you’re the only person on earth who can break an egg in your hand? Don’t you think he deserves to know?”
Dirty looks flew across the table between Flip and Fawn until Fawn finally gave in.
“Okay, give me the egg.”
Brady took the egg back out of the carton and checked it carefully for cracks before handing it to Fawn. She grabbed it and put it in her palm.
“Okay, so I just squeeze, right? You guys aren’t in on some kind of practical joke, are you?”
“You mean practical yolk?” Flip laughed and slapped the table, and all the water glasses shook.
“Very funny. Ha-ha.” Fawn looked down at the egg and squeezed.
Nothing happened.
“This just seems ridiculous,” she said. “It’s a fragile little egg.” She squeezed harder. “Are you sure this one’s not hard-boiled?”
“I promise it’s not,” Brady said.
“What if I just turned it a bit . . .” Fawn repositioned the egg in her hand.
“Make sure you keep it in your — ”
Fawn squeezed, and the egg exploded.
“Palm.” Brady’s warning came a second too late.
The explosion itself only took a second, but it was the funniest second ever.
Pieces of shell flew all different directions, like broken glass. The yolk stayed together in one big blob, and landed right in the middle of one of Fawn’s yellow polka dots. The egg white splattered everywhere — kinda like spraying hairspray — and it covered Fawn’s face, hair, and neck. It pooled and dripped off her eyelashes and down the two curls on the sides of her neck.
Everyone sat there stunned.
I wanted to laugh, but I waited to see what Fawn did first.
Even Flip stayed quiet for this one.
The round yolk started to slide from one polka dot to the next, down the middle of Fawn’s dress. She looked down and was able to catch it before it fell in her lap. She held it up in her hand and smiled.
“I knew I could do it.”
That’s when everyone roared with laughter.
“And now,” she said, “I would like to take a shower.” She got up and made her way down the hallway to the bathroom.
“Dinner will be delayed a few minutes,” Mom said, and she got up to follow Fawn.
“Anyone care for an egg appetizer?” Flip asked as he pointed to the gloppy mess Fawn had left on the table.
“She should have listened to me. I told her to keep it in her palm. She dug her nails in. Oh, the embarrassment . . .” Brady gathered up the remaining eggs and trudged back to the kitchen.
When Fawn came out of the bathroom, her hair was in a ponytail — just like we saw when we were at her house — and she was wearing some of my mom’s sweats, a t-shirt, and some slippers. And for the rest of the night she was different. Good different. Relaxed. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she switched places with a twin or something. She laughed at Flip’s jokes, smiled even when I used bad manners, and she ate a lot — which she never does — and commented on practically every bite.
“I can’t remember when I’ve had a better meal,” she said as she popped a big bite of chocolate cake in her mouth. “Thanks for inviting me.” She washed the cake down with a huge gulp of sparkling apple cider. “Yum. Now I need to walk a mile or so.” She patted her belly. “Glad these are stretch pants.” This had to be Fawn’s happy twin sister.
“Mom, can I help you with the dishes?” I didn’t really want to, but my good feelings took over and that question just popped out of my mouth.
“Absolutely not. I’ve got this covered. Why don’t you all go out to the living room and get out some board games or something. I’ll just clear these and take care of them later.”
What a relief. I’d rather play games than wash dishes any day.
We all made our way out to the living room, where we saw Brady — kneeling backward on our couch and staring out the front window.
“Brady, whatcha doin over there?” I hoped he wasn’t pouting over Fawn and the egg. He usually doesn’t like when things don’t turn out the way he planned.
“I’m not Brady, I’m Sam Shady — Private Eye. I’m on a case. Don’t bug me.”
We all looked at each other and shrugged. Flip couldn’t stay out of it, though. He jumped on the couch next to Brady and looked out.
“I wanna play. Who are we spying on?”
Brady pointed out to the hedge that leads up to our front door.
“That guy.”
That’s when we all ran over to the window. A guy — outside?
Mom came in and wanted to know why we were all staring out the window.
That’s when we saw him — a figure in a grey hooded sweatshirt ran down our driveway, jumped into a silver car, and drove off.
“Brady!” Mom pulled out her phone. “How long was he there?”
“I don’t know. A little while. He kept looking in the window by the front door and then hiding behind the hedge.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Flip asked.
“I’m a private eye. We keep things to ourselves.”
“That’s dumb,” I said.
Mom called her station in Clovis, which is just a few miles from where we live in Fresno. “Hi, Jack — yeah, can you send a unit over to my house? We’ve had an intruder. No, not inside — just lurking by the front door. Thanks.”
Brady looked like he was going to cry. “I didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t look like a bad guy. I thought he was going to ring the doorbell . . .”
“It’s okay, honey. He probably just had the wrong address or something. Why don’t you go upstairs and get a game for us to play?”
“I’ll get Clue,” he said. Then he ran upstairs like nothing had happened. Sometimes it’s cool to be Brady.
The rest of us stood around, not sure what to do.
“A squad car will be here in a few minutes,” Mom said. “I’ll ask them to stay parked outside for the rest of the night.” Then she turned to Fawn. “I’ve seen that car before — in front of your house. So who could be following you?”
Fawn sat down on the couch and grabbed a pillow.
“I’m the most boring person on earth. I can’t think of anyone. Maybe they’re following you. You’re the cop.”
Flip and I glanced at each other. I wanted to say it out loud but I didn’t.
That’s the same car that was in the parking lot at the Swiftriver office.
Maybe they’re following Flip. Or . . . me.
A chill ran through my whole body.