Chapter 29: Zanesville

Beck practiced in the car.

"Ma'am, thank you for having me."

"She's going to hate ma'am."

"Mrs. Swann, thank you for having me."

"She's going to hate that more."

"What do I call her?"

"You don't," Betsy said from the back seat. "You wait for her to tell you. If she doesn't tell you by pie, you're dead."

The hatchback's taped mirror buzzed the whole way down I-70.

We pulled onto Maple at 1:40.

The porch light was on, in the middle of the day.

My mom was on the porch in her good sweater, with her arms folded.

Betsy got out first and ran across the street to her own house, yelling "MOM, I'M HOME, I'M STARVING" before her feet touched the curb.

Beck got out slowly.

He stood on the walk with a covered pan in both hands.

My mom came down the steps.

She looked at him for a long time, from his haircut to his shoes.

"You're the help desk," she said.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am. I'm forty-six. What's in the pan?"

"Lemon bars. My grandpa's recipe. Second edition."

"Second edition?"

"She fixed his crust," Beck said. "He's still upset about it."

My mom looked at me, and her mouth did the thing mine does when I'm trying not to laugh.

"Inside," she said. "Both of you. Your grandpa called me an hour ago. He's bringing a ham."

Beck stopped on the walk.

"He called you?"

"He got my number off Betsy's mother. He's lovely. He told me you're a coward but a good one."

Beck's ears went red.

His grandpa pulled into the driveway at 1:55 in a long brown sedan, wearing the red flannel buttoned to the neck and carrying a ham like a baby.

My mom met him on the porch.

"Linoleum floors?" he said, looking past her into the house.

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