Chapter 16: Mansfield

I told him the truth.

"I don't think he's all right, sir. I think he's pretending to be, so nobody worries."

"That's him," his grandpa said. "That's been him since he was six."

"Did he do what that boy says? Take you for points?"

"No. He took a login so three guys couldn't. Then he couldn't figure out how to tell me. He told me now. All of it."

"Took him long enough." A long breath. "Sunday. Bring him home. I'll make the bars, and you can tell me if they pass."

Then he hung up without saying goodbye.

Beck drove us up on Sunday in an old silver hatchback with one mirror held on with duct tape.

He spent the first half hour explaining things I didn't need to know.

"He'll ask about your mom. He'll ask what your mom drives. Don't tell him if it's foreign."

"It's a Honda."

"Don't tell him that."

The house was a white ranch on a street of white ranches, with a detached garage bigger than the house.

His grandpa met us in the driveway.

He was tall, bent a little now, with huge hands and a red flannel shirt buttoned to the neck.

Then he held out one of those hands.

"Girl from the game," he said.

"Callie."

"I know. I've been calling you the other thing since July. It's going to take a while."

The kitchen smelled like butter and lemons.

There was a glass pan on the counter, already cooling, with powdered sugar on top.

He cut me a square and put it in front of me on a paper napkin and folded his arms.

Beck stood behind him with the face of a man watching a bomb squad.

I took a bite.

I took another bite, slowly, so they'd both have to wait.

"Well?" his grandpa said.

"The curd is perfect," I said. "The crust's too thick. You're pressing it with your hand instead of a glass, so the middle's dense."

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