Chapter 11: Gil Reads It

I slid the notebook into the back of my jeans, pulled my sweater over it, and opened the bathroom door.

Inez stood in the hall with a teacup in one hand and no expression at all.

She looked at me.

She looked at Birdie, whose pajama top hung flat and innocent.

"Birdie, sweet pea," she said. "Did you take something from Grandma's desk?"

I saw it in her eyes then, the whole bet.

She was counting on the one thing she had trained into my daughter.

"Yes," said Birdie.

"What did you take?"

"Something that's mine. It has my name on it."

Inez's cup clinked on its saucer.

"Which book is it, Grandma?" Birdie asked helpfully. "The pink one with the stickers?"

I stepped in before Inez could answer.

"Inez," I said. "What did she take?"

It was the first time I had seen her without a word.

If she said "a black notebook," she had admitted it existed.

If she said "my keepsake book," I could ask to see it, and it was pink and in the top drawer.

"A little something," she said at last, and smiled with her mouth. "Never mind. I'm sure you'll bring it back."

"I'm sure I will," I said, and I carried it out of the house under my sweater like a stolen cake.

Gil taught shop fourth period.

I found him in the wood room, with sawdust on his forearms and a table saw humming down to silence.

I put the notebook in his hands and said, "Read it. All of it. Don't talk."

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