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vaguely resentful at being someone bouncier and more upbeat than she actually was. Amy Pollyanna.
    “Bananas no come. Times be tough man,” said Mr. Fu.
    “Do you think the bananas might come tomorrow?”
    He shrugged. “Who knows? Banana country very far. Boats have no oil. No go, maybe never.”
    Amy doubted that every boat importing bananas was completely out of fuel, or that bananas would never show up in the grocery store again. She smiled wider, felt stupid, and paid for her groceries. “Have a nice day, Mr. Fu!”
    He shook his head sadly and she escaped.
Have a nice day
—she never said stuff like that. Mr. Fu had a bad effect on her by making her too sweet. Just as Kaylie had a bad effect on her by making her too sour.
    Kaylie and Gran were both in Gran’s room, Gran in bed and Kaylie perched on a chair jammed in beside it. On the wall behind Kaylie hung her double: their mother’s picture, beautiful and unsmiling, her dark curls cut in an old-fashioned style. Gran gazed often at the picture, although she never spoke about her dead daughter. She was not one to dwell on the past. Amy knew little about her mother and even less about her father, a journalist kidnapped and murdered in Iraq when Amy was barely three. But she did know that she had his coloring, so much less dramatic than Kaylie’s.
    Gran and Kaylie were eating lunch or maybe a late breakfast: oatmeal again. Amy said, “Wait! I brought stuff for sandwiches! I got a new job!”
    They both stopped eating, spoons halfway to their mouths, looking so identically comical that Amy would have laughed if she weren’t so tense about the coming conversation. She had decided on her strategy.
    “Well, actually, it’s not a great job, but it pays better than the restaurant, if only because it’s full-time. So it really doesn’t matter that it’s going to be so boring.”
    “Is it at the TV station?” Kaylie demanded.
    “Yes. I’m going to—”
    “Are you going to be on
television
?”
    “God, no. I sit in a back room, call people on the phone, and ask them questions about what TV shows they watch and do they like them, blah, blah, blah. You know, ratings surveys.”
    Kaylie relaxed. Amy could
see
the jealousy leave her, the green monster subsiding behind those green eyes.
    Gran, who was not so pale this morning and even seemed to be eating, still looked suspicious. “Amy, why would a TV station give a full-time job to an untried sixteen-year-old when unemployment is over twenty-seven percent?”
    “Because the shows I’m calling about are aimed at teenagers. So they wanted somebody young to talk to the survey takers. You know, more relatable.”
    Gran bought it. Amy saw the moment she, too, relaxed, her head sinking against the pillow. Kaylie hadn’t brushed Gran’s hair. And as Amy moved closer, she could smell the burned oatmeal.
    “Don’t eat that,” she said, keeping her temper under control. “Kaylie and I will make sandwiches—I brought turkey! And Gran, I didn’t even tell you the best part—I got full family medical! As soon as I can get an appointment, I’m taking you to a real doctor!”
    “Amy . . .” Gran said softly, and didn’t go on. But the single word, plus Gran’s soft, admiring gaze, was enough for Kaylie. Her eyes narrowed; she bit her lower lip.
    “Kaylie,” Amy said, “come help me make sandwiches.” She dragged Kaylie to her feet and into the other room, “accidentally” bumping the bedroom door closed behind her. This would be the tricky part with Kaylie.
    Her sister said, “Well, aren’t you just the little family savior. Saint Amy, swooping in to save us all.”
    Amy pulled out the envelope with her advance. She had carefully divided it; the remainder stayed in her bra. “This job you’re sneering at saved your bacon. This is Mrs. Raduski’s rent, Kaylie, plus ten dollars over. They gave me an advance on salary. You’re going to take the rent downstairs and then you’re going to take the