gravel drive. It is dark enough outside for the trees to turn shadow. For the moon to hang small and cautious above them.
"Hello, Moon," Mattie says. Listens for a reply.
Nothing.
Probably she needs to be outside.
She would be, too, if it wasn't for that Quincy Sweet. Be out at the rock ledge with Uncle Potluck listening for Miss Moon. Instead, Mattie will be inside listening to Quincy plunking out stuff that should be private. Expecting, probably, that Mattie will do the same.
A door bangs shut over at Miss Sweet's.
Mattie tiptoes into the hallway. It is dark enough that she can stay there, just outside the kitchen, and not be seen. Soon, too soon, she hears Quincy Sweet plunking outside and the
goodbye
blast of Miss Sweet's car horn. Uncle Potluck opens the door then, and Mama comes in, Quincy following, Uncle Tommy following behind thatâvisiting like he sometimes does, straight from work and still in his firefighter uniform, asking if there's anything left from supper.
Mattie stacks one bare foot on top of the other. Crosses her arms around herself. She shouldn't have changed. Pajamas aren't much different from naked if everybody else around is in regular clothes. She should change back, she thinks, but when she moves, Quincy spots her.
"Hello, Mattie," plunks Quincy.
Mama waves her into the kitchen.
Everyone is waiting. Mattie does not need to see their faces to know they are watching. How far does she need to walk into the kitchen for them to stop? One step? Two? Maybe she can go to where Uncle Potluck is sitting. Hide her pajama'd self behind his chair.
Mattie breathes deep.
Nobody is really looking at her, anyway. Isn't that what Mama says? People are too busy thinking about themselves to notice much about a ten-year-old girl?
One step. Two. Quick all the way to Uncle Potluck's chair.
"Hello, Quincy," Mattie says.
Mama was right. People have their own things to worry about. Nobody even notices her pajamas.
"You missed a button," says Quincy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
B EFORE SHE LEFT for her hospital shift, Crystal Sweet thanked Uncle Potluck for watching Quincy, but he is not watching Quincy. He and Mama and Uncle Tommy are playing cards in the kitchen, and Quincy is in the living room watching Mattie. Staring at Mattie, feels like.
She has her own pajamas on now, Quincy does, but they are not regular pajamas. Not baby pajamas with matching tops and bottoms and mouse-shaped buttons. Quincy Sweet is wearing a T-shirt, big, with SWEET'S TRUCKING printed on it, and a pair of bike shorts. She has long teenager-looking legs, which, even though she has her own sleeping bag that she could be sitting on, she has stretched out long on Mattie's sleeping bag. Mattie is folded up at the pillow end, her legs hugged up to her chest. She can feel her pajama buttons pressing against her thigh.
Eenie.
Meenie.
Miney.
Poor Moe.
"Who is Moe?" asks Quincy.
Mattie blinks. "What?"
"You said
Poor Moe.
Who is Moe?"
She said
Poor Moe?
Out loud?
Matter-of-fact, Mattie reminds herself. Unemotional.
"Moe is nobody," she plunks, or tries to. She does not sound "I don't care," like Quincy Sweet. She sounds like a little kid playing robot. Mattie tries again. "Nothing, I mean. A button. The missing button from my pajamas." Mattie pokes her pinkie through Moe's empty hole.
"I saw that," says Quincy.
Mattie waits for Quincy to say something else.
Quincy doesn't say anything else.
Just waits.
And waits.
Mattie is supposed to say something.
"I named each of these buttons," she says.
Stupid. Baby.
"When I was little, that is. A long time ago."
Quincy is still waiting. "Eenie, Meenie, Miney, and Moe," Mattie says. "Except Moe fell off." This does not sound unemotional. "I don't care, though," she says.
"If you don't care, how come you said
Poor Moe?
" says Quincy.
How come?
"Habit."
"So you say it all the time?"
Mattie looks to the kitchen, sending silent messages to Uncle Potluck.
Ask us if we want popcorn,
she
"Hello, Moon," Mattie says. Listens for a reply.
Nothing.
Probably she needs to be outside.
She would be, too, if it wasn't for that Quincy Sweet. Be out at the rock ledge with Uncle Potluck listening for Miss Moon. Instead, Mattie will be inside listening to Quincy plunking out stuff that should be private. Expecting, probably, that Mattie will do the same.
A door bangs shut over at Miss Sweet's.
Mattie tiptoes into the hallway. It is dark enough that she can stay there, just outside the kitchen, and not be seen. Soon, too soon, she hears Quincy Sweet plunking outside and the
goodbye
blast of Miss Sweet's car horn. Uncle Potluck opens the door then, and Mama comes in, Quincy following, Uncle Tommy following behind thatâvisiting like he sometimes does, straight from work and still in his firefighter uniform, asking if there's anything left from supper.
Mattie stacks one bare foot on top of the other. Crosses her arms around herself. She shouldn't have changed. Pajamas aren't much different from naked if everybody else around is in regular clothes. She should change back, she thinks, but when she moves, Quincy spots her.
"Hello, Mattie," plunks Quincy.
Mama waves her into the kitchen.
Everyone is waiting. Mattie does not need to see their faces to know they are watching. How far does she need to walk into the kitchen for them to stop? One step? Two? Maybe she can go to where Uncle Potluck is sitting. Hide her pajama'd self behind his chair.
Mattie breathes deep.
Nobody is really looking at her, anyway. Isn't that what Mama says? People are too busy thinking about themselves to notice much about a ten-year-old girl?
One step. Two. Quick all the way to Uncle Potluck's chair.
"Hello, Quincy," Mattie says.
Mama was right. People have their own things to worry about. Nobody even notices her pajamas.
"You missed a button," says Quincy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
B EFORE SHE LEFT for her hospital shift, Crystal Sweet thanked Uncle Potluck for watching Quincy, but he is not watching Quincy. He and Mama and Uncle Tommy are playing cards in the kitchen, and Quincy is in the living room watching Mattie. Staring at Mattie, feels like.
She has her own pajamas on now, Quincy does, but they are not regular pajamas. Not baby pajamas with matching tops and bottoms and mouse-shaped buttons. Quincy Sweet is wearing a T-shirt, big, with SWEET'S TRUCKING printed on it, and a pair of bike shorts. She has long teenager-looking legs, which, even though she has her own sleeping bag that she could be sitting on, she has stretched out long on Mattie's sleeping bag. Mattie is folded up at the pillow end, her legs hugged up to her chest. She can feel her pajama buttons pressing against her thigh.
Eenie.
Meenie.
Miney.
Poor Moe.
"Who is Moe?" asks Quincy.
Mattie blinks. "What?"
"You said
Poor Moe.
Who is Moe?"
She said
Poor Moe?
Out loud?
Matter-of-fact, Mattie reminds herself. Unemotional.
"Moe is nobody," she plunks, or tries to. She does not sound "I don't care," like Quincy Sweet. She sounds like a little kid playing robot. Mattie tries again. "Nothing, I mean. A button. The missing button from my pajamas." Mattie pokes her pinkie through Moe's empty hole.
"I saw that," says Quincy.
Mattie waits for Quincy to say something else.
Quincy doesn't say anything else.
Just waits.
And waits.
Mattie is supposed to say something.
"I named each of these buttons," she says.
Stupid. Baby.
"When I was little, that is. A long time ago."
Quincy is still waiting. "Eenie, Meenie, Miney, and Moe," Mattie says. "Except Moe fell off." This does not sound unemotional. "I don't care, though," she says.
"If you don't care, how come you said
Poor Moe?
" says Quincy.
How come?
"Habit."
"So you say it all the time?"
Mattie looks to the kitchen, sending silent messages to Uncle Potluck.
Ask us if we want popcorn,
she
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