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Annabelle, and Sue, with Sue’s droopy cousin Erica fresh from Boston. Erica’s always telling us what her mummy says. Mummy says Boston’s the culture capital of the universe. Mummy says Boston’s museums, theater, ballet, and symphony, not to mention restaurants, are the best in the western world.
    As we settled in, Erica was saying, “Mummy reads at least four books a week, sometimes five.” Big deal.
    â€œHas she read the sequel to Gone with the Wind?” I asked.
    Oh yes, Mummy had devoured that one, Erica said.
    â€œI read in the paper that that book was written at a fourth-grade reading level,” I said. That was true. I had read that.
    Erica ignored me, but Patsy gave me a smile. We cut for deal. Patsy won. She shuffled like a pro.
    â€œAre you Egyptian?” Patsy asked Erica.
    Erica looked startled. “No,” she said. “Why?”
    Patsy shrugged and dealt. “It’s just that you’re always saying ‘Mummy this’ and ‘Mummy that,’ so I thought maybe you were Egyptian.”
    I smiled at Patsy. Then I dealt. I gave myself three kings and a pair of aces, a full house. Keeping my poker face on, I won a big pot. I scooped up the pile of chips, maintaining my poker face, trying not to look too victorious.
    Eight o’clock came and went. I wondered if Chuck Whipple was one of the troops coming to crash the party. Probably not. He was too new and too old. Too new in town and too old for the bevy of twelve and thirteen-year-old bozos out there falling all over their own feet, getting ready to storm the battlements.
    Roberta fidgeted, checking her watch every few minutes.
    â€œIt’s twenty to nine,” she said at last. “I guess they’re not coming.” Somebody, I think it was Erica, sighed.
    We ate the refreshments. Maura brought cherry bread made with maraschino cherries. She always brought cherry bread.
    â€œIt tastes funny,” Roberta said.
    â€œMy mom said to use Crisco instead of butter on account of cholesterol,” Maura said.
    Our yogurt dip was outstanding, as usual.
    â€œThat stuff’s gross,” Annabelle said, stuffing her face with her own sinful chocolate delight.
    I lost three hands in a row after my big win and soon was down to my green brontosaurus T-shirt.
    â€œAren’t you a little old for dinosaurs?” Erica said. “My little brother has a shirt exactly like yours.”
    â€œHow old’s your little brother?” Roberta said.
    Good old Roberta.
    â€œFour and a half,” Erica said with the air of someone who’s won the pot even though she’s lost.
    I think she was getting even.
    At the stroke of ten, we split. We sprinted out of Roberta’s so fast we didn’t even say “Thanks for a nice time.”
    I had just unlocked our front door when the telephone rang. Patsy gave me one of her hip checks, which she’s good at—being on the hockey team and all—and sent me flying.
    â€œHello,” she said in that breathless way she has that always makes people think she’s been running.
    â€œOh, it’s you! Yeah, we just got here. It was fab, all right. Positively fab. The best. Pretty much fun. See you.”
    Patsy hung up. “Sheesh, that Roberta,” she said. “She is so insecure. She doesn’t even give you time to get home before she’s checking to see if you had a good time. She said everybody said it was the best party they’d ever been to.”
    â€œWhat’d you say?”
    â€œI lied and said it was great. What the heck. If it makes her feel good, it’s worth it, right?”
    â€œPatsy,” I said, in a rush of memory, imitating my mother’s voice, “you simply have got to learn to tell the truth.”
    And Patsy, remembering, too, said “Why?”

Seven
    Little pieces of memory hit when you least expect them.
    It was early September five years ago and very hot. We went