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far this summer stinks.”
    â€œTake some money from the jug on top of the stove,” Mary said, very patient. “Go to Weddon’s and buy some milk. You’re acting like a spoiled brat.”
    â€œMother never goes to Weddon’s. She says they’re a big rip-off.”
    â€œBut she isn’t here.” Mary’s voice was sweet as pie. “So we have to make do, don’t we, creepola?” With a flourish she flipped over her eggs. Fat sizzled up and hit her hand. The outer edges of the egg were frizzled and brown. The center was bright yellow and hard and unappetizing. Mary smacked her lips in anticipation and put a piece of bread in the toaster. The egg was done long before the toast, which came out burned. She scraped it off at the sink, then spread a thick layer of jam over the burned parts.
    Jenny watched. “In the olden days, when the mother got killed or died in childbirth,” Jenny said dreamily, “girls your age took over raising the kids. I can see you now. You’ve got a whole mess of little kids tugging at your apron, plus you’re doing the cooking, plus the mending, plus you have to go out to the barn and milk a mess of cows.” Jenny smiled happily. “Then you have to load up the family shotgun on account of you see a bear or an Indian looking in the window at you.” Jenny shook her head sorrowfully, trying to imagine Mary coping with all these things.
    To her credit, Mary made no reply. Head high, carrying her plate, she marched outside and sat on the hard iron bench that always made her rear end sore, and ate her breakfast. Each bite was carefully chewed, each bite was obviously delicious.
    When she came back inside, Jenny was watching a game show on television. Chin in hand, Jenny looked glumly at the squealing, avaricious audience. Mary put her plate in the sink, ran cold water over the eggy remains, and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. It was almost time to go to the Hirshmans’.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Jenny hadn’t brushed her teeth since their mother’s departure. Or changed her underwear. If she wore any at all. She said she was trying to cut down on laundry. Mary refused to sleep in the same room with her until she changed her habits. Or her underwear. Whichever came first.
    â€œYou smell,” Mary had told her several times. In reply, Jenny let out a barrage of small farts, which she was able to do at will. No one else they knew was able to match this feat. It was a special talent, Jenny said smugly.
    Jenny also hacked away at her hair with a manicure scissors. If Mary could look like Alice in Wonderland, she decided, then she, Jenny, could look like Peter Pan, as the freckled man had said. Or, better still, the Pied Piper. All those rats had always intrigued her.
    Then Sue marched up to the front door and knocked, letting them know this was no ordinary visit.
    â€œMy mother’s inviting you over for dinner,” Sue said, her face long and serious. “All three of you. She says your father probably could use a home-cooked meal after all the junk food you’ve been eating.”
    â€œWe’ve had plenty of good stuff,” they told her, not exactly lying, not exactly telling the truth.
    â€œWell”—Sue sighed deeply—“my mother’s probably having a rib roast. If it isn’t too expensive. Or my father might make his coq au vin. He said he might try it out on you. He’s only done it once, just for us, but he might make it again.”
    Taken aback at the idea of going to Sue’s for dinner with their father, they said they’d have to ask him if it was all right.
    â€œWell, my mother’s calling him up to invite him,” Sue said. They half hoped he’d accept, half hoped he wouldn’t. They had never been to a friend’s house for dinner with their father and weren’t sure how it would be.
    â€œIf only Mother was here, it would be different,”