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pet.”
    “I bet you looked just like Shirley Temple back then.”
    “This is the zoo and you’re the zookeeper!” I blurted out.
    “Well, I guess you could say that. You want to see some more animals?”
    “Yeah!”
    “There’s a guinea pig in the attic I haven’t shown you yet. The attic is Miguel and Ricky’s room. And there’s some rabbits outside, in hutches.”
    “Where are Miguel and Ricky today?” Mommy asked. “I was hoping Margaux might get to play with them.”
    “Out at Big Mouth Arcade, probably. Wasting this sunny day.”
    “With Inès?”
    “No, Inès doesn’t get home from work until around five thirty. Lately she’s been putting in overtime. They don’t pay her extra, but she’ll never say anything.” He rolled his eyes.
    “I want to see the rabbits now!” I grabbed Peter’s hand. “Please take me?”
    “Let’s go!”
    As I skipped away, I heard Peter say, “I love that. When children skip. The most innocent, worry-free thing someone can do is skip.”
    When we got back to our apartment, I picked up the rotary-dial phone in our kitchen. “Let’s call Peter; let’s ask him when we can come back to his house.”
    “Well, I’ll give you the number. You call him. I wouldn’t want us to look overeager.” On the phone, I said, “Peter, can we come over to your house again, it isn’t polite to ask so soon, but I loved being there so much and you’re so much fun, I had such a good time and I love Paws so much, I just love him, and Warden too, though he looks like he could be a bit moody, and the rabbits—they’re so soft and I like their little bunny noses. I love Peaches and Porridge! I want to come to your house every day for the rest of my life!” I paused; my mother was always talking about the importance of routines. “I want you to make a schedule of days when we can visit your house.”
    I couldn’t explain why I felt it was all right to be so bold with Peter; I just knew it was.
    Peter laughed. “When you want something you get it, don’t you? Put your mother on.”
    After what seemed like forever, I heard my mother laugh and say, “Okay, Mondays and Fridays, then. That’s good for us. My husband likes to take us out on the weekends, so that works out.” She paused. “You’re very good with kids; Margaux took an incredible liking to you. Oh, you’ve had foster kids? Well, that’s nice. I’ve always admired people who do good deeds; I wish I could do good deeds myself but my husband doesn’t believe in giving money to charity or anything of the sort. Yes, do unto others . . .”

3
    A BAD HABIT
    A fter we’d gone to Peter’s house for three straight Mondays and Fridays, arriving at ten and staying until about four thirty so we would be home before Poppa, I slipped up in front of Peter and began to play with my hair in the weird way Poppa hated—I would snatch up strands in my fingers to shake and twist them. Sometimes I had done this so frenziedly that I had actually contorted portions of hair into impossible snarls and knots, which Mommy had given up trying to comb out. We were in the yard, Mommy snug in a lawn chair, me standing by the birdbath. I’d just finished playing ball with Paws.
    My mother quickly said, “Oh, my husband and I are trying to stop that. We’ve told Margaux time and time again. But I wish her father wouldn’t be so critical of her. It’s just a nervous habit like biting your nails.”
    “For God’s sake, she’s only seven. I think it’s cute when she does that. She’s feeling free and happy doing it. I can’t understand why adults put so much pressure on children.” Mommy shrugged, and Peter said, “Margaux, let me see you do it again. You’re free, here in this yard, just let go, do what you want. Go on, feel free, play with your hair.”
    I didn’t want to. Playing with my hair in front of Peter, as much as he said he would enjoy the sight, seemed to stir up even more feelings of shame than the times Poppa had