Chapter Twenty-EightSethThen, one day, I see her.
I knew it would happen. It’s happened plenty before. It’s why we have the rules I hate.
It’s a Thursday night, just after seven. I volunteered to take Rusty to her tap dance class to give Daniel and Charlie a break, and afterward she talked me into walking to the Mountain Grind for hot chocolate.
It didn’t take much convincing. I’m a softie.
“She’s kind of a know-it-all, but she’s usually right,” Rusty’s saying. “And even though her parents were muggles, she’s way better at magic than the boys. And she’s way cooler.”
Rusty sighs.
“You think Dad and Charlie would let me go to boarding school?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Not a chance,” I say, grinning. “Wouldn’t you miss them? And Thomas?”
“I’d be home for holidays and stuff,” she says.
“I don’t think boarding school is like the books,” I say, gently.
Rusty gives me the most patronizing look I’ve ever seen on a child, and I have to fight not to laugh.
“I know Hogwarts isn’t real, Seth,” she says. “I mean a regular one.”
I don’t think Rusty actually wants to leave home and only see her family on holidays and weekends at the tender age of nine. The kid would be homesick like crazy.
I do think she’s read a whole lot of novels about kids at boarding schools, both magical and ordinary, who get to have fun adventures, solve mysteries, and save the day, all without parental interference.
“Rusty,” I say, and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a ways away, but you’re gonna love college.”
She sighs again. Do most nine-year-olds sigh this much?
Fifty feet in front of us, a door opens.
Delilah walks out. The world tilts.
“Maybe sleep-away camp this summer,” Rusty’s saying.
Delilah waves to someone inside. Lets the door go.
Looks straight at us.
It’s like a heat lamp. Always.
“Don’t you think that would be educational?”
She stares at me for a moment, face unreadable. There’s a yoga mat in a bag slung over one shoulder, her hair in a high bun, and she’s got leggings and winter boots on. When she sees Rusty, she smiles.
“Hi,” she says, shoving both hands in her coat pockets when we walk up to her. Her face is still slightly flushed, the edges of her hair damp. “Really nice night out, huh?”
No personal questions or comments. No inside jokes.
Just polite small talk.
“It’s very nice,” I say, my voice perfectly neutral. “Have you met my niece Rusty, by the way?”
“It’s been a while, I believe,” Delilah says as Rusty holds out her right hand, very seriously.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Rusty says with a perfectly straight face.
Delilah grins so big I think her face might crack in half.
“Absolutely,” she says, clearly trying not to laugh. “What a pleasure.”
“Likewise,” says Rusty, and lets Delilah go. She adjusts the strap on her shoulder again, looks me full in the face. The smile fades.
“Yoga?” I ask, nodding at the door she exited.
“Yep,” she says. “And you?”
“Just finished dance class and going for hot chocolate at the Mountain Grind,” I say.
I want to say care to join us? but I shut my mouth before I can.
“Well, I’ll let you get to it,” she says, turning on a bright smile again. The one that doesn’t fully reach her eyes. “Nice seeing you. Rusty, I remain charmed.”
“Later,” I say, and try to catch her eye as she walks away, but I can’t.
“Bye!” Rusty hollers, and that’s it. That’s all. Just nice night and yoga class and hot chocolate.
Not even don’t you think it smells like snow? Or they finally took the Christmas lights off the trees or how have you been?
Rusty and I keep walking, and it’s not until we reach the next crosswalk that I realize she’s giving me a really funny look.
“What’s up, kiddo?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
Rusty doesn’t say anything. She just frowns up at me, like she’s trying to add two and two on a calculator and the answer keeps coming up five.
“Nothing,” she says, uncertainly.I stand in the middle of the room, cross my arms, and look for the yellow dot.
I don’t see it. The room is filled with kegs — on the floor, stacked two or three high, all jammed into this space — but I don’t see the yellow marker I’m looking for.
I cross my arms a little harder and keep looking. Our inventory clearly states that we’ve got one more remaining keg of Deepwood Loch Scottish Ale, and the sports bar over in Grotonsville just asked if we had any left.
It’s here somewhere. My inventory system doesn’t lie. I just don’t know where.
Footsteps enter, and I turn. Arms still crossed.
“You want to talk about it?” Daniel asks, standing just inside the doorway.
“About the fact that we have a clear, concise keg organizational system that our employees regularly flaunt by putting kegs wherever they’re standing when they get bored of carrying them?” I ask. “Sure. They’re all fired.”