Page 6 of Avelina

“I did hear it,” Drew squeaked, “and it was the weirdest thing in the history of ever. I was so scared!” Her eyes were wide as she spoke, but they danced, and a small smile played on her lips. It was dangerously adorable.

Milo laughed again. Marti smiled, too, her eyes rarely leaving Milo. She appeared uncommonly relaxed, though she had stopped drinking after the first beer in case she needed to manage her husband.

“I believe you, Lina,” Spirit chimed in.

“So do I,” said the twins at the same time.

Milo rolled his eyes and Marti laughed out loud. “You guys are so pathetic. Especially you, Juan,” she said.

Finally, I thought. “Yeah, Juan,” I said.

Milo and Marti both burst out laughing. Marti said, “You see? I told you she didn’t remember their names!” This, of course, made everyone laugh.

“Freaking Marti, I swear!” I said, exasperated. I wasn’t actually mad that she had tricked me into revealing my secret mental impairment. Everyone already knew about it anyway. However, I was still irritated that she’d called Drew.

“I can’t believe you fell for that again,” Marti said, still laughing.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the twins. “Can you guys please just tell me your names again?”

“And shoe size,” interjected Milo.

“Never mind. I’m getting another beer. Anyone?” I asked. A chorus of agreement followed. “Everyone. Got it,” I said. I got up and walked toward the keg, giving Marti a little side-eye as I passed. She glanced at me, then back at Milo, shrugging. I had no room to judge. I was a little wobbly myself as I walked to the keg.

The door squeaked open, and my mom came through it, holding a bottle. “Does anyone want port?” Another chorus of merry agreement resounded. Even Marti sat up with interest.

“Everyone. Got it,” she said. “I’ll get the port glasses.” She walked over to the outdoor bar to fetch them. She had a weird obsession with using the proper dishes and utensils for things, as if she were entertaining royalty and didn’t want to appear uncouth. I wondered if her fancy glassware would survive the night. I didn’t care either way. I hate port.

Another door squeaked. I glanced up, expecting my dad, but a guest door opened, and Snow White walked out. She smiled crookedly at me, but it didn’t touch her eyes, which were a luminous blue-green color. They didn’t seem like human eyes but more like the kind of monster eyes you might see coming out of the darkness on a vintage episode of Scooby Doo.

I tried to return her smile, but it was stiff. “Are you finding everything okay?” I asked. She nodded. “Are you interested in dinner? My mother is famous for her cooking.”

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “I should eat something.” She had an unusually deep voice, and something close to a standard American or maybe Canadian accent, but I couldn’t quite place it. She was several inches taller than me with well-muscled shoulders and a lean frame. She looked me up and down, one corner of her mouth twitching. Something amused her, apparently, and I had no desire to know what.

I turned away, avoiding her intense gaze, and got her a plate. It was tricky to maneuver the tongs with my splinted extremity, but I managed. She didn’t offer to help, despite my obvious injury. I had to stop loading food before the plate got too heavy to hold with just my left hand. I walked over to her, holding out the plate.

“Would you like to eat out here or in your room?” I asked, hiding my annoyance.

“It’s a lovely night. I think I’ll eat out here,” she said, her crooked smile poised to jump right off her face and bite me.

I looked away from her, out past the screens toward the trees. It was getting late, and the fog had fully consumed the property. It was cool, but not cold, and there was very little wind. A symphony of frogs and toads out in the grove reminded me of summers with Rogue when I was in school. It really was a perfect night, but the fun of the evening hadn’t relieved my profound sense of loss.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s a beautiful night. Sit anywhere you like.”

The guest settled at a table in the corner of the porch and picked up her burger. I pointed a fake little smile at her and turned to go back to my group, but before I could escape, she coughed loudly. I turned back to find her spitting out the burger.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing, it’s just a little spicy for me,” she said, coughing again.

I did my best to hide my incredulity. The burgers weren’t that spicy. It was mostly paprika. “I’m sorry. Can I get you something else?” I asked.

“No. I will eat the . . . um . . .”

“Potatoes?” I supplied.

“Yes,” she said, picking up the corn.

Huh. Maybe she’s from Quebec. “Okay, I’ll be over here if you need anything.”

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