Page 112 of Jesse's Girl

I push down a pang of regret that I haven’t had more of a relationship with my sister and her kids. Because of my crappy internet connection in Oz, we haven’t even been able to do video chats. Postcards and phone calls only go so far.

My gaze snags on Ada, who’s standing near the mantle above the fireplace, holding a framed photo with an amused look on her face. When she catches me watching her, she turns it toward me; I recognize the shot of me at the seventh grade science fair with Claire posing at my side. She mouths, “love him.”

I roll my eyes.

“Hey, Sam,” I say, keen to shift attention away from the evidence of my awkward years. “My friend Ada over there does lots of drawing. I bet she could draw anything you can think of.” I glance her way with a meaningful tilt of my head, silently beckoning her over.

Ada smiles and puts the photo back, then walks over to sit beside Sam.

“Hey, Sam,” she says. “My name’s Ada.”

“Hi.”

“So, what are we drawing?” Ada peers at Sam’s dragon picture. “Ooh, super cool dragon! Can I draw one too?” When Sam nods, she picks up a red pencil and pulls an unused sheet of paper in front of her.

Hazel scribbles with enthusiasm at my side, and Claire circles around behind me, quietly reminding her to make sure her drawing stays on the paper.

“So, is Sam short for anything?” Ada asks, sketching a rough outline in red. “Samuel? Samson? Sample Sale?” she spitballs, and when he stares at her, she just keeps going. “Sambuca? Samosa?” She drums her fingers on her chin, squinting thoughtfully. “Sammich? I bet it’s Sammich.”

Sam cracks up. “No! My name’s not Sammich!”

“I dunno. You look like a Sammich to me. But maybe I’m just hungry.” She smirks and elbows him gently, then leans toward him and stage-whispers, “Don’t worry, I won’t eat you.”

Across the table, Sam’s eyes go wide.

Ada makes a tsk sound. “Uncle Jesse, though? He’s even hungrier than me, dude.”

“No!” Sam shouts through his laughter.

“And he eats weird things all the time. Your mom just told me!”

“Hey, that’s right, Garby,” Claire joins in, teasing.

I shake my head.

“Wait a second,” Ada says, her tone suddenly serious. “How old are you?”

“Five!”

Ada purses her lips and sucks in a long breath, making a show of cringing. “A five-year-old Sammich? Yikes. Can’t eat you. You’re probably all moldy.” She gives him an over-the-top grimace.

Sam laughs. “I’m not moldy!”

“Jesse, what do you think? Is Sammich here too moldy for us to eat?”

“Definitely,” I nod, grinning at her.

“See? You’re safe. Uncle Jesse doesn’t like moldy Sammiches either.”

“I’m not moldy!” Sam squeals with laughter. “And my name’s not Sammich!”

She holds up her hands in a defensive pose. “Okay, okay. If you say so.”

She’s so good at this. Good with kids. Meanwhile, I barely know how to talk to them.

“What color should my dragon’s scales be?” Ada asks, eyes glittering. “Should we let Hazel choose?”

Hazel rounds the table and climbs over Ada’s lap, picking up a handful of colored pencils and pushing them into her hands. “Dese ones,” she says.

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