Page 42 of Dizzy

“You fixin’ to rob us?”

A feeling not unlike guilt rises in my chest, but I shove it down. “I need money.”

He drags the last piece of toast through the syrup, sopping up as much as he can. His nose is wrinkled as if he’s considering. “I got five bucks I can let you hold.”

“I need more than five bucks.”

“Ask Dad for a check.”

Well, this is a dead end.

“Can I borrow your phone?” There’s always my Hail Mary. If I can remember Carol’s phone number, and if it hasn’t been turned off again, shemightbail me out.

“It’s dead.”

“You kids only have that one charger?”

“There’re more. We just don’t know where they are.”

Carson swipes his fingers across the plate to wipe up the last of the syrup and sticks them in his mouth. “Can I ask you something?” he mumbles.

“Sure.”

“What’d you do to make Steel Bones mad at you?”

“Why do you think they’re mad at me?”

“Miss Ernestine said no one steals from us and gets away with it.”

“She’s really salty about some nuts and beef jerky.”

“That what you stole?”

“Yeah. And some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“That’s crap.” He hops up and heads for the fridge. “We can eat whatever we want from the kitchen. Anybody can.”

“Not me, I guess.”

“You were hungry.” His face hardens almost to a glower. Now he looks like his dad. He grabs the milk, unscrews the lid, chugs, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That ain’t right. If you’re hungry, ask me. I’ll get you what you want. Nobody’ll say anything to me about it.”

“I did take some booze from the bar.” Since he’s being so nice, I feel compelled to be honest.

He shrugs. “I can get you that, too.”

“Thanks.” Carson is officially my favorite person in this family.

“Want to playPoint of Collision? You said you’d play last night, but you went to bed.”

“Maybe later.”

“Cool.” He lopes off, heading down to the basement, and he nearly gives me a heart attack when he galumphs back and pokes his head back through the doorway. “Thanks, lady. You make good French toast.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then he’s gone, and it’s quiet again. Eerily quiet. I pad into the living room and root through the end tables and a fancy antique desk with a rolling cover. Nothing except a half-empty pack of stale Capris. I snag those. I don’t really smoke, but they’re good for making friends and makin’ yourself look legit when you’re loitering.

I search through a few closets before I head back for the bedroom. Parker has one of those drawstring backpacks hanging from his desk chair. I commandeer it, shake out a plastic Army guy and a gummy hard candy, and fill it with my food stash. Then I plop back on the bed, at loose ends. I get nervous when I don’t have anything to do with myself.

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