Page 24 of April Flowers

“It’s there,” Margot said, pointing at the relevant one.

The girl didn’t say thanks. “When did you last live here?”

“I was eighteen when I left.”

The girl made a sound in the back of her throat. She sat down and peeled the top off a pudding packet, then plunged a spoon in hungrily. She was stick-thin. Margot wondered when she’d last eaten. Weeks ago? Then again, now that she saw her in the light of the kitchen, the girl seemed clean, as though she’d recently showered. If she was homeless or a runaway, where was she taking care of herself? Did she break into people’s places all the time?

Margot decided this was a good tactic.

“Do you do this a lot? Break into people’s houses? Take their things?”

The girl ate a big spoonful of pudding and looked at her. “How old are you now? Forty?”

Margot felt it like a punch. Although, of course, she was nearly forty. She couldn’t dispute that.

Margot said, “Why don’t we answer each other’s questions? We can trade back and forth. Like a normal human conversation.”

“Normal. Human.” The girl scoffed, then ate more pudding.

“You’re hungry,” Margot observed.

The girl laughed. “I’m always hungry.” She then gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit down. I got you some.”

“It isn’t yours to offer me.”

“But it’s your mother’s, isn’t it?”

Margot stiffened. “How do you know my mother’s sick? How do you know my name?”

The girl seemed to think she was winning whatever game this was. She smiled and gestured to the chair across from her again. Margot rolled her eyes, feeling like a teenager herself, and grabbed a spoon. Sitting across from the teenager, she unpeeled her own pudding cup and ate. She was surprised at how hungry she was. The pudding activated something in her.

For more than a minute, the two of them ate in silence.

“You were eighteen when you left,” the girl repeated. “Why did you go?”

Margot tilted her head. “I’m surprised you don’t know. You seem to have more information than you should.”

The girl smiled and reached for the cheese and bread. She seemed to pride herself on knowing things she shouldn’t know. Margot remembered being the same way as a teenager—especially when it came to impressing (or annoying) her older brothers and sister.

Where were they? Wouldn’t they like to know about their missing mother?

“Did you graduate from high school?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” Margot said.

“Did you go to college?”

“I didn’t.” A spike of shame rose in Margot, one that surprised her. She’d long ago given up on the concept of university. She was one of Boston’s best entrepreneurs—proof that you didn’t have to get an education to become something. Life was its own education. It was never-ending.

“I don’t want to go to college, either,” the girl said.

“Why not?”

The girl laughed. “Everything is a scam.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Margot said. “Plenty of people go to college and have wonderful careers.”

“What is your career?”

---