Page 14 of The One I Want
“Well hello, Miss Mags,” I say as I get up from my chair. “What’cha got there?”
She holds it out for me. “It’s a neon ball. Gram says it’s for dogs, but that’s okay, we like playing with it. What are you doing?”
I take a seat on the porch step. “I’m just relaxing. Hoping a cute visitor would come over and show me her glow-in-the-dark ball.”
This makes her giggle. “Do you want to play with us?”
Now I’m the one laughing. “I don’t think you’d want me to. I’m not very good at throwing balls.”
She reaches for my hand, which I give her as she does her best to pull me up. “Neither am I. I can’t catch either. That’s why I had to run over here. Come on! You can come play with us!”
How can I say no to this sweet child? So despite the fact that the only reason I passed gym class being because I somehow was a decent enough runner, I walk over to the Taylors’ front yard.
“Miss Betsy is going to play with us!” Magnolia announces.
“Sweet!” the little boy, who I think I heard Magnolia call Hank, says. I look over to the porch where the older daughter, whose name I still didn’t get, is sitting on the porch reading.
“I should warn you. I’m not very good,” I say.
“It’s okay,” Hank says. “We just like to have fun. It’s fun getting to play in the yard at night!”
I laugh as the three of us start tossing around the ball, more times than not missing our targets completely. But no one seems to mind, based on their little laughs and happy dances when one of us actually catches the ball.
“Hey, you two,” I say, feeling a little winded, which is kind of depressing but I’m not going to think about that right now. “I’m going to go take a break.”
“Will you watch us?” Magnolia asks, her little puppy dog face too precious to refuse.
“Of course,” I say, walking toward the porch. “I’ll watch right here.”
I take a few steps toward where Wednesday is sitting, her nose still in a book. I really should figure out her name.
“Mind if I sit down?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, not letting her eyes divert from the page.
“I’m Betsy, by the way.”
“I’m Emerson.” Still no eye contact. This girl is invested in this book.
“What’cha reading?”
She doesn’t answer right away, instead finishing the page, or so I’d assume, before she puts a bookmark in her spot. “It’s a story of two best friends who are trying to hunt down a person who just stole diamonds from a museum.”
My eyes grow wide. “Really? How old are these best friends?”
“Twelve.”
“Impressive. When I was twelve, I was failing horribly at learning how to put on makeup.”
“Dad says I’m not allowed to wear makeup until I’m a teenager. Which technically would be in one year and three months. Though I have no desire to. It feels like a lot of work, and I just don’t have time for that.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say with a chuckle.
“Plus, beauty standards are getting out of hand in the days of social media. Why do I need the newest eyeshadow palette from a woman who is famous for doing nothing except having rich parents? Hard pass.”
I look over to this girl, wondering if I’m talking to a kid or a middle-aged woman. “How old are you again?”
“Eleven. I’ll be twelve in February.”
