Page 45 of The Mystery Guest

“Explain,” I say.

Gran pauses to consider. “Sometimes it’s what you can’t see that gives something its shape and meaning,” she says. “You’ll suddenly be aware of what’s never said out loud, and yet you’ll know it’s an essential part of the equation—the missing x—even if it’s invisible, even if it’s not actually there.”

I try with all my might to make sense of what she’s saying, but I can’t. If something is missing, it’s not there. If it’s not there, there’s nothing to see. I decide in that moment that it’s hopeless, thatI’mhopeless. I will never learn.

Gran crouches to meet me at eye level. “Don’t take this report card to heart, Molly. You’re not a failure. If anything is a failure, it’s the system. This is just a silly piece of paper that refuses to quantify your strengths.”

“Strengths?” I repeat.

“Yes. Strengths. You have plenty of them. You may miss certain niceties from time to time, but your heart and soul are in the right place.”

My heart is on my left side. I know it because I can feel it when I place my hand on my chest, and according to my research at the library, I am anatomically correct. As for my soul, I don’t know where it is. Maybe it’s like the mysterious x in Gran’s equation, something with a shape that’s only revealed by what’s around it.

“Since you’ve brought up social abilities,” Gran says, “I keep meaning to mention that you don’t need to say ‘Yes, madam’ quite so much in Mrs. Grimthorpe’s presence, or in anyone’s presence for that matter. It’s fine to show respect, but when you overdo it, people might think you’re obsequious.”

“O-B-S-E-Q-U-I-O-U-S. Meaning: overly obedient.”

“Yes, and servile. Someone lacking self-respect. And whileyou’re at it, when you want to know the meaning of words, you don’t have to spell them out. I love your spelling bees, but not everyone does. Maybe that’s something you can also do more sparingly?”

Gran approaches me then, and folds me into a hug, kissing the top of my head. “And Molly, just remember: no matter what, I’ll always be proud of you. You have just as much right as anyone to carry your head high.”

“Chin up, Buttercup,” I say as I look up at Gran.

“That’s my girl,” she replies. “Molly, I’m going to run downstairs to collect the laundry. I’ll fold it up and be back before you can say Jiminy Cricket.”

She has three loads to fold today, and even if she had only one, for the time it would take her to fold everything, I could probably say Jiminy Cricket a thousand times. But I know Gran is using an expression. She doesn’t intend it literally—meaning: precisely, strictly, exactly.

She opens the front door to leave, but then turns back. “If Mr. Rosso drops by, please give him the envelope I left on the kitchen table. And ask for the receipt, mind you. It’s that time of the month again,” she says with a weary look.

I know exactly what she means by “that time of the month.” It means the first day of the month, which is when our rent is due. Mr. Rosso, with his big, bulbous nose and his matching belly, will be here any minute, pounding on the door, demanding what’s his.

“Why is he called a landlord?” I ask my gran. “He does not behave like a lord.”

“Doesn’t he?” Gran replies. “He demands money for shoddy accommodations, expects deference for a lack of services, and covets property as if the entire world belongs to him. But give him the rent anyhow. After all, we want the lights to stay on. So be polite.”

“I always am.”

“Yes, you are,” Gran says. She smiles and walks out the door,locking it behind her. I can hear her humming down the hallway all the way to the stairs.

Once she’s gone, I crumple my report card into a satisfying ball and throw it in the kitchen garbage can.

It isn’t long before I hear a knock on our door. “Coming!” I say as I grab a kitchen chair and make my way to the entrance. Gran always makes me look through the fish-eye peephole before I open sesame, so I position the chair, climb up, and peer out.

It’s not Mr. Rosso. It’s a young lady I don’t recognize with jet-black hair and skittish eyes.

“Good day!” I call through the door. “Might I ask—who are you?”

“I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours,” the young lady says from the other side of the door.

I pause to think about this, never taking my eye from the peephole.

“Gran says I’m not to tell my name to strangers. I’m also not supposed to open the door to them.”

The woman shifts her weight from foot to foot as though she urgently needs the washroom. “I’m not a stranger,” she says. “Your gran knows me well. And I know you. Her name is Flora, and your name is Molly. I’ve been here before, you know. You just don’t remember because you were knee-high to a grasshopper, as your gran used to say.”

This sounds reassuring, but I’ve read Ali Baba, so I know better than to open doors before sesame is said. “Prove that you’ve been here before,” I demand.

She scratches her head. “Um, okay…Your grandmother’s favorite teacup is the one with the cottage scene on it. She keeps it on the shelf by the stove in the kitchen.”

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