Martin is short with thin brown hair, and he wears thick glasses that slip down his nose. Probably ’cause his nose is greasy. He’s hoisting his book bag on his shoulders when I say, “Martin, you wanna trade with me?”

He eyes me suspiciously. “Why, who do you have?”

“Jack Connelly.”

Shaking his head, he says, “Uh-uh. No way. That guy used to give me wedgies. No way am I helping him. Sorry, Annemarie.”

“Aw, come on—”

Ms. Gillybush breaks in crisply. “Annemarie Wilcox, this isn’t a popularity contest. You can either be a part of this program or not, but I won’t have you complaining over who you get.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Slowly, I write my initials next to Jack’s name, and then put the clipboard in Ms. Gillybush’s outstretched hand. I feel like Faustus, signing my life away to the devil himself.

Celia was supposed to read the play The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus for English Literature last year, but she ended up watching the movie instead. We watched it together. I really don’t think someone who watches high-school-level movies should be getting a B in English. Anyway, in the movie, this guy Faustus sells his soul to the devil in exchange for magical powers. The big moment is when he signs the contract in his own blood. That’s why people say things like “Faustian bargain” or “Faustian moment.” I’m having a real Faustian moment right now (minus the blood part). I just hope I don’t live to regret it the way Faustus did.

The rest of the day moves by way too fast. When I walk into Ms. Gillybush’s room that afternoon, everybody else has already paired off. Jack’s sitting alone, and as soon as he sees me, he groans. “Aw, man. Not you.”

I slam my book bag on the floor and sit down across from him. “Trust me, I don’t wanna be doing this either. Not with you, that’s for sure.”

“Then why are you?” he says nastily.

“Because I got a B on my essay, and I need the extra credit, not that it’s any of your business,” I snap.

“Oh, poor widdle Annemarie, she got a B. Big deal. Your life is so hard.”

“Just shut up. I’m the one who’s helping you, you ingrate.”

“And I’m so grateful.”

We snipe back and forth until Ms. Gillybush claps her hands. “Get to work, people. Decide when and where you’re going to meet.”

We glare at each other, and I finally say, “So when do you wanna have our first tutoring session?”

“How about never?”

“Fine by me, but I’m not the one who’s gonna have to go to summer school for failing English.”

That shuts him up quick. “I can’t after school. I’ve got baseball practice.”

“Then when? I’m not giving up my lunch period.”

“Fine. I’ll come by your house after dinner then,” he says, like he’s doing me some big favor when I’m the one doing the favor.

“Not my house. I’ll come to yours.”

He shrugs. “Whatever. Tuesday night?”

“Yeah, okay.”

If I’m lucky, Tuesday night will never come.

Chapter 20

In all the years I’ve known Jack, I’ve never been inside his house. I guess it’s no surprise, seeing as how we hate each other and all. After supper I ride my bike over very slowly.

Jack’s house is the small blue one-story with light blue shutters on the corner of Two Waterfalls Street. I ring the doorbell, and I realize my hands are sweaty. I’ve been dreading this moment all day.

I hear feet running to the door, and a little girl opens it. She looks about four years old. She’s wearing yellow overalls and her hair is tied in two braids. There’s ketchup on her chin. She’s Clarice, Jack’s little sister. “Are you my friend?” she asks. Her dark eyes are enormous.

I smile at her. “I’m Annemarie. You’ve met me before, Clarice. At the pool sometimes, remember?”

She nods. “Yeah … at the pool.” She’s opening the door wider when Jack walks up behind her, saying, “Clary, who is it? You know you’re not supposed to open the door to strangers. … Oh, it’s you.”

We stare at each other for a minute. Then Clarice takes my hand and pulls me inside the house. “She’s not a stranger; she’s my friend,” she tells Jack. She sticks her tongue out at him.

“Yeah,” I say. I stick my tongue out too.

He rolls his eyes and lets Clarice lead me through the house. “This is the kitchen, this is the potty room, and this is the TV room.” The house is dim, and there are toys strewn all over the place, in every room.

We end up in the TV room, where Clarice tells me to sit on the couch. I obey, and she plops down in my lap and plays with my hair. The couch is threadbare, and there are dark stains all over the cushions. I think I smell peanut butter on the cushion I’m sitting on.

Clarice says, “Annie Mary, your hair is pretty.”

Jack snorts loudly. “Ha ha. It’s about as pretty as a donkey’s tail.”

“You little—”

He interrupts me before I can say what I’m thinking, which is probably a good thing, because you shouldn’t cuss in front of kids. “Clary, you gotta leave us alone now. Annie Mary and I need to get some work done.”

Clarice shakes her head, and her braids swing back and forth. “Uh-uh. Annie Mary’s my friend. She’s here to see me. Right?”

“Uhh … It’s true that I’m your friend, but Jack and I have to do our homework first. Maybe we can play later?” I glance at Jack, and he looks disgusted. He probably doesn’t want me to stay a second longer that I have to.

“Nah. Now. I wanna play now.”

Jack walks over to us and picks Clarice up. “Nooo,” she whines.

She tries to wriggle out of his arms, but he has a tight grip on her. Jack whispers something in Clarice’s ear and carries her out of the room. He returns a minute later without Clarice. “We can work at the kitchen table, I guess,” he says. I shrug and follow him into the kitchen. There are two dirty plates on the table, and Jack puts them in the sink. The sink is piled up pretty high already. Some of the plates look crusty; I wonder how long they’ve been there and also if Jack knows that you’re supposed to let plates soak in hot water and soap so they won’t get all crusty like this.

We sit down across from each other.

“So what next?” He looks at me challengingly, but I’m ready for him.

“Go get your essay. We’ll start there.”

“Whatever you say.” His book bag is on the kitchen table, and he digs around inside until he finds it. He hands me a crumpled piece of paper with a D- written across the top. D-, wow. So he really is dumb. How did he ever pass the sixth grade?

Smirking, I say, “Nice one, Einstein. No wonder you need a tutor.”

Jack bristles and snatches the paper away. “I don’t need you giving me a hard time, Wilcox. If you’re gonna start up on me, then you can just get out.”

“Okay, okay. I was just kidding. Geez. Look who’s Mr. Sensitivo all of a sudden. He can dish it out but he can’t take it.” I can’t stop smiling.

Glowering at me, he says, “Are you gonna help me or not?”

“Fine, fine.” I skim over the essay, and it’s in pretty bad shape. It’s a mess of misspelled words, jumbled-up thoughts, and poor subject-verb agreement. I can see that I have my work cut out for me with this one.

We’re still working when Jack’s mom gets home. Like Mama, Mrs. Connelly doesn’t come out for neighborhood cookouts. She works a lot, and ever since she and Jack’s dad split up, she’s stopped bothering with being social.

Mrs. Connelly has dark hair like Jack, and pretty eyes, but there are deep wrinkles that border the skin around the edges. She’s wearing her waitress uniform, and she smells like restaurant food and smoke. She has a run in her stocking.

She puts half of a chocolate pie on the table. There’s a mound of whipped cream in the middle, and chocolate shavings sprinkled on top.

“Hey there,” she says. “Who’s your friend, Jacky?” Her bangs look damp, and she runs her hand through them, fixing them till they fall right.

“Mom, this is Annemarie,” Jack mumbles. He barely looks up. “We’re studying for English.”

“Hi, Mrs. Connelly,” I say.

“Call me Trish, honey. Mrs. Connelly is my mother-in-law, and trust me, you don’t want to meet her in a dark alley.” She laughs. “Right, Jacky?”

He mutters, “She’s your ex-mother-in-law.”

“Right, right.” To me, she says, “So you’re brave enough to help out my boy, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am, I guess so,” I say.

She sits down next to Jack and smoothes his hair over to one side. He jerks away from her. “Would you kids like some pie?”

I’d love some pie, but before I can say so, Jack says, “No, Annemarie has to get home.”

Trish looks at me then, her eyes narrowing. “Annemarie, you look familiar. Wait a minute, you’re Grace and Billy’s little girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, you look just like her.” She lights a cigarette and inhales deeply.

I hate it when people say I look like Mama. Mostly because it isn’t true. I look nothing like her.

Trish tugs at her collar and smiles at me tiredly. I can’t stop staring at those wrinkles around the corners of her eyes. She has such nice eyes too. Maybe if she used Mama’s kind of eye cream …

“If I’d have known we were having company, I’d have cleaned up the house a bit,” she says. “You sure you can’t stay for some pie?”

For a second, I consider saying yes. The pie looks good, and Jack looks like he’s in serious pain, which is a good thing. Anything to prolong his agony. But, I know what it feels like to be embarrassed by your mother, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even Jack. “No, ma’am, I’d better get going.” She protests, but I pack up my things quick as I can, and I hurry on home.

It’s a sad thing to feel sorry for an adult. There’s something wrong about it; you’re not supposed to feel sorry for the people who take care of you. They’re supposed to be older and wiser. But Jack’s mom just looks tired.

Chapter 21

My sister has cool friends. I guess it makes sense for her to have cool friends, because Celia herself is cool. My favorite friend is her best friend Margaret. Margaret has long reddish blond hair with a side part, and she has very slim wrists. She wears a gold heart-link bracelet every day, on her right wrist. I think her father must have given it to her. He died years ago, a heart attack while he was mowing the front lawn. Maybe that’s why Margaret has such slim wrists, so she can still wear the bracelet her father gave her all those years ago.

The other day, Margaret was over and they stayed up in Celia’s room forever, the way they always do. As soon as she and Celia get home from school, they rush upstairs and turn the music on and I can’t hear a thing. I even turned the TV down low.

They came down after a few hours though, and they just took over the whole TV room. Celia shoved my legs over and took two whole couch cushions for herself, and Margaret grabbed the remote control like she owned it. I didn’t really mind, though, because I like when Margaret and Celia hang out with me. Well, they weren’t really hanging out with me, but they were in the same room as me, and that’s pretty much the same thing.

We were watching a music video when Margaret said, “Hey Annemarie, you got a boyfriend yet or what?”

I said no, and Celia said, “Yeah right. Who’s gonna go out with her?” But she smiled when she said it, so I wasn’t mad.

And then Margaret winked at me and she said, “Cel’s just jealous, Annemarie, ’cause you’re way prettier than she was when she was your age.”

Celia threw a pillow at her, and we all laughed, but inside, I was dancing. I was spinning all around on my tippy-toes with my arms high in the sky, and all because Margaret said I was pretty. I know it isn’t true; I remember what Celia looked like when she was twelve, and it’s the same as she looks now. Beautiful. But I don’t care, because just for a minute, I believed it.

Sometimes I wish Margaret was my sister.

Chapter 22

Fall is my favorite time of the year. The air smells so good and clean. I like the falling leaves, the apple cider, but I love Halloween most of all. There’s a hush in the air on Halloween night; it’s practically religious. Waiting for night to finally appear. Rushing out into the neighborhood like a warrior. Feeling the weight of your pillowcase grow heavier and heavier with all things chocolaty, tart, and delicious. That sweet anticipation after you ring the doorbell—will you be lucky enough to get two pieces of candy if you smile and say “ma’am”? And then returning home with your bounty. Emptying your pillowcase and counting each piece so very carefully. And ah, November 1—Trading Day. What can be more thrilling than ripping somebody off by trading two lousy lollipops for a fun-size Nunko bar? Yes, the candy is exciting, but the costumes, those are the very best part. I will never get tired of dressing up. It’s fun to pretend to be someone else for just one day.

Celia thinks I’m too old to get dressed up and go trick-or-treating, and maybe I am. Maybe she’s right, maybe it is time to put away my pillowcase and give up chasing my old candy dreams. But I don’t want to. I said, “If I’m too old for dressing up, then what about all those adults that go to masquerade balls and costume parties? Are they too old too?”