I looked down at my hand. There was no blood, although the tip of my index finger was throbbing. “No.”
“Such miserable, awful little animals,” she said, reaching over and scooping the largest one up into her arms. It was very short-haired, with stubbly gray fur, a bald head, and little beady eyes, one of which it turned on me as she scratched behind its ears. The other two, still on the couch, were slinking under the remaining blanket, presumably to lie in wait for their next victim. “But we do love them, God help us.”
“What kind are they?” I asked as the one she was holding let out a belch that seemed more appropriate for an animal twice its size.
“They don’t really have a name. They’re just desperately overbred freaks of nature.” She gave it a kiss on its bald forehead. “This one’s Ayre. The other two are Destiny and Russell.”
I just looked at her. “Like . . . on Big New York?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Don’t tell me you watch that show.”
“I do,” I admitted. Although “watch” was putting it mildly. Before her, it was the only thing I had in the afternoons. “I watch all of the Big franchise, actually.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked this girl!” I turned to see Mrs. Chatham, in a red tracksuit, using a walker to make her way down the hall toward us. Rosie was behind her, carrying a Nike duffel bag and what I already recognized as her standard dissatisfied expression. “Are you Team Rosalie or Team Ayre?”
Sadly, I did not even have to think about my answer. “Team Ayre.”
She smiled. “You can stay.”
Layla rolled her eyes as her mother made her way over to the chair, easing herself down onto the seat. Rosie, meanwhile, fetched an afghan from the couch (I heard the dogs snap at her, then each other) while Layla picked up the insulated cup, carrying it into the kitchen. A moment later, she returned, twisting the top back on, and set it on the table.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Mrs. Chatham said as Rosie tucked the blanket over her. “Now, you two stop hovering, I’m fine. You don’t want to be late for Arthur, since he fit you in last-minute.”
“We’ll be back after, just as soon as Mac can pick us up, okay?” Layla told her. “And I have my phone on.”
“I am perfectly capable of spending a couple of hours alone. Now scoot, all of you.”
She waved her hand and her daughters scattered, Rosie picking up her duffel bag while Layla moved to the TV, turning it on and cuing up an episode of Big Chicago I hadn’t yet seen. Elena, the society wife, was crying, although her makeup remained perfect. Mrs. Chatham smiled, settling into her chair. The last thing I heard as we left was her cranking up the volume.
“Nice ride,” Rosie observed as we got into my car. Just like her sister had upon getting in earlier, she ran a hand over the leather seat admiringly, then peered up through the sunroof. “Is it the sport package?”
“Nope,” Layla said. “You can tell by the wheels.”
“Sure beats our cars,” Rosie replied, easing back against the seat. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t,” Layla told her. “Sydney’s doing you a serious favor.”
“And I appreciate it.”
“Then maybe you should say so.”
“It’s really nothing,” I said. “I hate being home after school anyway.”
This got their attention: I could feel them both look at me, even though I had my eyes on the road. “Really?” Rosie said. “Why?”
“Mind your own business,” Layla told her.
“What? You don’t say something like that unless you want someone to ask about it.”
“What are you, a psychologist now?”
I had a feeling this bickering was close to becoming a full-out argument, something I did not think the small space we were in could handle. So I said, “It’s just sort of . . . weird. Since my brother’s been gone. Lonely, I guess. Anyway, the point is I’m happy to have something to do. Really.”
I could tell Rosie, behind me, wanted to ask more questions. But Layla pulled down the visor, ostensibly checking her face in the mirror there, and shot her a look. We drove the rest of the way, a short distance, without talking.
Once at the rink, Rosie went to the locker rooms while Layla made a beeline for the snack bar and the subpar fries. As the woman behind the counter scooped them into a paper cup, she sighed. “Sorry about all this. My sister makes me nuts.”
“It’s really okay,” I said.
“She’s just so . . .” She sighed again, picking through the basket of ketchup packets, as if one might be better than another. Knowing her, there was a way to tell. “Entitled. Like the world owes her. She’s always been like that.”
“My brother is kind of the same way,” I told her. “I thought it was an only-son thing. But maybe it’s a firstborn thing, too.”
“I think, in this case, it’s just a Rosie thing.” She selected a second packet, then helped herself to some napkins. “At least when she was younger, she could blame the stress of skating, all that competition.”