“Triple digits for the twentieth day in a row. That’s got to be some kind of record!” a static-riddled NPR host announced. Since the sinkhole, everything was static. “What’s gonna happen next? Is it gonna rain frogs?” the host asked. Then she started talking about all the global warming refugees dying at the border. It was all so depressing that Gertie Wilde bellied up between the kids eating Froot Loops at the breakfast bar and switched off.
“I’ve got an open house in Glen Head. While I’m gone, I want you guys to go out and get some fresh air.” She pointed at the trampoline on the Ottomanelli lawn, where all the kids were jumping. “Look. The Rat Pack’s up and at ’em.”
Julia didn’t look. “Those nerds? Their parents won’t let them go outside until the hole’s filled.”
“I guess last night we started something, ’cause there they are, Jules.”
“It’s too hot for outside,” Julia answered as she stretched, still without looking. Her legs went one way, her arms the other, while her back arched. She was wearing Arlo’s Hawaiian shirt that brushed the tops of her knees. Not exactly street wear, but the loose fabric would keep the heat rash away. Larry was the real problem. He was wearing green shorts and a green turtleneck, because it was the only green top he owned. He’d decided that green was organic, and would make him a real boy instead of an “aspy cyborg.”
“I’m serious. Get your shoes on and brush your teeth,” Gertie said. “I don’t want you screaming like banshees, waking your dad as soon as I’m gone.”
“Can I eat avocados for dinner? Are they expensive?” Larry asked.
“What?” Gertie asked.
“OMG, you are so weird. It’s because they’re green, isn’t it?” Julia asked.
“He’s not weird. Don’t say that.”
“Sor-ry, Lar-ry,” Julia answered in singsong. “You’re sooo not weird.” Even this early in the morning, her curls were damp with sweat. “Why can’t we wake Dad? He could take us to Jones Beach. That’s outside.”
“He’s exhausted, Jules. Plus there’s some kind of algae bloom. The beaches’re closed,” Gertie answered. “I left the Slip ’N Slide out front and Margie Walsh said you can attach a hose to her house anytime. It’ll be better than sitting in here getting baked. Which reminds me, you’re not to play near the sinkhole. And you’re to keep your eye on Larry.”
“Why don’t you take Larry?”
“You’re talking about me like I’m not here,” Larry said.
Holding her belly, which felt way too heavy for twenty-five weeks, Gertie faced the both of them. “Enough! Get your flip-flops and sun block! Now!”
“But they’re mean!” Julia cried.
“You played with ’em last night. They’re perfectly nice kids. Better than anybody from East New York, for sure.”
“They were nice ’cause you bribed ’em with ice pops. Besides, Shelly wasn’t there. It’s Shelly that counts. The rest of ’em follow.”
“Well, what did you do to Shelly?”
“Nothing!”
“So there’s nothing to worry about!” Gertie announced as she squeezed her baby-bloated feet into a pair of black, size-ten Payless pumps. She tried her best not to notice the condition of the house: a pigsty decorated with puckered, home-stitched drapes and creaky estate-sale furniture.
“Fine, you dictator,” Julia said.
“Good,” Gertie answered.
Afraid he’d get teased, Larry left Robot Boy behind. The three of them headed for the front door. Once out, Gertie got into her dented red Passat. Larry and Julia made their way toward the Rat Pack.
Windows down, engine idling, Gertie watched.
The more Julia walked, the more she hunched. By the time she got halfway to the trampoline, even her head and pimpled neck hung heavy. “Wanna play on my Slip ’N Slide?” she called to the pile of kids.
Shelly Schroeder stopped jumping. Her hair was braided intricately, about ten of them all down her back. It had to have taken hours for her mother to set. “When’s your mom gonna get that crappo car fixed? It looks like it’s made outta clay,” she hollered.
Gertie stiffened. Replayed the words, to be sure she’d heard them right. How could such viciousness have come from sweet Shelly Schroeder? This was a girl who’d set Gertie’s table for dinner without asking, who used to watch the Robot Boy show with Larry when nobody else’d had the patience. A girl who squirmed at Animals on National Geographic on the TV because she hated to see the otters get hurt. What had gotten into her?
Julia stole a glance back at Gertie. She and Larry looked so flummoxed and out of place. Help me, Julia’s expression pleaded.
Gertie rolled down her passenger-side window and leaned, but the seat belt caught her belly and held her. She used the time to try to think of something to say.
What was going on here?
The last time Gertie’d spent a serious chunk of time with Rhea had been back in April. Rhea drank too much wine and didn’t eat enough pesto that night. Gertie’d done the opposite because she’d just found out she was pregnant. The two of them wound up on the front porch, Rhea in tears, mumbling gibberish. For her own good, Gertie’d cut her short. Called it a night. They’d still been friendly the next morning. Waving and texting and such. No overt hostility. She couldn’t imagine Rhea held a grudge over something so small.