*
The Lotterys are walking to dinner. They pass a cyclist who’s arguing furiously with a taxi driver. Then they cut through some kind of pop-up street fair called Fruitarama. A century and a half ago, when the huge redbrick houses like Camelottery were built, the neighborhood used to be the city’s richest. Then an expressway cut it off from the lake, and it turned into the poorest. Now it’s what PopCorn calls a mixed bag, which makes things interesting.
After CardaMom’s class — she “volun-teaches” kids who can’t afford voice and violin lessons — she’s coming to meet the family at Pete’s Rear, which is how Brian once misheard their local pizzeria. It looks really narrow and scuzzy at the front, but at the back there’s a vast patio strung with fairy lights and a table big enough for the Lotterys.
Though tonight there’s only actually ten of them, because PopCorn and his dad have stayed home to eat something called bangers and mash.
The first quarter of an hour is mostly chat about canoeing and portaging and tumplines, though it’s hard to make out every detail through the teenagers’ facefuls of pizza. Oak manages to wrap his fingers around one of the mini triangles and cram his whole fist into his mouth. Tomato sauce leaks out like fake blood.
“So, about my learning to drive,” says Sic, shooting out a deft arm to take a fourth slice and fold it on the way to his mouth.
“Not this again,” groans PapaDum.
CardaMom takes Sic’s stubbly cheeks between her hands. “Firstborn. We don’t have a car.”
“Aha. Glad you raised that,” says Sic, “because there’s a 1992 Camry with a slightly cracked windshield on Autotrader going for a mere three hundred and fifty bucks.”
“Sounds like a chick magnet all right,” says Catalpa mockingly.
“The technical term would be a lemon,” says PapaDum.
Aspen, who finds food a chore, has eaten the dry crust of her slice, picked the cheese off and made a ball of it, and abandoned the rest.
Sic’s still smiling. “But with a bit of luck …”
“We’ve used up all our luck with the lottery and you lot.” CardaMom’s shaking her head so hard, her braid is a jumping snake. “The universe doesn’t owe this family another thing.”
Oak has a piece of pizza pasted to his round cheek, Sumac notices.
“Besides,” says MaxiMum, “we don’t have a parking space for a hypothetical car.”
“We could convert the Hoopla back into one,” suggests Sic.
“No way!”
All three parents shush Wood as Luigi (their favorite waiter) frowns across the patio.
The Hoopla’s the space in front of Camelottery that used to be for parking. When the moms and dads first moved in, they tried to rewild it with native plants, but it was always scruffy with broken bottles and the pee of passersby. As soon as Wood could talk, he successfully campaigned for concrete and a basketball hoop instead.
“Convert your room into a compost heap,” Wood throws in Sic’s direction.
Aspen snorts with laughter. She’s practicing bending her thumbs back now; Sumac can’t look.
“Anyway,” says PapaDum, “there’s something important we have to talk about.”
“Gelato,” says Wood, “that’s important.”
“Vanilla,” cries Brian. “Vanilla, Oaky-doke!”
Oak squeaks with excitement.
“Could I have blood orange, passion fruit, and stracciatella, because it’s been a whole month since I’ve tasted anything in the frozen dessert line?” asks Sic.
That sounds to Sumac like a disgusting combination, but her big brother was born experimental.
MaxiMum nods, trying to catch Luigi’s eye while she cleans Oak up with a wet wipe.
“So why didn’t the old codger come along tonight, doesn’t he like pizza?” asks Wood.
Us, Sumac thinks, her throat tightening as she swallows the last of her crust. It’s us he doesn’t like.
The parents exchange a slow, three-way look. “Actually, Iain is what — who — we need to talk about,” says PapaDum, putting his knife and fork together neatly.
“How long’s he here for?” asks Catalpa. “Because I told Olivia and Mackenzie and Celize they could come anytime this summer.”
“Ah, possible problem. I said the same to Baruch and Ben-Zion,” says Sic.
Sumac remembers to ask, “Can I have Isabella over for a double sleepover this weekend, with hot dogs?”
“Camp behind the house, softies,” Wood tells his siblings scornfully.
“Listen,” says MaxiMum, “no visitors till further notice. It looks like your grandfather’s going to live with us for the moment.”
Goggle eyes all round, except for Aspen, who’s preoccupied with trying to tie three of her fingers in a knot.
Catalpa asks what Sumac would have asked if she could control her voice: “The moment, what does that mean?”
“For the present,” says CardaMom, making a wobbling gesture with her hand, “depending on how it goes.”