“Now, Tallulah—”

“Tully,” she said quietly.

“Quite right. I recall Ima saying you preferred Tully.” He put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. His buglike eyes blinked behind the thick magnifying lenses of his glasses. “As you know, your mother has refused to take custody of you.”

It took all her strength to nod, even though last night she’d practiced a whole monologue about how she should be allowed to live alone. Now, here, she felt small and much too young.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a gentle voice, and Tully actually flinched at the words. She’d come to truly loathe the stupid, useless sentiment.

“Yeah,” she said, fisting her hands at her sides.

“Ms. Gulligan here has found a lovely family for you. You’ll be one of several displaced teens in their care. The excellent news is that you’ll be able to continue in your current school placement. I’m sure that makes you happy.”

“Ecstatic.”

Mr. Baker looked momentarily nonplussed by her response. “Of course. Now. As to your inheritance. Ima left all her assets—both homes, the car, the bank accounts, and stocks—to you. She has left instructions for you to continue with the monthly payments to her daughter, Dorothy. Your grandmother believed it was the best and only way to keep track of her. Dorothy has proven to be very reliable at keeping in touch when there’s money coming.” He cleared his throat. “Now . . . ifwe sell both homes, you won’t have to worry about finances for quite some time. We can take care—”

“But then I won’t have a home at all.”

“I’m sorry about that, but Ima was very specific in her request. She wanted you to be able to go to any college.” He looked up. “You’re going to win the Pulitzer someday. Or that’s what she told me.”

Tully couldn’t believe she was going to cry again, and in front of these people. She popped to her feet. “I need to go to the restroom.”

A frown pleated Mr. Baker’s pale forehead. “Oh. Certainly. Downstairs. First door to the left of the front door.”

Tully got up from her chair, grabbed her suitcase, and made her halting way to the door. Once in the hallway, she shut the door behind her and leaned against the wall, trying not to cry.

Foster care could not be her future.

She glanced down at the date on her Bicentennial wristwatch.

The Mularkeys would be home tomorrow.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

The drive home from British Columbia seemed to take forever. The air conditioner in the station wagon was broken, so warm air tumbled from the useless vents. Everyone was hot and tired and dirty. And still Mom and Dad wanted to sing songs. They kept bugging the kids to sing along.

Kate couldn’t stand how lame it was. “Mom, will you please tell Sean to quit touching my shoulder?”

Her brother burped and started laughing. The dog barked wildly.

In the front seat, Dad leaned forward and turned on the radio. John Denver’s voice floated through the speakers with “Thank God I’m a Country Boy.”