The walk home took us less than ten minutes. As usual all the lights at my house were off, except in the front room and on the porch. Still the moon was full and reflected brightly off the snow, illuminating the whole yard as if the snow crystals held radiance in themselves. I hadn’t ever brought anyone home and I suddenly felt embarrassed by where I lived. A part of me wanted to just walk on by, which wasn’t much of an option when you live on a dead end.

“Thar she blows,” I said. I glanced over at Grace expecting a look of shock or, at least, pity, but if she felt either she hid it well. “It used to be my grandmother’s house. It’s kind of a shack.”

“It’s not bad.”

She actually sounded sincere and it made me wonder what kind of a house she lived in. I stopped a few yards from our mailbox. “We’d better be quiet. Sometimes my mom sits in the front room and reads.”

Grace moved close to me. We passed under the dark canopy of elm that lined our property, pressing along the edge of the driveway toward the garage, the wheels of my bike on the gravel making a lot of noise. I found a dry spot and leaned my Schwinn against the garage wall.

The snow on the yard was about eight inches deep and crusted on top, making it nearly impossible to trudge through quietly, though Grace did a better job of it than I did. The clubhouse was a dark mass in the looming shadow of the garage, its roof covered with nearly a foot of snow. I was suddenly very glad that we’d added the supporting brace.

I knelt down on one knee and brushed the snow from a chunk of granite we’d placed near the door. Underneath was a rusted key. I unlocked the padlock then pushed the door open and crawled in.

I hadn’t been inside the clubhouse since the first snowfall; it smelled musty and dank. The carpet was cold and crusted with frost. I felt my way to the post in the center of the room and stood, fumbling until I found the light and switched it on. It was cold enough inside to see my breath.

Grace crawled in after me, holding the sack of food in front of her. She slowly stood and looked around the room. “You built this?”

“Yeah. My brother and me.”

“It’s really great.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s purple.”

“I know,” I said. “My brother did it. It’s the only color paint he could find.”

“I like purple,” she said. She glanced at the Vargas poster but said nothing. I suddenly felt a little awkward.

“That was my grandfather’s,” I said apologetically.

“She’s pretty,” Grace said. She looked at the fruit dryer. “What’s that?”

“It’s a fruit dryer.”

“What does it do?”