Opal’s casual with money; I give her that. As often as I can, I’ve been stashing a bit away. For instance, after she forked out cash for new Levis and a Reebok T-shirt, I bought them both secondhand at Frenchy’s and pocketed the change.

Still, I can almost feel that $100 bill in my pocket, crisp and new. So I treat Cassie to a chocolate bar.

2.3 [♀]

AS WE leave the store, Tully Langille is leaning her bike against the wall. She’s Rolf’s adopted daughter, fourteen years old, with bright red hair in a thick braid down her back. Anyone else, you might think she dyed it.

She and Glenn started hanging out together as soon as she moved here. Hanging out isn’t the same as dating.

We’re all in the same grade.

“Hi,” she says, looking at Cassie.

Because she’s looking at Cassie, I look at her. At the way the wind’s flapping her T-shirt against her breasts, to be specific. Our English teacher was hot on specificity.

Breasts? Go ahead, say it. What fourteen-year-old guy calls them breasts?

Melons—too hard.

Knockers, hooters, jugs—no door, no owls, no handles.

Tits—too sharp, like they’d cut you.

Rack—deer antlers? I don’t think so.

Boobs—they’re no mistake. (Not in my opinion, anyway. In other words, my hormones are in working order, thank you very much.)

Tully’s staring at me. Did she just say something? Cassie, as usual, is silent; she’s shy with strangers. Tully hunkers down. “I’ve seen you around, but I’ve never met you before. Glenn told me your name is Cassie. My name’s Tully. What’s in the bag?” No response. “Candy, I bet. Can I peek?”

Cassie holds out the bag. “Mmm,” Tully says, “an Oh Henry bar. My fave.”

Finally Cassie opens her mouth. “Brick buyed it for me.”

Tully’s eyes flick to mine. “Yeah?” she says.

“He did so!”

“Okay, okay. Can I have a gummi bear?”

Then Tully takes an age deciding which one to take, nattering on about her favorite flavors. I shift my feet. I don’t want the whole world seeing me on the front step of MacTaggart’s General Store and Gas Bar with my little sister and Tully Langille.

The other girls in our grade have smooth, shiny hair that they toss around a lot. They wear tight jeans with lacy tops designed to spike a guy’s testosterone; they talk about guys on the football team and lipstick and something they call product.

Not Tully. Baggy clothes, ratty old sneakers, hair like wildfire, and I doubt she knows one end of a lipstick from the other. What drives me nuts is that she doesn’t seem to care she’s a total loser.

“Rolf home?” I say.

“Why?”

“Gonna ask him about scraping his house.”

“You think he’d hire someone like you?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”