He doesn’t look altogether convinced. “You sure did a number on yourself, fella ... that’s what helmets are for. Be prepared, Marigold will fuss.”

Inside, Marigold is shredding lettuce for a salad. She glances up as I walk in the kitchen, and for a moment she looks like the one who was hit in the face. “What happened?”

I trot out the ATV lie again.

“Oh. Oh, I see,” she says. She looks relieved. “I thought perhaps it was Snyder McIsaac.”

Rolf says sharply, “Was it?”

“No way,” I say. “My own fault, I wasn’t wearing a helmet.”

As if she can’t help herself, Marigold touches her fingertips to my black eye, asking if it still hurts. Then she fetches a cream with something called Arnica in it, and dabs it on the bruises. By the time she’s finished, my face is red from more than Floyd’s fists, especially with Tully watching from the sidelines, her gaze as cold as the bay in winter.

I was too busy with Marigold to notice Tully’s reaction when she first saw my face. I don’t think she believes the ATV story, though—she’s likely hoping all the guys in my grade ganged up and beat the tar out of me.

We eat fish chowder and homemade tea biscuits, still warm, followed by strawberry-rhubarb pie with ice cream, me worrying the whole time that my lip will drip blood on the plate. Rolf pushes back his chair.

“Gotta go—we had a call out Swamp Road. Brick, here’s your money, and remember what I said about a reference.”

As he hands me the envelope, he’s smiling. I tuck it in my pocket. “Thanks.”

It’s Tully’s job to clean up the dishes. Marigold says, “If you want to go to the bank, Brick, why don’t you leave Cassie here and pick her up on your way back?”

“I can play with Caramel,” Cassie says.

I park behind the mall. The envelope contains twenty-dollar bills, ten of them. Rolf scrawled on the back of the envelope, For painting and scraping.

Sitting on the ATV, I finger the little wad of bills. He valued my work enough to pay me, generous pay; and he said he’d give me a reference.

If only I could tell Marigold and Rolf the truth about Floyd.

I put the bills back in the envelope. I was figuring on $150 max. I’m going to treat myself to a new set of headphones for my boom box.

Eyes front, quick (well, not so quick) march to The Source, buy them, and out again. Phew. I adjust my dark glasses, pull the brim of my ball cap farther down over my face, and trudge past the GM dealership.