Jessie groans, and I swing around and look at her. She looks away from me nonchalantly. It’s so obvious, she may as well be twiddling her thumbs and whistling.

I casually turn back to Gladiola. “Big date, huh? Jessie and I are friends. Surprised she didn’t tell me.”

Gladiola deepens her scowl. “Pshaw. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

But Mr. Frank decides to help a fellow man out. “Jessie has a date with her soul mate. They’re going to Tybalt’s for dinner. I bet he’ll seal the deal. That Tybalt’s is the hotspot for romance.” He wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully at me.

I swing around and narrow my eyes on Jessie. She purses her lips and raises her eyebrows.

Petunia speaks up. “They’re having the spaghetti. Jessie called Chef Renaldo and he promised to keep the noodles extra-long so they can reenact that scene from Lady and the Tramp. You know, the kissing scene.”

I give Jessie a hard stare. When, amidst our rock climbing day, did Gavin manage to agree to a date?

I turn to Petunia. “What time is dinner?”

“Oh, seven,” she says happily.

I give Petunia a big smile, then turn to Jessie. “Have fun tonight.”

“What are you planning?” Her eyes narrow on me.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

I hurry out. I have a lot of planning to do.

8

Jessie

“Tell us about Gavin,” says Gladiola. Senior computer class is over, and the three ladies—Mr. Frank went home to watch a sport fishing competition—are helping me with my plan for tonight.

“I don’t want hear about Gavin. I want to hear about William,” says Petunia. “Hotdog! Those stony, buttoned-up businessman type are freaks in the bedroom.”

“Petunia! Her soul mate is Gavin. The brother,” Gladiola snaps.

Petunia and Gladiola are sisters, seventy-eight and seventy-seven years old. They live with their ninety-six-year-old mother, Iris. Petunia and Gladiola were both widowed in the last five years.

“Well, is Gavin just like his brother? Because, woo dee, the amount of repressed sexual energy buttoned up under that business suit is off the charts. The sex appeal was rolling off him. I bet that William is the type that needs it at least twice a day. Minimum.” Petunia fans herself.

“That’s vulgar,” says Gladiola.

“Please, don’t tell me your suit-wearing, stiff-lipped Rodney didn’t come home revved up after a day in court, ready to pound the gavel.”

For a second Gladiola smiles, then her eyes cloud over, and her hands shake as she pulls a tissue from her sleeve. She rolls it into a ball and stares at the floor.

“I’m sorry, Gladiola.” Petunia reaches toward her sister. Gladiola waves her away.