“I wonder if Olive will show,” I say, thinking aloud.

“Who’s Olive?”

“Lady that lives in the green house. She promised last time that she wouldn’t come to any more neighborhood cookouts right after Henry said he was making a sign for the neighborhood entrance that read WELCOME TO THE DOG HOUSES because the colors of our three houses are the three colors of the things you most often put on hot dogs—red, yellow, and green. Olive stormed off, saying she wouldn’t have her home compared to relish, which is nothing but mushed-up pickles, which are nothing but vinegar-soaked cucumbers. Grammy says that some folks just want to be mad about nothing.”

He grins. “So a woman named Olive lives in a green house? So who lives in the other houses? Apple and Banana?”

“Yeah.” I laugh. “You have a point.”

“So, which condiment do you live in?”

“Mustard, but I wish I lived in ketchup.”

“Me too!” he says. “I used to try telling my mom it was a vegetable, but she kept saying tomatoes are a fruit, so it would be more like a jelly.” Then he points at the abandoned house. “Who lives in the old white one? Is that the hot dog bun?”

“That’s a good one—you’ll have to tell Henry. But that bun’s been empty for a long time.”

“It looks it.”

I feel Olive’s presence before I see her. The same way an animal senses storms and seeks shelter.

“Hello there, Olive!” Henry says. “So glad you could make it!”

Olive does not say hello. “I came out here because someone has to do something about that child casting things around this neighborhood. You know that I love that tree. You know that, Henry. Goodness knows what she’ll do to it.”

“Speaking of the weather . . .” he begins, and laughs at Olive’s expression.

“Don’t you go changing the subject on me again, Henry Isaac Lasko.”

Henry puts his arm around Olive’s shoulders. “Now, that child can’t do a thing to that enormous tree. You know that.”

“Humpft.” Then Olive looks over at Ronan. “If you’re planning on robbing my house, I’ll save you the trouble. I’ve got nothing worth stealing.”

“What?” I blurt out. “Why would you say that? You don’t even know him.” Sometimes Olive makes me feel like a category five storm.

“Why, just look at him—he’s dressed like a hooligan,” she says.

Henry shakes his head. He motions to Ronan to ignore her.

Olive straightens and points at Ruby. “And she threw a rock at my house.”

“She did no such thing,” Henry says, but I can tell by the way Ruby shrinks that she did do it. And when Henry looks at her, he knows, too.

“Ruby Loren,” he says.

“I was trying to hit the tree. And I missed. So does that count if it was by accident?”

“It certainly does count!” Olive snaps. “My goodness, child. You wouldn’t know how to walk in a two-person parade.”