From time to time, Casey sat sideways, away from the table, notebook on his lap, and then Amelia wondered if he was seeking a bit of privacy to write a question about her. Might she be mentioned in the quiz? The thought gave her an odd thrill and her face became hot.

Amelia formed five more rabbits that morning. Unlike the rabbits she’d made last week—squatting, alert, with upturned ears—these were lying down with their ears pressed against their bodies. They were smaller than her fist and looked like chalky gray eggs at first glance, or stones.

Amelia was finding her way into a new lump of clay, letting her fingers work out a rhythm before starting another rabbit when Louise tapped her on her shoulder. “Those are lovely,” said Louise, looking carefully at the rabbits. “Subtle and beautiful. I didn’t know they were rabbits at first. That’s what makes them interesting.”

“Thank you.”

“You should make a lot of them,” said Louise. “A lot. If you make enough of them, I’d let you display them in the front window. You could have a little show.”

“Really?” Amelia’s soul seemed to inflate.

Louise nodded. “I think it could be wonderful. The whole window full of them. A lot of the same thing can look very dramatic. A lot can be very good. You might even glaze them all the same way. Think about it.”

There was nothing to think about. Yes, she wanted to shout. Yes, I will make hundreds of rabbits if necessary. Yes, I will display them in the front window.

Amelia closed her eyes for a full breath. In, out.

Forget not going to Florida. Forget her moody, remote father. Forget the end of the world.

Maybe she could be a real artist. Maybe she had a new friend who shared secrets. Maybe her life really was changing.

12 • Frosting and Lamb Chop

“Frosting,” said Amelia. “His name is Frosting.”

Casey nodded.

They were at the coffee shop, having a late lunch by the big window, inventing names and stories for people.

Frosting was kicking a stone down the sidewalk. Amelia thought he was six or seven. His tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth. His untucked, loose flannel shirt looked like a tent around him. Most distinctive was his hair—it rose up into several rigid white-blond shiny peaks. Hence, his name. The wind picked up and his shirt billowed, but his hair remained stiff, unmoving.

“I like the one-name people,” said Amelia.

“Like Feather?”

“Yeah, like Feather. And, now, Frosting.”

“Feather would eat him alive,” said Casey.

“Yep,” Amelia agreed. “She would.” She couldn’t keep from smiling. She was still glowing from Louise’s comments about her rabbit sculptures, and so the story she was concocting for Frosting was joyful. “He’s going to find a lottery ticket in the gutter and win ten million dollars, propelling his family out of poverty. And he’s super-smart. A genius. He’s going to Harvard next fall.”