Greer and Bev seem old but sporty. Just like the rest of their stuff, their clothes look brand-new. Like they haven’t even been washed yet, or sweated in.

“How do you do?” Bev asks, reaching for my mother’s hand.

I didn’t know people said How do you do? in real life. He has a funny accent, like his voice is still being haunted by his rich English ancestors or something. Later I’ll learn that he says things like baaaaath instead of bath and lauuuuugh instead of laugh, the way a sheep might if a sheep could talk.

Ivy holds out her hand and Bev shakes it, then mine. He squeezes pretty hard for an old man. His hand is soft and smooth, not like my parents’ hands, which are rough from gardening and stacking wood and all the other outdoor work we all do.

“You have nice weather for moving day,” my mom says. “Is there anything we can help you with?”

Greer nods distractedly and motions for a mover to be careful with a tiny wooden bookcase. “No, no, that’s what the movers are for, dear,” Greer says. “But thank you.”

“Well, we’ll leave you to it. Welcome to the neighborhood.” My mom is acting so awkward, like she doesn’t know how to behave around rich people.

“Thank you for the pie,” Bev says, turning to walk up the driveway.

“We’ll have to have you over for drinks when we’re settled in,” Greer adds.

“That would be lovely.” My mom motions for us to go.

“Snobs,” I say when we cross the road to our side.

“Don’t say that,” my mom says. “Just because people are wealthy doesn’t make them snobs.”

“They took away our sledding hill,” I say.

“Oh, Rachel, it was never ours. We were lucky to be able to use it as long as we did.”