of disgust and shrugged her shoulders.
Roger spent most of the meal twirling incredible amounts of spaghetti onto his fork and insisting everyone watch while he forced them into his mouth.
“Bet you think I can’t eat this one,” he’d say, and cram it in.
“How gross,” Beth declared. She turned away.
I didn’t watch him after the first time. It was much pleasanter to keep my eyes on Beth’s father.
He ate very nicely.
Apart from Roger the meal was fine. Mr. and Mrs. Traub made me feel right at home and the food was very good. Beth and I told them all about the classes we had together and the drama club meeting.
They seemed interested in whatever we had to say and didn’t ask dumb questions like “What do you want to be when you grow up?” or “So, how does it feel to be in Junior High School?”
We had apple pie and ice cream for dessert and before I knew it, Beth and I had loaded the dishwasher and it was time for me to go home.
“I’ll drive you,” Mr. Traub offered.
“Oh, no, that’s all right. My mother or father can come pick me up.”
“Don’t be silly,” he insisted. He put his jacket on and walked toward the door.
“I’ll go with you,” Beth said. “Come on, your books and things are upstairs.”
“Well, okay, thank you.” I turned to Mrs. Traub. “Thank you for dinner and everything. I really enjoyed it.”
“You’re welcome, Laura. You come again now, anytime. It was fun having you.”
I got my books and jacket from Beth’s room. She grabbed her sweater off the bed and we went downstairs.
“Goodby, Roger,” I called to him. A burst of gunfire exploded in another room, so I didn’t really expect him to hear me. But just as we were going out the door there was a faint, “ ’Bye,” from somewhere inside the house.
I gave Mr. Traub directions to Woodbine Way and when we pulled up in front of the house I told Beth, “You’ll have to come to my house next time.” But my heart wasn’t in it. I said it because I thought I ought to, but what I really hoped was that Beth would keep inviting me to her house. What in the world would she think of my family and the way we lived, compared to her surroundings?
If I could just stall for time; I liked Beth and I expected we’d be good friends, but I would have liked to be absolutely secure about that before I brought her home with me to meet “the Mob.”
It didn’t look like I’d have much time to stall with. The moment I issued my polite invitation, Beth said, “Great! When?”
“WELL, HERE WE ARE,” I said nervously as Beth followed me into my house the next week.
“What a terrific place,” Beth marveled. “It’s just beautiful.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I warned her. “Wait till you see the rest of it.”
“Anybody home?” I practically whispered, hoping that no one would hear me. That way I could lead Beth right up to my room, which was a relative oasis of neatness and quiet.
“In the kitchen,” my mother called. She has ears like a bat.
“. . . suppose a stiletto would be better than a dagger?” she was saying as I brought Beth into the kitchen. “I can never remember which one is long and thin.”
My father, dressed in his usual depth-of-fashion style, was leaning against the refrigerator juggling three eggs—something he does when he’s trying to figure out some knotty work problem that’s hanging him up. My mother was in a chair, tilting it back on two legs and defying gravity to toss her over on her head.
“Oh, hi!” she said. She brought the chair forward with a thunk. “You must be Beth.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Beth.
My father caught the eggs neatly in one hand and reached his other hand out for Beth to shake.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” Beth said. “You’re really a good juggler.”
“Thank you. But they’re hard-boiled,” he added modestly.
“Even so . . .”
“Well, it’s just a hobby.”
“Do you girls know whether it’s a dagger or a stiletto that’s long and thin?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I said. I cast a sideways glance at Beth. She looked a little confused. “Why don’t you look it up in the dictionary?”
“That’s a very good idea,” my mother agreed, “except that I can’t find the dictionary. You see, I want Linnet to see the blade glinting in the moonlight, and if the swarthy stranger has it pressed against her throat, I’m not sure that enough of the blade would extend out past her chin so that she could see it.”
“Why don’t you make it a saber?” my father suggested. “That’s plenty long enough.” He resumed his juggling.
“Oh, no,” my mother said impatiently. “You can’t carry a saber around in your teeth. Besides, this creep would never slink through back alleys shlepping a saber.”
“She’s writing a book,” I hastened to explain before Beth ran screaming from the room. To be perfectly honest, Beth didn’t seem to be ready to run at all. In fact she appeared utterly fascinated by the whole ridiculous conversation.
“Writing a book! How marvelous! What’s the name of it?”
“I’m not sure. Either The Dark Side of Eden or Shadows in Paradise. Which do you like better?”
“They’re both wonderful titles. I don’t know how you can pick.”
“Maybe a dirk,” my mother said suddenly. “Does anyone have the remotest idea of what a dirk looks like?”
“Come on, Beth. Let’s get something to eat and go up to my room.” But Beth wasn’t in much of a hurry to escape from my parents.
“What kind of a book is it? Have you written anything else?”
“Oh, lots,” my mother told her. “This one is a gothic romance. You know, where the heroine marries a mysterious stranger she hardly knows and goes to live in the old family mansion—”
“Oh yeah, I’ve read some of those. Maybe I’ve even read something you wrote without knowing it.”
“Come on, Beth. Let’s go upstairs.”
“What are some of the names?” she persisted.
“Let’s see, there’s The Secret of Cliffhaven, The Second Mrs. Marlowe, Legacy of Fear, The Crompton Estate, The Diary of Lydia Blake—”
“You wrote all those?”
“She wrote more than that,” I answered irritably. “Come on, Beth, we were going to practice our monologues.”
“In a minute, in a minute. You know, the minute I get home I’m going to the library and look for some of your books.”
“You probably won’t find too many of them in the library. They’re all paperbacks. But we’ve got lots of them around. Why don’t you borrow some if you feel like it?” My mother looked over at me, standing with my arms folded across my chest and my lips tightened into a narrow line.
“Guess I’d better get back to work,” she said. She stretched lazily