Kiss in Time 7 page

“Ooh! So warm!”

I grin.

I told Talia no one would be there to pick us up at the airport, mostly because I didn’t want her to spend an hour in the airport bathroom, fixing her hair with that ten-pound brush of hers and pinching her cheeks to make them pink or something. But I didn’t really think no one was coming.

I check my cell phone to make sure I turned it on, and I 151

check to see if I have messages, even though I know I don’t.

I texted both parents when I got off the plane. Nothing yet.

We head downstairs to the baggage claim. Talia seems a bit dazed, and I nudge her. “You okay?” She rests her hand on my arm. “I am glad you are here.

I do not think I have seen as many people in my entire life as I have seen today.”

“No problem.” Her hand’s still there. It’s weird because I kind of like the way it feels, her sort of depending on me.

She points to the luggage carousel. “Ooh! What fun!”

“Yeah. Don’t touch it. We have to look for our suitcases.”

My parents still aren’t here, so I dial home. My sister answers.

“Hey, Mer, where’s Mom?”

“Out drowning her sorrows about getting stuck with such a bad son.”

“Yeah?”

“I think she’s playing tennis.”

“I’m at the airport.” I turn so Talia can’t hear me. “Is anyone coming?”

“Hmm . . . I’m guessing that would be a no. That’s weird. She came and picked me up from camp last week.

They must love me more—but then, I didn’t run away from camp.”

“Very funny.”

I call Dad. His secretary answers. Her name is Marilyn, which I know because making me work in his office is my dad’s other favorite way to ruin my summer. Actually, that was the one selling point for the Europe trip.

“Oh, was that today?” she says when I tell her I’m at the airport.

“Uh, yeah.”

“He’s in Houston right now. Do you want me to call Super Shuttle for you?”

No way. If my parents forget to pick me up from the airport after I’ve been gone almost the whole time I was supposed to be, they’re springing for a cab.

I see my suitcase, and I grab it. But I’m more worried about what I don’t see, which is Talia. Where’d she go? She was holding my arm, but now she’s not.

Which gets me thinking about all the things that could have happened to her. Like, what if she decided to take a ride on the luggage carousel and ended up in some kind of baggage dead-letter office?

Or maybe she decided to show the nice security guard her jewels.

Or someone offered her some candy if she’d help him find his lost puppy.

She’d go. That’s what she’d do.

Stay calm. There are a lot of people here. She’s probably just stuck in a crowd.

Where is she?

“Jack?” A whisper interrupts me. Talia!

“Jack?”

I look again, and I see her. She’s pressed against a wall, the green hoodie I got her covering all her yellow hair and most of her body.

“Come on,” I say. “I have the suitcases.” She looks over her shoulder, not really at me but out at the airport. “Is she still there?” she whispers.

“Is who still there?”

“Shh! There was a lady, an old lady in a black dress. It was Malvolia.”

Malvolia? I try to remember where I’ve heard that name before. The fairy. Witch. Whatever. The one who cast the spell on Talia and made her sleep all those years.

I laugh. “She couldn’t be here. She was alive hundreds of years ago, in Euphrasia.”

“I was alive hundreds of years ago in Euphrasia, and I am here.”

Good point. “Still . . .” I look around and see the lady Talia’s talking about, an old lady in a black dress. A black habit, actually.

“That’s not Malvolia,” I say. “That’s a nun.”

“Not her. She was . . .” She turns the rest of the way around, using the hoodie to shield her face. “She has vanished.”

“Good. Then we can go.”

“I suppose.” Talia keeps looking, walking as though she expects something or someone to swoop down on her from the ceiling.

“Ah, if she’s still alive, she’s probably forgotten you by now.” I take her arm to lead her toward the exit. “How long can someone stay mad about not being invited to a party?”

“Perhaps. But she was a woman. Women never forget such slights. And I have learned the consequences of not heeding warnings. It shall not happen again.” 155

Chapter 10:

j Talia

The taxicab ride is hot and barely faster than a horse, due to what Jack calls “traffic.” Throughout it, I am pictur -

ing Malvolia’s face.

What I failed to tell Jack, lest he believe me insane, was that she spoke to me.

“Ah, Princess.” Her black eyes flickered. “You have been a naughty girl, indeed.”

She did not look as she looked that day in the tower room, a sweet old lady. Now she was younger, taller, straighter. But her eyes were the same, black and glittering, as was her voice.

“You have awakened under false pretenses,” she said.

“False pretenses?”

“Yes.” She stepped aside to allow a man with luggage to pass. “This boy is not your true love. You should not be 156

awake. But I will fix it, as I always do. Those who thwart me suffer the consequences.”

She reached for me, clawed fingers brushing my sleeve.

I started to run away through the crowds, putting as many people between us as possible. I hid. That was when Jack found me.

But perhaps Jack is right. I am insane. In my mind, the events with the dresses, the spindle, everything, happened days ago, not hundreds of years ago. Could Malvolia be alive? Even if she is, surely she would forget the small slight of not being invited to my christening party in so many years’ time.

Of course. It was my imagination. It must have been.

My insane imagination.

Still, I wonder what she meant by consequences.

Or what my imagination meant, since she was not real.

She was not real.

I look over at Jack, asleep in the seat. I sigh. He is to be my husband, although he does not realize it. Can I love him? He is selfish and immature, and yet he did take me with him when he could easily have abandoned me. Why did he? For love, or for pity? Can pity be turned into love?

I know not. I also do not know if the gratitude I feel to this silly boy for taking me with him can be turned to love on my side. But then, I probably would not have loved my chosen husband had I stayed in Euphrasia.

No, the important thing is not what I feel for him but what he feels for me. I must make Jack love me, to make 157

my lie true. If he is my true love, even Malvolia cannot complain. And, just as important, I must make his parents love me, for no marriage can take place without their approval.

I can be very sweet when I wish to, not to mention beautiful.

I take out my hairbrush. It is so hot I feel my face may melt, but I can work on my hair.

Jack’s home is not nearly as large as the castle. But it is much larger than the homes of the peasants in Euphrasia.

Surely the family that lives here would be delighted to have their son marry royalty.

Jack knocks and knocks upon the door. “Guess no one’s home, either,” he says.

I relax a bit.

A rush of cold air greets us, as does the sight of a sullen girl of about three and ten. This must be his sister, Meryl.

She is tall, as tall as I am, and a number of blemishes mar her cheeks. I have never had a blemish myself, of course, but one of my lady’s maids had several, and they looked quite painful. Meryl also has metallic objects connected to her teeth. In one hand, she clutches a pad of paper. She scowls. “Oh. You’re here.”

“Hey, why didn’t you get the door?” Jack says.

She shrugs. “Didn’t hear it.”

Jack laughs. “Aren’t you happy to see your big brother?”

“Depends. Did you bring me anything?” 158

“Not a thing,” Jack says. “This is Talia.” I put out my hand to her. “Charmed to meet you.” She sticks her tongue out at Jack and does not offer to shake my hand, much less curtsy. “Are you for real? You brought home a girl from Europe? Oh, you are going to be in soooo much trouble.” She grins a bit, anticipating it.

“Jack,” I say, “we did bring her a gift. Remember?” I want this girl to be on my side, if she is to be my future sister-in-law. I withdraw a cameo necklace from my jewel case. It is the smallest thing there, but I did not sell it to the man in Belgium because it was too precious to me. It is a portrait of my great-grandmother Aurora. In it, she is turned slightly to the side, her hair cascading over her shoulder, and she bears more than a passing resemblance to myself. “I would like you to have this. It is from my country.”

She looks at it, then at Jack. “Oh, wow, I can wear it to school.” She rolls her eyes.

Not the reaction I had expected.

“A thank-you would be nice,” Jack says.

“Yeah, I guess it would.” She does not thank me.

“Those objects on your teeth? Pray, what are they?” I ask her.

She scowls. “Excuse me?”

“You have some metal in your mouth. Is that a fashion accessory?”

She rolls her eyes yet again and starts upstairs without answering.

Jack shrugs. “My sister doesn’t . . . like . . . people.” Then he takes my elbow. “Come on, Talia. I’m starving.” I follow him into a room which must be the kitchen, although I cannot be certain, for I have never been inside a kitchen before. We had one at the castle, of course, but it was the exclusive domain of the cook, Mistress Pyrtle, and her serving girls, and she did not take kindly to intruders.

The kitchen in Jack’s home is pleasant enough. The walls are lined with shiny wooden cabinetry, and at the center is a large, metal object which Jack opens.

“Looks like Mom hasn’t been shopping much lately,” he says. “We’ve got leftover Chinese, leftover Mexican, leftover Chicken Kitchen. . . .” He turns to me. “What looks good?”

“I am sorry. Is that food?” I know what chicken is, but the rest is unfamiliar.

“Sort of.” He closes the door and yells toward the other room. “Hey, Meryl, how old’s this Chinese?” No response.

Jack takes out a paper container with a picture in red.

He sniffs it. “Smells okay. No hair on it.” A chime rings.

Jack goes to get a dish from one of the cabinets. At the same time, two girls approximately the same age as Meryl enter the room. More sisters? Jack did not mention additional sisters. No. They must be friends of Meryl’s. These girls are less awkward than Meryl, perhaps a bit more attractive. And yet there is something I do not like about them.

For one thing, they both wear blouses which show their 160

bellies and bosoms. Why do young women of this time not wear clothing that fits?

“Hi, Jack,” one of the girls, a petite blonde, says, flounc-ing toward him. She ignores me entirely.

“Hey.” Jack hands me a plate. On it, he begins to heap strange food from the box, which I now see has a picture of a pagoda on it. I learned about pagodas in my study of the Orient. I always wished to see one in person. “Are you here to see Meryl?”

The brunette wrinkles her nose. “We’re here to see you.

Heard you went to Europe.”

“Yep.” Jack gives me the remaining food and gestures for me to sit at a table on the other side of the room.

That’s when Meryl enters. She glances at the two girls, as if comparing them to herself and finding herself lacking.

“Hey, so what are you guys doing today?” The blond girl does not look at her but says to Jack,

“Gaby and I were going to go to the beach. Want to come?”

Jack does not answer but continues to shovel the

“Chinese food” into his mouth. I take a cautious bite of my own. Salty, but rather interesting. I recognize some of the vegetables, but others, such as an ear of corn no bigger than my index finger, confound me. Jack’s telephone makes its noise. He answers it.

The brunette girl drapes herself around him, much in the manner of Mother’s Persian cat. “Please, Jack, please go with us.”

The other girl follows suit. “Please, Jack. It will be fun.”

Jack continues to speak into the telephone.

“Hey, guys,” Meryl says, “I could probably talk to my brother and get him to—”

“Whatever.” The blond girl’s eyes never leave Jack.

Finally, Jack says, “Hold on a sec.” He puts down the telephone and shakes the two girls off. “Hey, Jailbait, you mind? I’m trying to have a conversation.” The two girls look offended, then make an elaborate show of peeling themselves off Jack’s shoulders. The brunette girl seems purposely to be shoving her rather ample bosom in front of Jack’s eyes. Do these girls’ mothers know they behave in this manner? Finally, both leave, and Meryl follows. I can still see them through the door a bit.

“Hey, Jennifer,” I hear her say. “I can get Jack to take us to the beach another day. Maybe we could ride our bikes to the mall or something.”

I watch through the kitchen doorway. One girl laughs, then both, exposed bellies bouncing inward as they do.

“Why would we want to do that?” the blond girl says.

“Yeah, really,” the brunette echoes. “It’s not like we could meet any hot guys with you along.”

“But I could . . .” Meryl stammers. “I have money. I could buy us lunch in the Grove or something.”

“Hey, what’s this?” The blonde reaches for the object in Meryl’s hand. “Your diary?”

“It’s nothing,” Meryl says, holding it away.

The brunette takes up the mockery. “Let me see.” She pulls it from Meryl’s hand, then opens it. I see that it is a book of sketches. “Look, Jen. Meryl’s an artist.” Jennifer grabs the sketchbook. She opens it to a portrait of a mermaid on a rock. “Ooh, is this your girlfriend?”

“Give it back!” Meryl appears near tears.

“I’m just looking. It’s such beautiful art.” Despite the words, her tone is nasty.

“Jen, give it back!”

“Why should I?”

“Because I say so,” I interrupt. I hadn’t even realized I’d left the room, but now I am standing before the girls, holding out my hand. “Please return it.”

I fix them with my best princessy look. Although I am no longer in Euphrasia, I am still a princess, and these girls are still common. I will make them obey me.

“Who are you?” Jennifer says, but she hands me the pad. “I was just looking at it.”

“And now you have stopped. Thank you.” I give the pad to Meryl and go back into the kitchen.

“What’s up her butt?” the blonde says. “Let me know if your brother’s free later.”

“But . . . okay . . .” Meryl watches as the two girls leave.

Before the door closes, I hear one say to the other, “Can you believe a dog like that has such a hot brother?” Horrible things! Meryl undoubtedly heard her, for she looks down and her mouth twists in an awkward manner.

I do not know what to say. Although I spent months learning about diplomacy, we never once discussed what to do if someone is deliberately cruel to another person in one’s presence.

Jack continues on the telephone. Why did he not come to his sister’s rescue?

Meryl is still standing by the door. She looks at me, and I realize she must be embarrassed at my witnessing this exchange. I take a rather too-large bite of my Chinese food.

Some of the sauce dribbles down my throat, causing me to cough, then disgorge the food onto the ground. “Oh, my goodness!” I cough again.

Meryl brightens, laughing. “Eat much?” I attempt to retrieve the piece—one of the miniature corn ears—with my napkin. “No, not much at all.”

“It shows.”

I hold out my plate. “Would you like some? It seems not to agree with me.”

She begins to shake her head, then nods. “Okay.” She gets her own plate and scrapes some of the food from my plate to hers. She sits down. We eat in relative silence, other than Jack’s conversation. I wish I could think of something to say.

Finally, I say, “Are those girls friends of yours?” She looks down. “We were friends . . . before they turned into complete . . .” She says a word I do not understand.

“Bee . . . I am sorry, but I do not know this term.” 164

“Oh, I forgot you’re Dutch.” She sighs. “It’s kind of like skank? Ho?” Seeing my confusion, she says, “Don’t they have hos in your country?”

I begin to understand, particularly in light of the way the young commoners dressed . . . not to mention the way they pressed themselves against Jack. I nod.

“Jennifer—that’s the blond one—she lives next door.

She’s hot for Jack, and she’s always trying to jump on him.”

“I understand.” I nod and take another bite of the Chinese food. I begin to warm to its exoticness.

Meryl takes a bite, too. I glance out the window. The two girls are still outside, looking into the window, possibly at Jack. When the brunette girl sees me staring at her, she nudges her friend, then makes a face. I do not like these girls. I remember when I was seven or eight, there was a girl, the daughter of one of Mother’s ladies-in-waiting, who teased me quite relentlessly about not being allowed out, saying she was going to prick me with a spindle. I despised her.

“Well, then,” I say to Meryl, “why allow them in, if they are so unkind?”

The question appears to take her by surprise. Still, she manages to swallow her food before saying, “I don’t know,

’cause we used to be friends, I guess. It seems like if you know someone since birth, they should at least be nice to you.”

I nod. “Why are they not, then?”

Meryl rolls her eyes as if I am the stupidest person she has ever seen and takes another bite of her food. She does not answer. Jack continues to prattle along on the telephone, never once suspecting that I am making a complete idiot of myself in front of his sister.

Finally, Meryl says, “I’d rather not talk about it, Barbie.”

“My name is Talia.”

“Whatever. You wouldn’t understand. You probably have a gazillion friends. You’re totally gorgeous.” I sigh. “No, actually, I have often been quite lonely.” I do not get the chance to elaborate upon this statement, though, as Jack finally closes his telephone. “Good news—we’re invited to a party at Stewy Stewart’s house tonight.”

“A party!” I glance down at my attire, blue trousers and something Jack called a tank top. “Shall I wear my blue gown?” I ask Jack. “Or my red one?” I am fairly jumping up and down, for I love parties. This one shall perhaps make up for the birthday celebration I missed at home. In fact, perhaps it will be like my birthday celebration in one important particular—that it will be the day upon which my true love will find me. When Jack gazes upon me on the dance floor, he will surely—

“Whoa, whoa . . .” he says. “It’s not that kind of party.”

I glance at Meryl. She is laughing at me.

“What kind is it, then?”

“The fun kind.”

I have never heard of a party without gowns. This is turning out to be a very disappointing century.

Within a few minutes, Jack has invaded Meryl’s room (over her protests) and procured for me a shirt with the words ABERCROMBIE & FITCH emblazoned across the chest. There was a Fitch family in Euphrasia, but they were plagued by insanity. I decide not to mention this. He also tries to get me to wear something called a bathing suit, which consists of a rather small scrap of yellow cloth.

“I cannot wear that,” I say. “It is immodest. It is . . .

obscene.”

I have a fleeting notion that Jack is playing a trick on me, that this garment is merely an undergarment and his insistence that I wear it merely a ruse to see me unclothed.

Although he will be within his rights to demand such privileges after our nuptials, I cannot consent before.

“It’s a one-piece,” Jack says.

“One piece of what?” I demand. “I cannot wear it.”

“I don’t want her to borrow it, anyway,” Meryl says.

“You go, girl! Tell him you won’t wear it.”

“Not helpful,” Jack says. To me, he says, “That’s what people wear to go swimming nowadays . . . in this century.”

“Well, then, it is very simple, then,” I say, “because I cannot swim.”

Jack sighs, and I know he is angry. For this, I am sorry, 167

as he has been kind and I wish to please him. I wish to marry him, in fact.

“Can you get out of my room now?” Meryl asks. I note that she is once again clutching her sketch pad. “Some people are trying to work.”

“I am sorry,” I tell Jack. “Perhaps American young ladies wear such garments and swim and . . .” I think of the young girls—I would not call them ladies—who have just left. “. . . and hang on to young men in a shameless manner. But I am not an American young lady. There are certain compromises I am unwilling to make. I do appreciate your kindness.”

If Jack is indeed my destiny, he should understand, and love me for myself.

Of course, at the moment, he does not love me at all.

Chapter 11:

j Jack

I’m sitting on the sofa with Talia, eating Doritos and watching Judge Judy. Meryl’s in her room, sulking.

“This is fascinating.” Talia licks Doritos cheese off her fingers.

“What’s fascinating?” I ask her now. “Me?”

“No.” She laughs. “I mean, yes, of course. But I was talking about your American system of justice.” We’ve been watching two women argue about whether the first woman’s pit bull damaged the second woman’s car when it climbed on top of the car to sunbathe. The pit-bull woman is wearing a tube top and has nails that are longer than most people’s fingers. The other woman has on sequins. “What’s fascinating about it?”

“What isn’t?” Talia’s eyes widen. “This woman, Judge Judy. She is so wise.”

I shrug. “I guess.”

“And they let her decide the whole case—they leave it up to her?”

“She’s the judge.”

“Yes! But she is a woman, and yet they trust her opinion. Had I stayed in Euphrasia, I would someday be queen. I would have been charged with appointing all the magistrates in Euphrasia. But women could not become magistrates, for their judgment is warped. They would be inconsistent.”

I think of Amber and how she acted sometimes, totally in love with me one day and then like I wasn’t fit to carry her used lunch tray the next. It doesn’t sound like a totally terrible system of justice to me. Not that I’m going to say that to Talia.

“But if you were queen, couldn’t you appoint whoever you wanted? Isn’t that part of being queen?” Talia frowns. “I do not know.”

Judge Judy is ordering the first woman to pay for the pit bull’s damage. Talia claps with delight. “That is exactly what I would have done.”

She looks so cute I feel like kissing her.

That’s when my mother walks in.

Mom apparently used the opportunity of me in Europe and Meryl at camp to get some work done. At least she looks “rested,” code for the fact that her face is frozen into a stiff smile.

“Jack, darling!” she says through lips that don’t move sideways. “You’re home!” She blows me a little air kiss.

Meryl, who has come downstairs to witness the scene, mimics it. “Yes, you’re home, dear boy!” My sister’s wearing this shirt that says: I’m multi-talented. I can talk and annoy you at the same time. An understatement. Except that my sister doesn’t actually talk that much. She either sulks or does stuff to try and bait me. Right now, she’s carrying around that stupid sketch pad she’s completely obsessed with and will never show anyone—probably because she’s drawing our muti-lated corpses. I glare at her, and she sticks out her tongue.

“Aren’t you going to introduce Mommy to your friend, Jack?”

“Do you ever brush your hair?” I snap back at her.

“Only for people who are worth the effort.” I decide it’s time to give Mom a big hug. “Mom! You look great! I’d forgotten how young you are.” I gesture to Talia. “This is Talia, the girl I met in Belgium.” One thing about my mom—she’s always calm, like the time last year when Travis and I got caught egging cars on Eighty-second Avenue. Mom stayed calm, calm enough that I wondered if she even cared.

You have to really know her to know when she’s freaking. I do. Her smile is wider than when she’s actually happy, and her voice is higher.

Now she smiles blindingly. Holding out a hand with nail-polished talons, she squeaks, “How lovely to meet you.

Jack’s told us—well, actually, he’s told us nothing about you. Are you here visiting family?”

Talia glances at me, then says, “No, ma’am.” Mom continues to smile. “Ah, friends, then?” Another glance at me from Talia. “In a manner of speaking.”

I cut in. “I told you, Mom. She’s staying with us.” Silence.

Then Meryl says, “I think there’s a Naruto marathon on Cartoon Network.”

My sister hasn’t watched an episode of Naruto in at least two years, but I guess it’s like how birds and squirrels disappear before a hurricane. The flight instinct just kicks in.

Mom doesn’t even seem to notice she’s gone. “Seriously, Jack, where is Talia staying?”

I look her straight in the eye. “Seriously, Mom, here.”

“Jack has been so kind to me,” Talia says in her most princessy voice, “helping me come to America and all.” Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “Talia, dear, would you mind joining Meryl in the family room for a moment?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell Talia.

Talia looks from me to Mom. “I believe I do, Jack. Your mother has asked me to, and it would only be courteous.” She curtsies to Mom, then leaves.

Mom watches her go, then turns to me. “What do you mean by this, Jack? First, leaving the tour, which we spent so much money to send you on?”

“It’s always about money, isn’t it?”

“. . . and then bringing home some stranger you met in Europe?”

“You’re always after me to expand my horizons.”

“By visiting a museum or something—not by bringing home Dutch drifters.” Mom still hasn’t raised her voice, but her unraised voice is getting a little strained.

“She’s from Belgium.” I stick with that because that’s what her passport says. “And she’s got perfect manners—I thought you’d like that.”

“That type always has perfect manners.”

“That type?”

“Grifters, tricksters. They take you in with their perfect manners, and then they swindle you. She could rob us, even murder us in our sleep.”

I laugh. “Talia wouldn’t do that.”

“How do you know that, Jack?”

I stop and think about it. Of course, I know because I know Talia’s actually a princess, heir to a throne, who’s had a witch’s curse placed on her and slept three-hundred-odd years until I woke her while looking for the beach. But I don’t think that explanation’s exactly going to fly with Mom. She’d call the FBI before you could say “grounded until graduation,” or she wouldn’t believe me.

So instead, I say, “She’s a really nice person.”

“I bet she isn’t even a teenager. She’s probably some middle-aged woman preying on young boys . . .” Actually, she’s three hundred.

“. . . in those sleazy clothes . . .” 173

“They’re Meryl’s clothes!”

“She’s taken Meryl’s clothes?”

I begin to pace. “Does she look middle-aged?”

“Do I look middle-aged? It’s irrelevant. She can’t stay here.”

I stop pacing. Why did I agree to take Talia back to America with me? Oh, yeah, because if I didn’t, I’d still be rotting in a dungeon. But that doesn’t explain why I didn’t ditch her at the border. I definitely could have. So why didn’t I?

Oh, yeah, ’cause I’m a nice guy . . . which translates to

“sucker.”

So why do I care if Mom kicks her out now?

I have no idea, but I do. If Mom doesn’t let her stay, she’ll be all alone in America—a foreign country to her—with no family, no friends, not even the skills to use MapQuest to find someplace to go. And she’s so trusting. And beautiful.

God, she’d be dead in a week.

“You can’t throw her in the street,” I say. “She’s just a kid. You wouldn’t want someone to kick me out, would you?”

Mom looks down. “She can call her family.”

“It’s, like, three AM in Eu . . . Belgium. She can’t call anyone.”

“Tomorrow, then. She can stay tonight, on the air mattress.”

“She can’t call tomorrow, either.”

“Why not?”

Good question. In the family room, Meryl’s got the TV

on superloud. I rack my brain for any possible, acceptable-to-Mom reason Talia can’t call, a reason other than the fact that Talia’s family doesn’t own a phone. Could I tell her Talia would be a political prisoner if she went back home?

Except I’m pretty sure Belgium is a democracy. Mom used to volunteer at a shelter for abused kids, so maybe I could tell her that Talia’s dad will beat her if she goes back . . . except I’m guessing Mom’s charitable instinct doesn’t include taking random abused kids into our house.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 671