“So what if it is? They’d be a good match.”
Huh! “What makes you say that?”
Kitty ticks off her fingers. “She loves animals, she’s hot, she makes her own money, and I like
her.”
Hmm. All of that does sound good. Plus she lives across the street, which is convenient.
“Do you think Ms. Rothschild watches documentaries?”
“Who cares about dusty old documentaries? He can watch them with you or Margot. The important
thing is chemistry.” Kitty tries to jerk loose from my grip. “Let go of me so I can see if they have
any!”
I release her collar. “No, don’t go in yet.” Kitty huffs and flounces away and I say meaningfully,
“Let’s let it simmer for a minute.”
She stops short and then gives me an appreciative nod. “Let’s let it simmer,” she repeats, savoring
the words.
Kitty is sawing her way through a piece of white meat, the only kind she’ll eat—she likes it sliced
thin like deli meat, and Daddy tries but it always ends up kind of shredded and sad-looking. I think
maybe I’ll get him an electric carving knife for this birthday. Personally, I like the thigh. I honestly
don’t know why anyone would bother eating anything but thigh if they had the choice.
When Ms. Rothschild shakes some hot sauce on her chicken, Kitty’s eyes glow like a lightning bug.
I make note of the way Ms. Rothschild laughs at Daddy’s corny jokes with sincerity. I also appreciate
the way she goes wild for my snickerdoodles. I threw some frozen ones in the oven when Daddy put
the coffee on.
“I love how this cookie is crunchy but also soft. You’re telling me you made this from scratch?”
“Always,” I tell her.
“Well, give me the recipe, girl.” Then she laughs. “Wait, don’t bother. I know my strengths, and
baking is not one of them.”
“We’ll share with you anytime—we always have lots of cakes and cookies,” Kitty says, which is
rich coming from her, because it’s not like Kitty ever helps. She only shows up for the fun parts, the
decorating and eating.
I sneak a look at Daddy, who is placidly sipping his coffee. I sigh. He’s completely oblivious.
We all do the washing up and wrapping up of leftovers together, and it feels very natural. Without
anyone telling her, Ms. Rothschild knows to hand-wash the wineglasses and not put them in the
dishwasher, and on the first try she finds the aluminum foil and plastic wrap drawer. Which might say
more about Margot’s organizational skills than Ms. Rothschild’s intuition, but still. I think I could see
her fitting in with us pretty seamlessly. And, as I said, she does live across the street, which is
convenient. People say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I think they’re wrong: Proximity
makes the heart grow fonder.
As soon as Ms. Rothschild’s gone home and Daddy’s in his study, Kitty pounces on me in my
room, where I’m setting out school clothes. Navy sweater with a fox on it that I’ve been saving for a
rainy day, mustard-yellow skirt, knee socks.
“Well?” she demands. She has Jamie Fox-Pickle in her arms.
“I like the way she started Saran-wrapping things; that was some good initiative,” I say, pinning a