“I saw what happened at the doughnut thing,” she said.
“Yeah?” I tried to ignore the jump in my pulse. I was going to have to get used to this version of myself—the one that had smacked my father unconscious with a shovel. “You been watching the news?”
“I don’t need to,” Morgan admitted. “The clip is everywhere. Facebook, Twitter.”
“I’m famous,” I said dryly. “My dad should be proud.”
“Is your dad okay?” Morgan asked.
“No.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “He never really has been, though.”
Morgan hesitated. “That’s not how I meant the question.”
“I know,” I murmured. “But it’s how I meant the answer.”
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. It turns out I’m kind of crazy. I mean, did you see what I did?”
“Well, you had to.”
“Probably I wanted to. So there’s that, too.”
Morgan considered this for a moment, then bobbed her head, conceding.
“Well, if it was crazy, it wasn’t any more so than climbing a Ferris wheel in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t know, Morgan.”
Morgan pulled the front door open wide. As I stepped inside, Stinkangel came over and sniffed my left foot.
“I’m sorry I said she was gross,” I mumbled. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I think you actually did,” Morgan said. “But that’s okay. Come on, come in.”
The TV in the living room was playing some kind of alien apocalypse movie, but Morgan immediately shut it off and wedged herself in one corner of the love seat. Stinkangel jumped up between us just as I was settling into the other corner.
Morgan asked me to tell her everything, from the moment I left her house yesterday until now. Down to every last sprinkle. As we talked, Stinkangel rolled and writhed between us, scratching her forever itches, yipping at her invisible fleas, making the olive-green upholstery fabric even hairier than it already was. We talked above her noise, ignoring her strange soggy odor, almost forgetting she was even there.
When I finished, Morgan asked me if I’d had breakfast.
I thought about the few bites of stale doughnut I’d had.
“No,” I admitted.
“I think we have some eggs,” Morgan said. “You need to eat breakfast.”
She led me to the kitchen and thumped around in the cabinets and fridge, pulling out a container of yogurt, half a loaf of bread, and the egg carton. She cracked the last two eggs into a bowl.
She whisked them for a few seconds before looking at me and saying, “The Pimple Popper?”
“What?”
“For a ride name.”
“Oh,” I said, looking down. I opened the bread and stuck two pieces in the toaster. I wasn’t sure I was up for this game, but after a minute I thought of a new one.
“The Mindfuck,” I said.
Morgan swirled a bit of melting butter in a pan on the stove.
“The Old Switcheroo,” she replied.
“The Delusion,” I countered.
Morgan smiled and poured the eggs into the hot pan.
“That one wins for today, I think,” she said softly.
I watched her jostle the eggs with a spatula until the toast popped up.
She was letting me win this time. But I’d take it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to:
Lisa Walker and Sarah Hawker, my kind and generous early readers.
My wonderful agent Laura Langlie.
My patient and insightful editor, Monica Jean, for taking a chance on Ivy and giving her story so much thought and attention. Jen Heuer and Alison Impey for the stunning cover. Also Colleen Fellingham, Heather Lockwood Hughes, Alison Kolani, Cathy Bobak, and the rest of the Delacorte Press team.
My brother Dan, always willing to reply to my political apocalypse texts with a motivational KEEP WRITING.
Sarah Guzzetti, for the gift of a priceless story about a certain Western Massachusetts restaurant that shall remain nameless. It is what it is.
Ross and Eliza. You two are the best.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emily Arsenault is the author of several literary mysteries, including The Broken Teaglass, a New York Times Notable Crime Book; In Search of the Rose Notes, a Wall Street Journal Best Book of the Year; The Last Thing I Told You; and her young adult novels, The Leaf Reader and All the Pretty Things. She lives in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts, with her husband and daughter.
emilyarsenault.com
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All the Pretty Things Page 27