Keeping the Moon(9)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Maybe I will,” I said, just as the front door slammed.

“It’s me,” someone called out.

“Norman Norman,” Mira called back. “We’re in here.”

Norman poked his head in, looked around, and stepped inside. He was barefoot, in jeans and a green T-shirt with a pair of red, square-framed sunglasses hooked over the collar. His hair, just to his shoulders, wasn’t long enough to be truly hippie-annoying, but it was close.

“So, Norman,” Mira said, uncapping another pen and outlining a tree on a new piece of paper, “any decent finds this morning?”

He grinned. “Oh, man. It was a good day. I got four more ash-trays for that sculpture—one’s a souvenir from Niagara Falls—and an old blender, plus a whole boxful of bicycle gears.”

I knew it, I thought. Art freak.

“Wow,” Mira said, pulling a pen out of her hair. “No sunglasses?”

“Three pairs,” Norman said. “One with purple lenses.”

“It was a good day,” she said. To me she added, “Norman and I are into yard sales. I’ve furnished practically this whole house with secondhand stuff.”

“Really,” I said, eyeing the cracked fishtank.

“Oh, sure,” she said, not noticing. “You’d be amazed at what some people will throw away! Now, if I just had time to fix everything, I’d be all set.”

Norman picked up a sketch, glanced at it, then put it back down on the table. “I saw Bea Williamson this morning,” he said in a low voice. “Lurking about looking for cut glass.”

“Oh, of course,” Mira said with a sigh. “Did she have it with her?”

Norman nodded solemnly. “Yep. I swear, I think it’s almost gotten . . . bigger.”

Mira shook her head. “Not possible.”

“I’m serious,” Norman said. “It’s way big.”

I kept waiting for someone to expand on this, but since neither of them seemed about to, I asked, “What are you talking about?”

They looked at each other. Then, Mira took a breath. “Bea Williamson’s baby,” she said quietly, as if someone could hear us, “has the biggest head you have ever seen.”

Norman nodded, seconding this.

“A baby?” I said.

“A big-headed baby,” Mira corrected me. “You should see the cranium on this kid. It’s mind-boggling.”

“She’s going to be very bright,” Norman said.

“Well, she is a Williamson.” Mira sighed, as if that explained everything. Then, to me, she added, “They’re very important in Colby, the Williamsons.”

“Mean,” Norman explained.

Mira shook her head, waving him off with one hand. “Now, now,” she said. “So, Norman. I was just telling Colie she should go exploring today. You know, she met Isabel and Morgan last night.”

“Yeah,” Norman said, smiling at me in a way that made me look over at the birdfeeders, quick. “I heard.”

“Very nice girls,” Mira pronounced. “Although Isabel, like Bea Williamson, can be somewhat of a pill. But she’s good at heart.”

“Yeah.” Norman scuffed his bare foot against the floor. “She’s got nothing on Bea Williamson.”

“Everyone is good at heart,” Mira said simply, fixing me with a look that made me feel strange. “It’s true,” she added, as if she thought I wouldn’t quite believe her, and I looked into her bright eyes and wondered what she meant.

“I’m going to the library,” Norman said. “You got anything that needs to be returned?”

“Oh, Norman, you are my saint,” Mira said cheerfully, swiveling to point to a stack of books by the far window. To me she added, “Without him I would flail about, lost and bewildered.”

“That’s not true,” Norman said.

“Oh, Norman,” Mira said with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’ll do when you leave me.” Then she added, “It’s a long bike ride to the library. Lots of potholes.”

“It’s no problem,” Norman said. “So, Colie. You want to come?”

Mira was already back at work, humming softly under her breath. Under the drafting table she had one leg crossed over the other, one blue slipper bouncing up and down, up and down.

“I guess,” I said. “I mean, I need to change.”

“Take your time,” he told me, picking up the books and starting that slow amble toward the door. “I’ll be outside.”

I went upstairs and washed my face, then pulled my hair back in a ponytail and put on a different shirt. From my window I could see Norman; he was wearing the red sunglasses and stretched out across the hood of the car, his feet hanging off the edge. He was kind of cute, if you liked that Deadhead type. Which I didn’t.

I looked at myself in the mirror; with my hair up I looked twelve. I took it down. Put it up again. Then changed my shirt and checked on Norman, who appeared to have fallen asleep, baking in the sun.

I changed my shirt again, put on my Walkman and went downstairs.

“Ready?” he said as soon as I stepped outside, startling me. He hadn’t been sleeping, after all.

“Sure,” I said, and got in. The seat was hot on the back of my legs. Norman opened the glove compartment, and about six pairs of sunglasses fell out, all different kinds: Ray•Bans, purple-framed old-lady glasses, wraparound seventies styles.

“Oops,” he said, reaching over and collecting them. “Sorry.” He traded the pair he’d been wearing for some green ones and put them on, shoving the rest back into the glove compartment, which he slammed shut. It immediately fell open.

“Damn,” he said, pushing it shut again.

“Are all those yours?” I asked, as it opened and another pair fell out.

“Yeah,” he said, finally closing it with a good whack. “I collect them.” He started up the car. “You need a pair?”

“No,” I said.

“Okay,” he said simply, shrugging. “Whatever.”

We backed out of the driveway.

“Whatcha listening to?” he asked, pointing to the headphones around my neck.

“Fierces of Fuquay,” I said.

“Who?”

“Fierces of Fuquay,” I repeated.

“Never heard of them,” he announced. Now he pointed to the tape deck. “Pop it in.”

So I did. It wasn’t really fair, because it came on in the middle of this song called “Bite,” where the lead singer was just screaming over the drums. Norman’s face looked pained, as if someone was stepping on his foot.