“Pretty please?”

　“Okay, I’ll try.” She stands up, slowly. This is the year Clare got tall, quickly. In the past year she has grown five inches, and she has not yet become accustomed to her new body. Breasts and legs and hips, all newly minted. 

 

I try not to think about it as I watch her walk up the path to the house. I glance at the book she was reading. It’s a Dorothy Sayers, one I haven’t read. I’m on page thirty-three by the time she gets back. She has brought a Thermos, cups, a blanket, and some doughnuts. A summer’s worth of sun has freckled Clare’s nose, and I have to resist the urge to run my hands through her bleached hair, which falls over her arms as she spreads out the blanket.

 

　“Bless you.” I receive the Thermos as though it contains a sacrament. We settle ourselves on the blanket. I kick off the flip-flops, pour out a cup of coffee, and take a sip. It’s incredibly strong and bitter. “Yowza! This is rocket fuel, Clare.”

 

　“Too strong?” She looks a little depressed, and I hasten to compliment her.

　“Well, there’s probably no such thing as too strong, but it’s pretty strong. I like it, though. Did you make it?”

　“Uh-huh. I never made coffee before, and Mark came in and was kind of bugging me, so maybe I did it wrong.”

　“No, it’s fine.” I blow on the coffee, and gulp it down. I feel better immediately. I pour another cup.

　Clare takes the Thermos from me. She pours herself half an inch of coffee and takes a cautious sip. “Ugh,” she says. “This is disgusting. Is it supposed to taste like this?”

 

　

　Clare pours the rest of her coffee into the Meadow and takes a doughnut. Then she says, “You’re making me into a freak.”

　I don’t have a ready reply for this, since the idea has never occurred to me. “Uh, no I’m not.”

　“You are so.”

 

　“Am not.” I pause. “What do you mean, I’m making you into a freak? I’m not making you into anything.”