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I ask suspiciously, highly skeptical that a jar full of dirt can hold more attractions for a fish than the sparkly lures.
    â€œLive worms,” the old man says. Robert quickly puts the jar down on the counter and we thank the old man. “Just pull one out and hook it on real good,” he says. “They work like a charm; the fish just gobble them up. Have fun, kids.”
    Robert hastily picks up his fishing rod and tackle box and the boat key and the oars and both life jackets, leaving me nothing to carry but the jam jar. “Oh, sure,” I mutter. Will I be able to feel them squirming through the glass? What if the lid comes off and they jump all over me? Eeeewwww, I think, yuck, yuck, as I pick up the jam jar and walk very calmly down to the jetty. I place the jam jar so carefully in the bottom of the rowboat that Robert, who follows me, wide-eyed and lugging all the other equipment, doesn’t even smile when I slosh my hands vigorously in the lake afterward. There, I think. Who’s afraid? I’m not afraid.
    We row silently out to the reeds. When we get there we spend quite a few minutes making everything shipshape. Robert can’t seem to find the perfect hook, and he keeps tying and untying different ones to the rod. I have to knot my shoelaces three times each before they’re comfortable.
    Finally we run out of things to do. The jar is still sitting there.
    â€œI’ll open it,” I say. “You can hook.”
    â€œYou go first today,” Robert says, hastily offering me the rod.
    I shake my head. I reach down, grasp the jar firmly by the throat and twist the lid. It’s stiff and comes open with a jerk, which freaks me out so much that I drop the jar. It falls on its side, spilling some dirt and one worm. There it is. Quickly we snatch our feet back. “You klutz!” Robert yells.
    â€œI even tipped one out for you!” I retort, instantly angry. When I’m angry, I stop being scared. I set my feet flat on the bottom of the boat, right the jar and snatch the hook from Robert’s hand. We glare at each other. Suddenly Robert grabs the worm and throws it overboard. Then he throws the whole jar overboard and the lid too. They sink.
    â€œMy worm!” I say, although I’m in fact enormously relieved.
    Robert won’t look at me. He takes up the oars. “Sue me,” he says, but I have no idea what this means. All the way back to the jetty, we don’t say a word to each other.
    We never mention the worms again.
    The next morning, I actually pay attention to my parents’ conversation. A fly is droning and butting against the window (stupid—painful and stupid), which makes me look up in annoyance from my crossword puzzle. It’s going badly anyway. Who’s ever heard of a three-toed South American sloth, let alone knows what its official name is? Mom is fanning herself with a piece of paper the dry peachy color of car-sick pills, printed with smudgy purple ink. It’s an advertisement for a local fair. Mom is telling Dad the fair is sure to have herbs and pottery and goats and local artists and baking and other interesting crafts. Very good for Edie.
    Oh my god, I think.
    â€œOh my god,” I say. “Crafts? No. Uh-uh. Absolutely not. You can count me out.”
    â€œEee-hee-dee,” Dad says, trying not to laugh. “Don’t swear at your mother.”
    â€œEdith,” Mom says, “you are coming with me tomorrow to the craft fair and, furthermore, you are going to enjoy yourself and that is the end of this discussion.”
    I cross my arms on my chest, as if to say that this fight isn’t over yet. “She’s just like Dexter was at her age,” Dad says to Mom, and they smile at each other and then at me.
    â€œOH MY GOD!” I shout. “How dare you compare me to that—turd?”
    â€œThat settles it,” Dad says. “You’re going to the craft fair