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the lingerie was folded and put away and the old chenille robe hung neatly from its hook. It was as if her mother had re-formed and then disappeared.
    In the kitchen, Clara found a note from her mother that read:
    Sweetie, I’m at work until the normal time. There’s oatmeal on the stove. I’ll make you chicken potpie tonight unless an inheritance comes in the mail and then I’ll take you out (Ha!).
    Love you, Mom
    The oatmeal was gluey, but Clara ate most of it anyway and mixed the rest with Ham’s kibble. Then she took a long hot bath and shaved her legs, following the advice in one of her mother’s magazines. She hoped Gerri might call again but knew somehow that she wouldn’t.
    Clara looked out the window and tried to look forward to spring, and from there to summer, but what if, when summer finally came, Gerri wasn’t her friend anymore and she couldn’t go to horse camp? Five days at the Black Stallion cost $890, and she’d saved only a fourth of her part. Her paper route was fine, but it wasn’t enough. She needed another source of income. She turned to Ham and in a playful voice said, “Maybe I should rent you out, Hambone!”
    And that gave her an idea.
    Girl for rent,
she thought. She even said it aloud to Ham as she untangled his leash from the umbrella, walked him four blocks to Banner Variety, and looped his leash around a parking meter.
    Inside, holding a little roll of her horse camp money, Clara started looking for inspiration in the sale bin. Dusty zippers, American flags on toothpicks, red and green crepe paper, a torn picture of Lincoln—nothing that suited her purposes. Finally Clara picked out some plain white stationery in a pale gray box. It wasn’t in the sale bin. It looked like something you might use if you needed to write a thank-you letter to the Princess of Monaco, and was priced accordingly. But she remembered something her mother had liked to say when she was paying tuition when she went back to college.
Sometimes you have to spend money
to make money.
Clara spent almost all the money she’d brought.
    Then, when she was back outside, something bad happened. It wouldn’t have been bad if she’d had a tissue in her pocket, but she didn’t. And she needed, all of a sudden, to blow her nose just as Amos MacKenzie stepped out of Value Village, the thrift store across the street.
    Amos MacKenzie was in the ninth grade, like Clara, but he seemed older because he was smart and almost never said anything. He had light brown skin, blond hair, and dark brown eyes. It had occurred to Clara, watching him in History, that if he were a horse, he would be a palomino. It had also occurred to her that this was a weird way to think of boys. She had a picture of Amos hidden in her desk at home—last year’s Christmas card from the Cosgrove Dairy, in which the whole MacKenzie family was standing beside the milk truck on a fall day.
    Now, as Clara removed Ham’s leash from the parking meter, Amos and his father were putting a used snow shovel into a rusty white Ford van. So they had money troubles, too. At least Clara’s father didn’t take her to Value Village.
    Clara felt in her pockets for a tissue and came up with a ticket stub from going to the movies with Gerri. When she glanced at the rusty Ford van, Mr. MacKenzie seemed to be looking her way, but Amos was already seated and staring straight ahead. Then Mr. MacKenzie did a slow U-turn that brought them close to the curb. Clara sniffled, pulled on Ham’s leash, and waved, which for some reason made Mr. MacKenzie pull over, lean past Amos, and roll down the window. “Hi,” he said, and grinned. “I suspect you must be Miss Wilson.”
    Clara nodded uncertainly and even blushed a little. She hadn’t ever been called Miss Wilson before.
    â€œI know because that canine looks familiar,” Mr. MacKenzie said, nodding at Ham, who was happily