Little Pretty Things Read Online Free Page A

pumps, and toward the street.
    “Teeny, stop—stay here a second.” I came alongside her and reached for her arm. It was thin in the bulky sweater, but she was strong. She ripped her arm away from me. The overfilled pocket swung around, and the candies arced out, pinging against the asphalt around us and rolling in a million directions.
    “Sorry, sorry,” I said, running to grab a few before she darted for them and Dickie’s prediction came true. When I came back, Teeny was kneeling in the lot, gathering the candies to her. She mumbled something under her breath. “I said I was sorry.”
    I walked the lot, collecting the candies, and brought them back to her, getting mad. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she snap out of—whatever this was? Why wasn’t anyone caring for her, keeping her safe?
    The last handful of gumballs returned to the pile, I stood up and watched the street, fuming at myself for getting involved. “I’m going,” I said. “It’s late.”
    “The girls,” Teeny said.
    “What?”
    “The girls.”
    She looked up at me, her eyes wide and concerned. She could have been a hundred years old, or twenty-five, I couldn’t tell. She was younger, though, than I’d ever guessed, if I’d ever given any thought to her at all.
    “The girls who? Which girls?”
    “The girls, the girls.” The words were sing-song, but they made sense to her.
    “OK, great,” I said. “I hope they get rides home, too.”
    My old car didn’t want to start, but at last it did, and I was treated to the gas needle’s short trip from empty to not-quite-empty. I drove off with a last glance in the rear-view at Teeny seated in the lot, alone. Some of the candies had been transferred to her mouth. One cheek was distended, full, like a child’s.

    Where I lived, the porch light was dark.
    Which is not to say I couldn’t find my way. The whole street was well lit. That was the kind of street it was: houses old but kept up, the grass green and neatly edged. No matter what time I came home, somebody on the block was probably noticing, flicking their curtain back to catch the details. The neighborhood was nicer than Lu’s, maybe, the yards a little bigger. But at my house, we’d long ago given up on flower boxes.
    My mom was fine, I’d told Maddy.
    The first lie I’d told her.
    I let myself in the front door, careful to be quiet. My mom slept badly, which meant she could be trying to sleep at any time of the day or night.
    She had the time. She didn’t work. She didn’t cook or clean much. She didn’t have friends or make crafts or read. I’d moved back home after my dad’s death to get my mom through the cycle of grief. But we hadn’t cycled. I was still living in the room I had in high school. The same wall color, the same furniture. I still had trophies from some of my big races on the dresser. My mom still slept in the bed my dad had left that last morning. His clothes were still in the drawers and closet. We were . . . still.
    “Juliet, is that you?” my mom called from the kitchen.
    Who else could it be? I’d gotten one shoe off, and carried it around the corner. A low-watt light over the stove barely lit the room. She sat at the table in her robe.
    What I’d learned from my dad’s death was that the Townsends were made of flimsy stuff. One weak heart, one weak mind, and, for baby bear, a weak will.
    “Hey, Mom. Thought you’d be in bed.”
    “I was getting a glass of water.”
    There was no glass in front of her. I dropped my shoe, kicked off its match, and went to the cupboard. When I set the glass of water in front of her, she reached for it idly, as though it had been there the whole time.
    “How was work?”
    “The same,” I said. That’s what I always said. Not just for work, but for everything there was to say. Our lives had been wider, deeper, once. I couldn’t help thinking that my parents had had bigger plans for me than this. You couldn’t name a little girl Juliet without thinking