Page 51

When she finally released me and drew back, I saw she was dressed like she was a Victorian heiress in deep mourning. She was in head to toe black, her dress ankle length with balloon sleeves and a lace inset to the bodice and neck. She also had on lace up boots and a mother of pearl brooch.

“Wow,” I said. “You look great.”

“Thanks. I stole the brooch and the shoes from a show I was in last year.” She put her finger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t know who I would tell.”

She gave a watery laugh, a tissue appearing from under her sleeve and delicately dabbed her eyes. That was a hell of a grandma trick right there. I was impressed. After she wiped her tears, the tissue disappeared again.

“Is Clifford here? I need to go apologize.”

“You’ve already apologized enough,” I told her, alarmed she might make a scene. She had already visited Clifford in the hospital and cried on him. The word on the senior street was she’d also sent him a fruit basket large enough to feed the entire thespian troupe.

Considering Sara was always saying she was strapped for cash, she’d probably slapped down a credit card for that fruit.

“I’ll just say hi real quick.”

Grandma reappeared by my side. “I bet she’s worried Clifford will sue her. I bet he could sue the senior center and they could sue Sara.”

“I feel like your generation is obsessed with suing people. It was an accident. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

“Sue first before they sue you.”

I was not going to request that to be stitched on a sampler by her.

The back of my neck was suddenly cold and I turned to see the man in the tracksuit was leaning in to sniff my hair. “What the hell? Stop it!” I said automatically.

Then immediately realized my error when his eyes went wide.

“You can see me?”

“Nope. Not at all.” I turned, sighing at my very large and obvious error. “Christ,” I muttered.

Grandma smacked my arm. “Watch your mouth.”

“Sorry,” I said, automatically. “Where is Jake? Did he have to park down the street at the school? It’s been fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t need to keep that man on a short lease.”

“I’m not trying to stop a guys’ night out. I’m just worried he got hit by a car or something.”

“He’s a thirty-year-old man.”

“Thirty-year-old men get hit by cars too.” I could still feel the cool breeze of the man behind me so I was willing to engage in whatever nonsensical conversation my grandmother wanted to as long as tracksuit man left me alone.

That was wishful thinking.

He came around the front of me and he looked very agitated. “I know you saw me.”

I pretended to look through him as if I couldn’t see him.

“Hey, Tina,” he said, snapping his fingers at a woman who had an equally eighties outfit on.

She had a popped collar sticking up from underneath a pale pink sweatshirt that was paired with matching pink sweatpants and leg warmers. Her hair was the color of a cherry popsicle and the permed curls were held back by a sweatband. Blood trickled down the side of her face and half her head was caved in. If she wasn’t slightly misty I would have thought I’d fallen onto the movie set of a classic eighties horror flick.

“This broad can see us,” he said to her.

Why did men in tracksuits also sound so rude?