Fifty-One
before
Shiloh’s mom had made chicken and rice soup, and Shiloh had been eating it for three days. There was just enough for one more
bowl tonight, if she added water to what was left.
There was a knock at the door while Shiloh was heating it up.
She wasn’t supposed to answer the door while she was alone in the house—which was always. The only people who came to the
door were Jehovah’s Witnesses and people selling scam magazine subscriptions and the guy from the natural gas company who
checked the meter.
Shiloh peeked out the living room window.
It was Cary.
She went to the door.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hi.” He just stood there.
Shiloh squinted down at him. She was in ninth grade, and she’d already been five-foot-eleven—taller than Cary—for a year.
Cary looked unsettled. He was wearing an old sweatshirt and camouflage pants with big pockets. His face was red, and his whole-wheat-colored
hair was a mess. “Are you busy?” he asked.
“No,” Shiloh said.
She and Cary had been friends since seventh grade. They walked to school together, and they talked on the phone. Sometimes
they sat outside and talked. He’d never been inside her house.
It was cold out today, almost winter.
“I was just eating dinner,” Shiloh said. “Do you want to come in?”
“That’s okay.” He shook his head. “I’ll see you later.” He turned around.
“Cary, no!”
He looked back at her.
“Just wait, okay? I’ll be right back.”
He nodded.
Shiloh left him on the porch and went into the kitchen. The soup was boiling. She poured it into two small mugs and got two
spoons.
Then she grabbed her coat—a fancy pink wool coat from the fifties. It was very cute, but the sleeves only came down to her
elbows. Women in the 1950s must have had cold wrists all the time.
When Shiloh got back to the door, Cary was sitting outside on the steps.
She went and sat next to him, holding out a mug. “Here.”
He looked at it. “You don’t have to feed me.”
“I can’t eat in front of you,” she said, “and I’m really hungry.”
Cary made a consternated noise and took the mug.
Shiloh started eating.
“Sorry I didn’t call first,” he said.
“It’s okay. I wasn’t doing anything. My mom’s at work.”
“She’s a waitress at the airport?”
“She’s more like a bartender.”
Cary was staring out into the park across the street. “Hm.”
“You have to eat at least one bite,” she said, “or I’m still being rude.”
Cary looked down at the mug. He took a bite. “What is this?”
“Chicken and rice. It was better three days ago. You okay?”
Cary shrugged. He was staring at the soup now. He didn’t seem to be seeing anything, no matter where his face was pointed.
The wind was blowing his hair all over. He needed a haircut, and maybe a shower.
Cary wasn’t especially cute.
Like, none of the girls who hung out with Shiloh would ever think so. Nobody decent had a crush on Cary.
But Shiloh liked his face. She liked his weird eyes... They were gold on the outside and raggedly brown in the middle—but
from any distance, they looked one color. Like maple syrup.
Cary’s eyes were kind of small and pouchy. His chin was pointy. His top lip was thin.
His face didn’t sound nice when you broke it up into parts. But it was nice altogether. She liked looking at him.
“My mom got married,” he said.
Shiloh made a face. “When?”
“Today.”
It was a Tuesday. “Was there a wedding?”
“No,” he said, “they just did it. At the courthouse. It doesn’t change anything—he already lives with us.”
“Do you like him?” she asked.
Cary puffed out a harsh breath. “No.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged.
“Where’s your real dad?”
“He died when I was eight.”
“Oh.” Shiloh touched Cary’s arm for a second. “I’m really sorry. Was he any good?”
“I think so, yeah. He was good to me.” Cary looked down at the ground. He scrubbed a hand up through the back of his hair.
“He was my grandpa, actually. My mom is my grandma.”
That made sense. Cary’s mom was older than everybody else’s.
“She doesn’t think I know,” he said. He was still staring at the sidewalk.
“You mean, your mom doesn’t know...” Shiloh paused. “That you know... that she’s not your mom?”
Cary looked up at her without lifting his head. “Pretty much.”
The wind was blowing Shiloh’s hair into her mouth. She tucked some behind her ear. “How’d you find out?”
“It was... well, it was on the papers they sent home with us for free and reduced lunch.” Cary looked in Shiloh’s eyes.
His eyebrows were pulled up a little in the middle. “My real mom is my sister. Like, my birth mom, I guess.”
Shiloh worried at her lip. “Oh, wow.”
“Yeah.”
“And nobody knows that you know?”
He shook his head.
Shiloh looked down at her soup. She ate a few bites. “My dad could be anybody.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know...” Shiloh shrugged. “He could be anybody. He could be that guy.” She pointed at someone walking down the
street with a bag of groceries. “My mom doesn’t know who he is—I mean, I guess she might know and be lying to me...” Shiloh wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think she knows.”
Cary slid his chin to one side, frowning. It made his face look a little crooked.
“I don’t talk about this at school,” Shiloh said. “Obviously.”
“Me neither. Don’t worry.”
She elbowed him. “I wasn’t worried. I’m just... you know.”
“Yeah.” Cary took a bite of soup.
“So this guy’s your stepdad now?”
Cary sneered. He swallowed. “No. I already had one stepdad. I don’t need another one—I’m not going to start numbering them
like British kings. This guy’s just my mother’s husband. He’s... nothing.”
“Does he have kids?”
Cary nodded. “They all have kids.”
Shiloh watched him eat his soup. She was already done with hers. He tipped the mug up to his mouth to drink the last bits.
When he was done, she took the mug. “Wait here,” she said. She went inside and put the dishes in the sink.
Then she went into her mom’s room and scrounged around until she found a box of raspberry Zingers. There were four left. She
took three.
Cary was still sitting on the steps. He looked cold.
“Look,” Shiloh said, holding out a Zinger. “Do you like these?”
He nodded and took it. “Thanks.”
They each ate one and split the third.
“I like the red ones better than the vanilla,” Cary said.
“All Zingers are good Zingers,” Shiloh said. “My mom buys them for herself and hides them—but she doesn’t yell at me if I
find them, because she feels guilty about being selfish.”
“That’s complicated. I didn’t know I was eating stolen snack cakes.”
“Yeah, now you’re an accessory. She hides cigarettes, too. You want some?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “My mom would just give me cigarettes if I wanted them.”
Shiloh laughed.
“She’s crazy,” he said, “but she’s generous.”
“She likes this guy? Her husband?”
Cary rolled his eyes. “She likes everyone.”
“Oof,” Shiloh said, “I don’t like anyone .”
Cary looked at her without turning his head. He was smiling a little. “Smart girl.”