She was wearing old shorts and one of Sandy’s gym shirts. She had a pair of blue jeans in her hand, with a needle and thread hanging off them. She tucked the Bell under her arm without looking at it. “What are you doing to your jeans?” I asked. She had red thread on her needle and a square of red velvet that she was sewing onto the seat of her pants. “Putting on a patch,” she said. “It doesn’t blend in much,” I said. I turned to go, nervous around her since her baby-sitting night. “Is something the matter, Chérie?” she asked. She was wearing the little rectangular granny glasses with blue lenses that she’d brought home from vacation in Cape Cod. Her hair was pulled back into a curly clump. “I just want to get these rotten papers done,” I said. “I’ve got homework.” “Wait till you get to high school,” she said. “But you’re not doing homework; you’re sewing.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “Better be careful on that bike, Chérie. I heard about what happened on the bridge, with you and Dave.
