The Space Between Sisters (7 page)

Was he asking her out?
She felt her face flush with irritation. She
hated
it when guys did this. And she never understood it, either. Why would they think she'd be willing to go out with a stranger? And, in this man's case, since when did buying a bottle of wine from someone constitute an introduction to him? Now, though, she took a five-dollar bill out of her wallet and placed it on the counter, and, as she did so, she leveled her gaze at him. “I don't date people I don't know,” she said.

“Excuse me?” he said, picking up her five-dollar bill. Now, apparently, it was his turn to be confused.

“I said, ‘I don't go out on dates with people I've never met before.'”

“Did you . . . did you think I was asking you out?” he asked, counting out her change and putting it on the counter.

“Well . . . weren't you?” She picked up her change and put it back in her wallet.

“No, I wasn't,” he said, and she saw a flash of irritation in his blue eyes as he put her bottle of wine in a paper bag. “I was just making conversation. This is my business,” he added. “I'm not in the habit of using it as a place to try to pick up women.”

“Okay,” she said, apologetically, her face warm again, though this time only with embarrassment. “I'm sorry. I obviously misunderstood you.”

She heard a laugh, a laugh that was quickly disguised as a cough, and she looked over to see the man in the seersucker hat covering his mouth with mock politeness. He looked like he was
enjoying himself immensely. So did the guy in the baseball cap, who, even now, was leaning against the counter with a lackadaisical smile on his face. So this was what passed for entertainment around here? Being rude to customers?

“Thank you very much,” she said, insincerely, as the proprietor handed her the paper bag.

She turned to go then, but before she'd even taken a step she heard the man behind the counter say, almost as if to himself, “That's a really nice bottle of wine.”

She spun around, too irritated to feel self-conscious. “You're the one who sold it to me,” she objected. “If it's so bad, why do you even carry it?”

“Actually,” he said, “that bottle was already here when I bought this business.”

“So, why'd you keep it?” she shot back.

“Because there's no accounting for some people's tastes,” he said, with an amused glance at his companions. Poppy turned on her heels and headed for the door, determined not to give him, or his friends, anything else to be amused about. But by the time she reached the front porch, where the little girl was still playing with her baton, she had a new preoccupation: peeling the price tag off the bottle before she got home with it. When she looked up, though, she saw the little girl throw the baton, awkwardly, and saw it come down again, narrowly missing her.

“
Whoa,
hey, careful there,” Poppy said, hurrying over to her and picking it up. “You don't want to bop yourself on the head, do you?” she asked the little girl.

She shook her head at Poppy, and there was something so serious and, at the same time, so sweet about her expression that Poppy couldn't help but smile at her. “Here you go,” she said, handing her the baton.

She took it from Poppy, then blinked her wide bluish-gray eyes and said, “You're pretty.”

“Thank you. So are you,” Poppy said, smiling. “What's your name?”

“Cassie,” the little girl said, still not taking her eyes off her.

“Is that short for Cassandra?”

“No. It's short for Cassidy. My dad named me after
Butch
Cassidy. Do you know who he was?”

Poppy started to say that she did, but Cassie didn't give her time to. “He was an outlaw,” she said. “There's a
movie
about him. But I haven't seen it yet, 'cause it's rated PG, and it's the
old
PG, when they weren't as strict as they are now, so it's
really
rated PG13. My mom says we can see it when I'm thirteen, though, and she said my friend Janelle can watch it with us.” She stopped, a little out of breath.

“That's interesting,” Poppy said, wondering if all children were this forthcoming about themselves. “It's not every day that I meet a baton twirling outlaw,” she said.

“What's your name?” Cassie asked, with a shy smile.

“My name is Poppy, after the flower, which my mom loved, and which my dad probably didn't have any real opinion about. But I should probably get going, Cassie,” she said, picturing Win's lasagna, already baking in the oven. “Someone's expecting me. And your mom, or dad, is probably wondering where you are, too,” she added, gesturing at the store. “They must be almost done by now.”

“Oh, no, my dad's here all the time,” Cassie said, swinging her baton. “I can stay out here for as long as I want.”

And Poppy fully intended to leave, but the expression on Cassie's face was so sweet, and the sight of the baton was so tempting, that instead Poppy held out her hand. “May I?” she
asked Cassie, indicating the baton, and setting down her handbag and grocery bag.

Cassie nodded, and handed it to her.

“I used to twirl a long time ago. Let's see if I can still remember how,” Poppy explained, doing a few basic figure eights, an arm roll, and a thumb toss.

Cassie clapped, excitedly. “Where'd you learn that?” she asked.

“In high school. I was a majorette in the marching band,” Poppy said, handing the baton back to her.

“You're even better than Miss Suzette.”

“Who's Miss Suzette?”

“She's our instructor,” Cassie said. “She was in the Miss Minnesota pageant once, and for her talent, she twirled. But that was, like, a long time ago,” Cassie said, lowering her voice. “Now she's kind of old. And she can't always show us everything because she has bursitis in her elbow.” She frowned. “Do you have bursitis?” she asked Poppy.

Poppy tried not to smile. “No. I'm not even sure I know what it is,” she said, while making way for a family coming up the steps.

“Me neither,” Cassie said. And then she thought of something else. “Poppy?”

“Yes?”

“When you did baton twirling, were you mean to the other girls who did it with you? The ones who weren't as good as you?”

Poppy considered this question and then shook her head. “No, I don't think I was mean to them. But then, they were all really good. You had to be, if you wanted to be in my high school's marching band.”

“Oh,” Cassie said, her face falling. “Well, I'll never be good
enough to be in a marching band. And the girls in my class—the ten-year-olds, at least—are mean. They say if I make mistakes at our show I'll make everyone look bad.”

“I don't believe that,” Poppy said. “I don't believe you could make
anyone
look bad, and that includes yourself.”

But Cassie looked fretful.

“Do you want to show me your twirl, Cassie?” Poppy asked.

“Okay,” she said, a little reluctantly, and then, screwing her face up with concentration, she began to twirl. And Poppy nodded encouragingly, but thought, as she watched her,
No technique. No natural ability, either
.

“That was good,” Poppy said brightly, when she was finished. “But, Cassie, why . . . why baton twirling? I mean, there's nothing
wrong
with doing it. But there must be other things to do around here, right? Other sports to play or classes to take?”

“Wrong,”
Cassie said, with an upward roll of her eyes. “There's almost
nothing
to do here. And besides, I
like
baton twirling. I mean, I don't like the part where you twirl the baton, but I like everything else about it. You know, like when we have recitals, we get to have our hair and makeup done by the moms, and we get to wear these twirler outfits. And they are so pretty, and so sparkly and so . . . girlie.”

“Oh, they are
definitely
girlie,” Poppy agreed.

“And I
like
that,” Cassie said, earnestly. “Especially since I live in an all-boy house.”

“So, no sisters?”

Cassie shook her head. “Only brothers,” she said. “But I
wish
I had a sister. Do you have one?”

“I do,” Poppy said. “A younger sister. But do you want to know a secret?”

Cassie nodded emphatically.

“She
acts
like the older sister. She's much more responsible than me.”

“Really?” Cassie's eyes widened. “Does she ever get into trouble?”

“No, she leaves that to me,” Poppy said wryly. “And she's waiting for me right now,” she said, reaching for her things. “We're going to have dinner together, and she's going to tell me how I can be more responsible. But keep twirling, Cassie,” she said, heading down the steps. Before she opened the car door, though, she made the mistake of looking back at her. Cassie was still twirling, with predictable results. Poppy hesitated.
I could teach her,
she thought. True, she'd never spent much time with kids before. She'd never really felt like she had anything to offer them. Win had been the one to babysit. And Win had been the one to teach. But this, this was different. She hadn't twirled a baton in forever, and it had still come right back to her. She could still do it. And she could teach someone else to do it, too. She walked back to the porch.

“Cassie,” she called up. “How would you like me to help you with your twirling?”

Cassie stopped twirling. “You mean, like, be my tutor?” she asked. “My brother Hunter has a math tutor.”

“Sure, I could do that,” Poppy said, coming up the steps.

Cassie beamed at her, but then her face fell a little.

“You can't tutor me,” she said, ruefully. “Tutors cost money. And I haven't got any. Well, no. I have got
some
. But only seven dollars and forty-seven cents.”

That's more than I have,
Poppy thought, but what she said was, “Cassie, you're in luck, because I'm not going to charge you anything. It'll be free. But we're going to have to ask your parents, okay?”

“Okay. Let's go ask my dad right now,” Cassie said, excitedly, and she took Poppy's hand and started pulling her toward the business's front door.

Poppy laughed. “What's your dad doing here?” she asked, as Cassie led her inside and down one of the aisles. “Grocery shopping?”

“No, silly. He
owns
this place,” Cassie said. She kept pulling on Poppy's hand.

“Um, you know what, sweetie?” Poppy said, digging in her heels as she thought about her recent misunderstanding with the owner. “Maybe you and I are getting ahead of ourselves here. Maybe your dad won't think this is such a great idea after all.”

“He
has
to,” Cassie said, looking up at her, and pulling again with a new strength. “
He
can't help me. He can't twirl a baton. And he can't French braid hair. And he can't
even
put toenail polish on me, even though everyone knows that is a
really
easy thing to do.”

“But . . .”

“Come on,” Cassie said, giving her hand another tug, but at that moment, Cassie's dad came around the corner of the aisle they were standing in, and, seeing him, Poppy felt an odd little jolt. There was something magnetic about him that she'd been too preoccupied to notice when he was behind the counter. She quickly brushed this thought away, though. And, just then, he saw her and Cassie together. He looked surprised, and not altogether happy.

“What's going on here?” he asked, and Poppy almost cringed with embarrassment. She hadn't thought she'd be seeing him again so soon.

“Daddy, this is Poppy!” Cassie said, breathlessly. “I want you to meet her.”

“I think we've already met,” he said, coming over to them. He eyed Poppy warily. “Honey, let go of her hand,” he said to Cassie. “She's a customer.”

“But she's
not
a customer,” Cassie said, not letting go of Poppy's hand. “That's what I'm
trying
to explain, Dad. She was a majorette. She was in a marching band.
And
she twirled my baton, and she twirled it
so
good
.”

“
Well
. She twirled it so
well,
” he corrected.

“She twirled it so
well,
” Cassie repeated. “Better even than Miss Suzette.
Plus
she doesn't even have bursitis.”

He looked at Poppy questioningly, but Poppy only shrugged.

“Please, Daddy. Can she tutor me for free? The recital's coming up, and I'm
still
dropping my baton.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Honey, we . . . we don't really know Poppy,” he said, putting a hand on Cassie's head.

“But
I
know her,” Cassie said, squeezing Poppy's hand tighter. “I know she's named after a flower that her mom liked. And I know her dad didn't really care what she was named. And—”

“Look,” Poppy interrupted. “Why don't we start over again, okay? I'm Poppy Robbins. I'm staying with my sister for the summer. You might know her. Her name is Win? Win Robbins? She teaches at the middle school here.” She held out her hand for him to shake.

He shook it, a little stiffly.
Jeez. The man knows how to hold a grudge.
“I'm Sam Boyd,” he said. “And yes, of course, I know Win. She's the teacher rep for the PTA.”

Of course she is,
Poppy thought. “Well then, you know I'm not dangerous,” she joked. Because to be Win's sister was to always have a character reference of sorts, whether Poppy deserved it or not.

Sam looked unmoved, though, and this would have been the
time to extract herself from this whole awkward situation, if only Cassie would have relaxed her grip on her hand.

“Please,”
Cassie said now, shifting her focus away from her dad and onto Poppy. “Would you please tutor me?” And Poppy sighed inwardly. How could anyone say no to someone this adorable?