“Calligraphy,” I said.
“Yeah. Why are they here?”
“I did them.”
“You did these? I’m impressed.”
“My mother taught me. Her mother had taught her. When we were living in Santa Monica, she sold her work on the boardwalk.”
“What did you do?”
“I did lanyards.”
“You made enough to get by?”
“Some days. Some days not, and those days we ate very little.”
“When I was at the beach yesterday, I saw some people selling stuff, but nothing like arts and crafts.”
“Hungry and desperate people will sell anything they can for a day’s food.”
He nodded and then just threw himself onto my bed.
“Comfy,” he said. “Like sleeping in marshmallow, I bet.” He lay there with his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. “So, you’ve had a few boyfriends?”
“No.”
He raised his head. “No? Gary says you’re practically a one-girl escort service.”
“A little exaggeration. I have had dates with a half-dozen or so boys.”
“Or so?”
“Stop. I haven’t had any real boyfriends. Actually, escort is a more accurate description of the boys I’ve been with.”
“Did they come here to pick you up?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. March? How did he treat them?”
“Most of the time, he wasn’t here, and I told you, if he was, he didn’t show any particular interest.”
“What did I do to deserve it? Stop playing the piano?”
I laughed. “I haven’t dated anyone this year yet. Maybe since you’re the first I’ve invited . . .”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. What about you? I bet you’re the real escort service.”
“You’d be surprised, too. Among other things, I’m allergic to airheads.”
“There hasn’t been a girl who wasn’t one?”
He was silent.
“What about at the last school?”