Hidden Pictures(23)

“Teaching,” I tell them.

Sofia looks skeptical. “You mean education?”

She pronounces the word slowly—ed-u-ca-tion—like she suspects I’m hearing it for the first time.

“Right. For little kids.”

“Elementary education?”

“Exactly.”

Adrian is delighted. “My mom teaches fourth grade! She was an education major, too!”

“No kidding!” And it’s a good thing I’m flush from my run, because I’m sure my face is burning.

“It’s the most noble profession,” Ignacio says. “You’ve made a wonderful choice, Mallory.”

At this point I’m desperate to change the subject, to say something—anything—that’s not a lie. “Your flowers are beautiful,” I tell them. “I run past your house every day to look at them.”

“Then here’s the million-dollar question,” Ignacio says. “Which is your favorite?”

Adrian explains this is a game that his parents play with visitors. “The idea is that your favorite flower says something about your personality. Like a horoscope.”

“They’re all so beautiful,” I tell them.

Sofia refuses to let me off the hook. “You have to pick one. Whatever you like best.”

So I point to the orange flowers that just came up, the ones that are growing on the trellis. “I don’t know the name, but they remind me of little orange traffic cones.”

“Trumpet vines,” Adrian says.

Ignacio seems delighted. “No one ever picks the trumpet vine! She’s a beautiful flower, very versatile and low-maintenance. You give her a little sun and water—not too much attention—and she takes care of herself. Very independent.”

“But also kind of a weed,” Sofia adds. “A little hard to control.”

“That’s called vitality!” Ignacio says. “It’s good!”

Adrian shoots an exasperated look in my direction—see what I have to put up with?—and his mother reminds them that they’re very late, that they need to get going. So we all say hasty goodbyes and nice-to-meet-yous and I resume walking home.

A few seconds later, the black BMW drives past and Ignacio toots the horn while Sofia stares straight ahead. Adrian waves to me through the rear window and I catch a glimpse of the little boy he used to be—traveling with his parents in the backseat of their car, riding his bike on these shady sidewalks, accepting these beautiful tree-lined streets as a kind of birthright. I have the sense his childhood was perfect, that he has lived life with absolutely zero regrets.

Somehow I’ve made it to twenty-one without ever having had a real boyfriend. I mean, I’ve been with men—when you are a reasonably normal-looking woman addicted to drugs, there is always one surefire way to acquire more drugs—but I’ve never had anything resembling a traditional relationship.

But in the Hallmark Channel movie version of my life—in an alternate reality where I’m raised in Spring Brook by kind, affluent, well-educated parents like Ted and Caroline—my ideal boyfriend would be someone a lot like Adrian. He’s cute, he’s funny, he works hard. And as I walk along I start doing the arithmetic in my head, trying to calculate when two full weeks will elapse and he’ll be back to work on the Maxwells’ yard.



* * *



Spring Brook is full of small children but I’ve had no luck introducing Teddy to anyone. At the end of our block is a big playground full of swings, spinners, and shrieking, screaming five-year-olds—but Teddy wants nothing to do with them.

One Monday morning we find ourselves sitting on a park bench, watching a group of little boys “drive” their Hot Wheels down a sliding board. I urge Teddy to go over and play with them and he says, “I don’t have a Hot Wheels.”

“Ask them to share.”

“I don’t want to share.”

He slouches next to me on the bench, pissed off.

“Teddy, please.”

“I’ll play with you. Not them.”

“You need friends your own age. You start school in two months.”

But there’s no convincing him. We spend the rest of the morning playing LEGOs in the house, and then he eats lunch and goes upstairs for Quiet Time. I know I should use my downtime to clean the kitchen but it’s hard to muster the energy. I didn’t sleep well the night before—the Fourth of July fireworks went pretty late—and arguing with Teddy has left me feeling defeated.

I decide to lie down on the sofa for a few minutes and the next thing I know Teddy is standing over me, shaking me awake.

“Can we go swimming now?”

I sit up and notice the light in the room has changed. It’s almost three o’clock. “Yes, of course, get your swimsuit.”

He hands me a drawing and runs out of the room. It’s the same dark and tangled forest from the previous picture—only this time, the man is shoveling dirt into a large hole, and Anya’s body lies crumpled at the bottom.



Teddy returns to the den, wearing his swimsuit. “Ready?”

“Hang on, Teddy. What is this?”

“What is what?”

“Who is this person? In the hole?”

“Anya.”