Mind Prey

had gone a sunny gold, a brilliant greeting on a dismal day.
    Andi left the car in the parking lot and hurried inside, the warm smell of a soaking rain hanging like a fog over the wet asphalt.
    The teacher-parent conferences were routine—Andi went to them every year, the first day of school: meet the teachers, smile at everyone, agree to work on the Thanksgiving pageant, write a check to the strings program. So looking forward to working with Grace, she’s a very bright child, active, school leader, blah blah blah.
    She was happy to go to them. Always happy when they were over.
     
    W HEN THEY WERE done, she and the girls walked back outside and found the rain had intensified, hissing down from the crazy sky. “I’ll tell you what, Mom,” Grace said, as they stood in the school’s covered entry, watching a woman with a broken umbrella scurry down the sidewalk. Grace was often very serious when talking with adults. “I’m in a very good dress, and it’s barely wrinkled, so I could wear it again. Why don’t you get the car and pick me up here?”
    “All right.” No point in all of them getting wet.
    “I’m not afraid of the rain,” Genevieve said, pugnaciously. “Let’s go.”
    “Why don’t you wait with Grace?” Andi asked.
    “Nah. Grace is just afraid to get wet ’cause she’ll melt, the old witch,” Genevieve said.
    Grace caught her sister’s eye and made a pinching sign with her thumb and forefinger.
    “Mom,” Genevieve wailed.
    “Grace,” Andi said, reprovingly.
    “Tonight, when you’re almost asleep,” Grace muttered. She knew how to deal with her sister.
    At twelve, Grace was the older and by far the taller of the two, gawky, but beginning to show the curves of adolescence. She was a serious girl, almost solemn, as though expecting imminent unhappiness. Someday a doctor.
    Genevieve, on the other hand, was competitive, frivolous, loud. Almost too pretty. Even at nine, everyone said, it was obvious that she’d be a trial to the boys. To whole flocks of boys. But that was years away. Now she was sitting on the concrete, messing with the sole of her tennis shoe, peeling the bottom layer off.
    “Gen,” Andi said.
    “It’s gonna come off anyway,” Genevieve said, not looking up. “I told you I needed new shoes.”
    A man in a raincoat hurried up the walk, hatless, head bowed in the rain. David Girdler, who called himself a psychotherapist and who was active in the Parent-Teacher Cooperative. He was a boring man, given to pronunciations about proper roles in life , and hard-wired behavior. There were rumors that he used tarot cards in his work. He fawned on Andi. “Dr. Manette,” he said, nodding, slowing. “Nasty day.”
    “Yes,” Andi said. But her breeding wouldn’t let her stop so curtly, even with a man she disliked. “It’s supposed to rain all night again.”
    “That’s what I hear,” Girdler said. “Say, did you see this month’s Therapodist ? There’s an article on the structure of recovered memory…”
    He rambled on for a moment, Andi smiling automatically, then Genevieve interrupted, loudly, “Mom, we’re superlate,” and Andi said, “We’ve really got to go, David,” and then, because of the breeding, “But I’ll be sure to look it up.”
    “Sure, nice talking to you,” Girdler said.
    When he’d gone inside, Genevieve said, looking after him, from the corner of her mouth like Bogart, “What do we say, Mom?”
    “Thank you, Gen,” Andi said, smiling.
    “You’re welcome, Mom.”
     
    “O KAY,” A NDI SAID . “I’ll run for it.” She looked down the parking lot. A red van had parked on the driver’s side of her car and she’d have to run around the back of it.
    “I’m coming, too,” Genevieve said.
    “I get the front,” Grace said.
    “I get the front…”
    “You got the front on the way over, beetle,” Grace said.
    “Mom, she called me…”
    Grace made the pinching sign again, and Andi said, “You get in the back, Gen. You had the front on the way over.”
    “Or I’ll pinch you,” Grace added.
    They half-ran through the rain, Andi in her low heels, Genevieve with her still-short legs, holding hands. Andi released Gen’s hand as they crossed behind the Econoline van. She pointed her key at the car and pushed the electronic lock button, heard the locks pop up over the hissing of the rain.
    Head bent, she hurried down between the van and the car, Gen a step behind her, and reached for the door handles.
     
    A NDI HEARD