Orphan Train

squad.”
    “No, no, listen,” Jack says. “I have an idea. It’s a little . . . crazy.”
    “What,” she says sullenly. “I have to go.”
    “I talked to my mother—”
    “Jack, are you serious? You told her? She already hates me.”
    “Whoa, hear me out. First of all, she doesn’t hate you. And second, she spoke to the
     lady she works for, and it looks like maybe you can do your hours there.”
    “What?”
    “Yeah.”
    “But—how?”
    “Well, you know my mom is the world’s worst housekeeper.”
    Molly loves the way he says this—matter-of-factly, without judgment, as if he were
     reporting that his mother is left-handed.
    “So the lady wants to clean out her attic—old papers and boxes and all this shit,
     my mom’s worst nightmare. And I came up with the idea to have you do it. I bet you
     could kill the fifty hours there, easy.”
    “Wait a minute—you want me to clean an old lady’s attic?”
    “Yeah. Right up your alley, don’t you think? Come on, I know how anal you are. Don’t
     try to deny it. All your stuff lined up on the shelf. All your papers in files. And
     aren’t your books alphabetical?”
    “You noticed that?”
    “I know you better than you think.”
    Molly does have to admit, as peculiar as it is, she likes putting things in order.
     She’s actually kind of a neat freak. Moving around as much as she has, she learned
     to take care of her few possessions. But she’s not sure about this idea. Stuck alone
     in a musty attic day after day, going through some lady’s trash?
    Still—given the alternative . . .
    “She wants to meet you,” Jack says.
    “Who?”
    “Vivian Daly. The old lady. She wants you to come for—”
    “An interview. I have to interview with her, you’re saying.”
    “It’s just part of the deal,” he says. “Are you up for that?”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “Sure. You can go to jail.”
    “Molly!” Dina barks, rapping on the door. “Out here right now!”
    “All right!” she calls, and then, to Jack, “All right.”
    “All right what?”
    “I’ll do it. I’ll go and meet her. Interview with her.”
    “Great,” he says. “Oh, and—you might want to wear a skirt or something, just—y’know.
     And maybe take out a few earrings.”
    “What about the nose ring?”
    “I love the nose ring,” he says. “But . . .”
    “I get it.”
    “Just for this first meeting.”
    “It’s all right. Listen—thanks.”
    “Don’t thank me for being selfish,” he says. “I just want you around a little longer.”
    When Molly opens the bedroom door to Dina’s and Ralph’s tense and apprehensive faces,
     she smiles. “You don’t have to worry. I’ve got a way to do my hours.” Dina shoots
     a look at Ralph, an expression Molly recognizes from reading years of host parents’
     cues. “But I understand if you want me to leave. I’ll find something else.”
    “We don’t want you to leave,” Ralph says, at the same time that Dina says, “We need
     to talk about it.” They stare at each other.
    “Whatever,” Molly says. “If it doesn’t work out, it’s okay.”
    And in that moment, with bravado borrowed from Jack, it is okay. If it doesn’t work
     out, it doesn’t work out. Molly learned long ago that a lot of the heartbreak and
     betrayal that other people fear their entire lives, she has already faced. Father
     dead. Mother off the deep end. Shuttled around and rejected time and time again. And
     still she breathes and sleeps and grows taller. She wakes up every morning and puts
     on clothes. So when she says it’s okay, what she means is that she knows she can survive
     just about anything. And now, for the first time since she can remember, she has someone
     looking out for her. (What’s his problem, anyway?)

Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011
    Molly takes a deep breath. The house is bigger than she imagined—a white Victorian monolith with curlicues and black shutters. Peering out the windshield,
     she can see that it’s in meticulous shape—no evidence of peeling or rot, which means
     it must have been recently painted. No doubt the old lady employs people who work
     on it constantly, a queen’s army of worker bees.
    It’s a warm April morning. The ground is spongy with melted snow and rain, but today
     is one of those rare, almost balmy days that hint at the glorious summer ahead. The
     sky is luminously blue, with large woolly clouds. Clumps of crocuses seem to have
     sprouted