Peaches

test. If Enrico was inside, she was not going to do what she’d done last time, with the Band-Aid. She wasn’t going to screw it up. She walked up to the threshold.
    Enrico sat below the bare lightbulb, reading. When he saw Birdie, he didn’t smile, but merely nodded to her. She straightened out her sweatshirt and ran her fingers along her denim shorts to smooth them out. They hung low on her hips, like either Birdie had shrunk or she’d been wearing them for too many days.
    “What’re you reading?” she ventured, stepping beside him and behind him so she could look over his shoulder. The smell of sickly sweet cider and sawdust filled up her nose. Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel García Márquez.
    “I already read this in Spanish,” Enrico said. “I think this will help me with the English book.”
    “Oh.”
    Birdie knew she was breathing warmly on his shoulder. She backed up a step.
    “What do you read?” Enrico laid his book down on his lap and turned to look at her. Though it was raining, it was still sticky and humid, and sweat had collected above his lips.
    “I watch TV,” Birdie said, smiling sheepishly. She tugged on the cord that the bare bulb was hanging from, letting it swing back and forth. “Aren’t you lonely out here?”
    Enrico smiled softly. “No. I like being alone. Too much talking at the house.”
    “I know what you mean.” Birdie leaned against the cider press, watching his big serious eyes, her stomach starting to ache. “I like being alone too. I can get away to my room sometimes, but…”
    “These rooms are too small to do.”
    “I know.” She sighed unevenly. “Sorry.”
    Enrico shook his head, still smiling. “Not your fault.” He looked down at his book, then up at her. “Maybe you help me with a few of these words?”
    “Sure.”
    Enrico flipped through the pages of his book, frowning in concentration. He opened a page and held it out toward Birdie. The word frivolity had been marked with a pencil.
    “Oh,” Birdie said, thinking of the right way to put it. “That’s, um, having fun.”
    Enrico nodded and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth,chewing on it thoughtfully. This alarmed Birdie. It made her feel like she was going to cease to exist. Something was going to happen to her. She couldn’t go on this way.
    “This one?” He thrust out another page with another word: shrouded.
    Birdie looked at it. It danced on the page in front of her like something in the wavy hot air of the desert. She could swear her pulse was loud enough for him to hear. “Um, I think that means covered up, hidden.”
    When Enrico pointed to the next word, Birdie’s finger darted out to touch the page and slid next to his.
    “Um, I think that means…um…”
    Birdie looked up at Enrico. His face was just inches from hers. Her first instinct was to look away, but bravely she kept her eyes on his profile, forcing herself to stay still. He didn’t notice for a second. He was still looking at the page and the place where their fingers were touching, and then he tilted his face toward her, sending the shadow cast by the lightbulb on a slow trek from his forehead to his jaw.
    Enrico jerked slightly and cleared his throat. Then he pulled back, fanning the pages of the book against his fingers. “Maybe I look in the dictionary,” he said faintly, apologetically.
    Birdie was suspended in space. She could feel her skin flushing, radiating prickly circles. She sank back on her right foot, retreating, but trying not to retreat idiotically fast. “Well, um, I guess I’m not sure.” She hadn’t even seen the word.
    Crap. Crap crap crap.
    Maybe he hadn’t even noticed that a second ago she’d been trying to be kissed.
    “Okay,” she said breezily, clutching to this possibility with all her might. “Well, I gotta go get some blackberries for Poopie.” She showed him her teeth, and for a second she felt like Horatio Balmeade—fake. “She makes great pie.” Her voice caught embarrassingly, so that it actually came out “pi-ie.” God. “But if you need any more help, let me know.”
    Enrico watched her as she backed up, his eyes wide. He looked like an onlooker at a train wreck.
    At least she didn’t trip on her way out.

    Back at the house, Poopie was waiting patiently with her pie crust for Birdie’s berries. But Birdie had forgotten all about them.
    “Birdie, where is your head?” Poopie asked, shaking hers in aggravation.
    Birdie ignored her, digging into the