Sprout

we keep the phone. I.e., they were about three inches in front of my face. (Hey, I was just waking up.) I blew on one of the paintings and it spun in a gentle circle until it tapped me on the forehead. “Is that anywhere near Egloshayle?” I said, working the accent as hard as I could. “Sheepy Magna perhaps?”
    “You made a list, didn’t you? Funny English town names.”
    “On the contrary. These are recognized English dialects recorded by the University of Leeds during an eleven-year study conducted between 1950 and 1961. Unlike whatever the hell you’re speaking.”
    Long, defeated pause. Then:
    “I can’t decide which I hate more right now. You or Wikipedia.”
    I glanced at the rim. “Hey, don’t hate the playa. Hate the game.”
    Ruthie’s snort sounded like Transatlantic static. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t keep me waiting. Those stumps still give me the creeps.”
    One hundred twenty-three minutes later, Ruthie pulled up in her mom’s hand-me-down BMW convertible. Her hair was in three braids, two of which stuck out from the right side of her head, one from somewhere towards the crown. The British flag was painted on her jeans—and on her tanktop, her right shoulder, and, most disturbingly, her sunglasses.
    “Um, can you see through those?”
    Instead of answering, she took them off. “Look what I can do.” Her left eyebrow climbed an inch up her forehead while the right stayed motionless. “I was practicing my expressions. This one’s ‘perplexed.’ ”
    Turned out Ruthie had read an article or an interview or a blog or something that said aspiring model/actresses need to spend a lot of time looking at themselves in the mirror and practicing various expressions for the camera. Since looking in the mirror just happened to be one of Ruthie’s favorite activities, she was able to throw herself wholeheartedly into her task.
    “You look like a stroke victim.”
    “Stroke victims are often perplexed. Hey, it took me all summer to learn how to do this. It’s a real skill.”
    “Carpentry is a skill. Sharpshooting is a skill. Making a double macchiato with two pumps of caramel and a foam cap is a skill. Raising an eyebrow”—I pointed to the thing wiggling just below her hairline like a fuzzy caterpillar—“not a skill.”
    “Oh god, coffee!” Ruthie threw the car in reverse. “England’s got America beat on the culture front, but until they get a Starbucks drive-through, I’m staying right here!”
    As we sped towards town, I noticed that her eyebrow was still pinned high up her forehead. I wondered if it was stuck there.
    Ninety-eight minutes later, I was stretched out in the old recliner in Ruthie’s mom’s basement “rumpus room” (why no, we never did let her live that one down). Bleach was frying my skull beneath a plastic showercap and I probly would’ve dozed off on a vapor high if Ruthie hadn’t been standing on an old sofa and screaming.
    “Ohmygodyour dad ? AndMrs Mil ler?! I can’tbe lieve it.”
    “They’ve been inseparable for like two weeks. He doesn’t
    “They’ve been inseparable for like two weeks. He doesn’t even come home most nights.”
    “Gross! No, wait. Ger-ross! No, let me try again: Ger-row-oh- oss !”
    “ Some body tried to chase her jetlag away with too much caffeine.” I giggled. “Are you suggesting you’re repulsed by the thought of my dad and Mrs. Miller engaging in—”
    “Ix-nay on the ex-say alk-tay!” Ruthie’s bellow rattled the windows in their casements. But then a funny look came over her face. I’d call it whimsical, but really, Ruthie’s not that deep. “D’you think maybe, well, you had anything to do with the two of them hooking up?”
    “Whaddaya mean?”
    “Well, you know. The stuff you wrote. I mean, you did make them out to be kind of made for each other. Two lonely, mildly eccentric alcoholics bonding through the medium of one lonely, mildly eccentric green-haired boy.”
    My mind flashed on one of my sessions with Mrs. Miller. Sometime in July. We’d finished working and were just “enjoying the afternoon,” which was Mrs. Miller’s euphemism for sitting around until she was sober enough to drive. “Tell me about him,” she’d said in a funny voice. Not the voice a teacher uses to a student, or even an adult uses to a child, but the voice one lonely person uses to another. “Who?” I said hoarsely, “Mr. Sprout?” “Before that,” Mrs. Miller said. “Before you moved here.