as an eighth grader assigned to plot a time line for the Revolutionary War.
Starla Fleming slid the window open with a bang. Sparks startled.
“Are you gonna order something, Emma? If you’re not, I’m gonna sit in the back and watch my soaps,” Starla rasped, then peered at Emma’s scraped face.
Emma ordered an orange cream shake after a wary look at the scab Starla was scratching on her arm. The woman disappeared from the window, the roar of the shake machine following.
Emma turned back to Sparks. “My grandmother thinks she can con me into organizing the Jamboree. I have my own life.” Who could she find to take her place? Someone ignorant of her grandmother’s schemes, that was who. She scrolled through a mental list... Empty.
Her red-faced companion chewed his bottom lip and swept the toe of his sneaker back and forth. Finally, he looked up at her. “She trusts you, Emma. It’s a big year.”
Emma’s disgust came blurting out in an ugly noise. That was feminine, she thought, duly embarrassed. She cleared her throat. “Big year, my foot. The Jamboree hasn’t changed in my lifetime. She’s charmed you like I hear you’re charming the rest of the town. You don’t know what it’s like. All you have to do is design the fireworks, pass your instructions over to your techs and skip on to the next adventure.” Stop it, Emma. Transferring her anger at her grandmother to this innocent visitor was not cool.
“Hey, Spaaarks!” kids yelled from a passing car. “Dude!”
The man was a magnet. Everyone liked him. The hair on her arms prickled, then she gave him a broad, welcoming smile, like a hungry spider that had spotted a fly.
And he’s new in town.
The window being flung open startled them both this time. Starla’s arm emerged. After a quick look for the scab, Emma slid her money through the window and grabbed the shake. The window slid shut. A moment later, the blast of a TV sounded.
“I’ve had things not turn out. I know what it feels like,” Sparks said, his brilliant blues on her boring hazels.
She jutted out her chin, momentarily forgetting her mission in the rush of resentment. “Sure you have.” But her tone was not friendly. She’d be the first to admit she was acting the drama queen. Pull yourself together, girl.
Should she ask him straight out to run the Jamboree or make more small talk? Hadn’t he wanted to make it up to her for slamming her into the end zone in front of the under-eighteen population of Heaven?
“My dream was to have parents. It never happened.” He said the words matter-of-factly, as if he’d commented on the heat, which was substantial and was pitting her underarms out in a most unbecoming way.
The ant in the crack by her feet suddenly seemed immense compared to how small she felt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she managed to choke out.
Sparks must have sat on the front steps like she had on birthdays. She used to imagine her mother was a lost princess held by a wicked king.
“Maybe you ought to go see your grandmother and get it straightened out,” he said.
This reminded Emma of her brilliant idea. She sucked up another mouthful of shake while she scrutinized his burned face. “You might want to wear a heftier sunscreen.”
“My face isn’t always this red.” He mopped his brow.
But Emma was barely listening. “Didn’t you say you wanted to make it up to me, you know, for tackling me?”
The color of his faced plunged to a deeper shade. “With food. I said, food.”
Perhaps, Emma thought, looking more closely—easy to do with Sparks—he was blushing. What had she said that would make him blush? Oh, never mind the man’s skin tone, she chided. Get to the point.
She leaned toward him, eyes wide in entreaty. She hoped it looked like entreaty and not that her contacts had dried out. “What if you planned the Jamboree? You’re getting to know a lot of people here. They like you.”
“Me?” His voice shot up. Somewhat cute, really. “I...already have a job. You really should talk to your grandmother.”
Emma released an exasperated sound. “You only have to design your fireworks. You don’t even have to blow them up. So you’ll have all sorts of free time. Nomi’s created this gigantic black binder with all the procedures already mapped out.” She snapped her fingers. “Piece of cake.”
Sparks’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Emma, talk to your grandmother.”
She stepped back. Sparks looked as if he wanted to crawl under the ant.
A familiar emotion crept up Emma’s neck. “What is it you don’t want to tell me?” she asked. “I can see it in your face.” She hadn’t taught junior high for nothing. Very good liars aside, she’d learned to spot omissions.
He gulped. “I’m no good at keeping secrets, but she made me, Emma, I swear.”
So that was the reason for his flushed face and repeated urges for her to talk to her grandmother. For “she” could only mean one person. One person who didn’t need a first or a last name. One person who thought she was the master puppeteer. Emma’s back teeth fused. She gritted out, “What did my grandmother make you promise not to tell me?”
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