Free Every Single Second by Tricia Springstubb Page A

she occupied.
    Who would ever love her? A clumsy, pimply skyscraper of a girl like her?
    Nonni curled her lip at the sandwich and pointed tothe mailbox. When Nella lifted the top, she found a bag of Laffy Taffy. The candy sometimes stuck in her dentures, but Nonni still loved it.
    “Where does the general put his armies?” she read.
    Nonni leaned forward expectantly. She loved Laffy Taffy jokes.
    “In his sleevies!”
    Nonni slapped the arms of her chair and laughed that crazy big laugh. As Nella handed her the candy, a sudden memory flitted across her mind: Nonni feeding baby-her a bite of perfectly ripe fig.
    Hairy Boy dashed back outside, jumped on his bike, and pedaled away. Did he just stop by to steal a quick, passionate kiss? His hair flapped like a great, hairy sail. The music started up again, even brighter and more dazzling. It coaxed the sun to shine brighter, the fig tree to release a hint of delicious figgy perfume.
    Nonni’s fingers suddenly pinched Nella’s arm so hard she yelped.
    A uniformed man was walking by. He had close-cropped blond hair and wore a black shirt with an emblem on the sleeve, a shiny badge on the pocket. A black belt with unfriendly things buckled on. Nella’s heart lurched. Anthony! She knew he was a security guard now, but she’d never seen him in uniform.
    “Stop him!” Nonni was amputating Nella’s arm. “Aiuto!” Help!
    Anthony looked up. That familiar smile. Nella’s heart did a cartwheel.
    “Nella-smella-marshamella!” He climbed the porch steps. “Mrs. Sabatini.”
    “Anthony!” Nonni pressed her hands together in prayer. “ Grazie a Dio! You’re police now?”
    Nella rolled her eyes, and Anthony gave her a wink. Pulling a pad from his back pocket, he propped his foot on the porch railing and pretended to take notes as Nonni complained about the Invaders out to steal her money. (What money? Nonni never stopped lamenting how she didn’t have two nickels to rub together.)
    What Anthony was really doing, Nella saw, was sketching. The alien sunglasses, the plastic visor, the bony cheeks—it was Nonni, but improved. Anthony took that old face and made it fierce and brave, almost the face of someone you’d want to know. His hands moved quickly and easily, his deep-set eyes barely glancing at the paper.
    But his hair was clipped so short it bristled instead of curling. And his arms, once so scrawny, were muscular. Nella felt uneasy. This wasn’t her Anthony, the one who drew her castles and unicorns. The gentleness wassandpapered away, leaving behind something raw. Suddenly, she felt afraid for him.
    “Gitani!” Nonni whispered. Gypsies.
    Turtle Girl, instrument case on her back, butter-yellow scarf around her neck, stepped outside. She paused, giving them a questioning look.
    “See?” hissed Nonni. “Male.” Evil.
    Turtle Girl frowned. What if she crossed the street and demanded that Nonni quit harassing them? Nella would die of mortification.
    That was when she remembered she was wearing the stolen scarf.
    The girl furrowed her brow. Nella slid down in her chair. She yanked the scarf off and stuffed it in her pocket. But the girl wasn’t looking at her. It was Anthony making her frown. She didn’t approve of men with badges and uniforms and unfriendly-looking belts. Nella’s cheeks grew warm. What did that girl know? Just because she was a college student, with a cute boyfriend and dainty feet and who knew how many silk scarves, what did she know? Did she know what a great artist Anthony was, or how much he loved his little sister, or that his father loyally served their country? No, she did not. After a moment, the girl turned on her heel and walked away.
    A turtle, protected by her shell.
    Anthony rubbed the scar above his eye. He looked sad and squashed. He looked, Nella realized, like that stiff uniform was wearing him, not the other way around.
    “She’s just a dumb ignorant student,” she said.
    Now Nonni started talking about PopPop’s brother,