Free Out of Order by Robin Stevenson

lasagna, balancing my glass and Gran’s bowl in the other hand. As I turn to leave, Mom comes back with Patrick’s coffee.
    â€œCould I have some coffee too, Dr. Keller?” Zelia asks.
    â€œI’ll get it,” I say, leaving the room.
    â€œBlack,” Zelia calls after me.
    In the kitchen, I stare at my reflection in the dark glass of the double-paned window. A double image stares back, one version of my face superimposed on another, not quite aligned. My self and my shadow, split apart. I stand at the sink and drip melted ice cream into my mouth, spoonful after creamy spoonful, until Gran’s bowl is empty.
    IT IS NOT until later, after Zelia has gone home and I am in bed, that I realize she was flirting with Patrick. She’s crazy, I think. She is crazy. He must be at least thirty-Wve. It’s too weird. I mean, he’s a friend of my mother’s.
    I wonder for a minute if I should ask her about it. I picture Zelia pausing in feigned disbelief. She shakes her head.
As if
, she says.
Get serious, Sophie. He’s, like, old.
Then she laughs.
You’re sick,
she says.
Get your mind out of the gutter.
    But I don’t think I imagined it. I doubt she was really interested in him. I think she was just testing her power. I can’t imagine anyone being able to say no to Zelia. And I can’t imag­ine how she’ll react if someone ever does.

Eleven
    THE DAYS SLIP by, getting colder and shorter as we descend into winter. I miss the fall colors I grew up with, the orange and scarlet that brightened the darkening days. Here in Victoria, the rain washes away the color, and the leaves pile up in sodden brown heaps.
    I walk a tightrope, riding occasionally with Max and not talking about her when I am with Zelia. Max is a year ahead of us at school, and since she quit smoking and hanging out in the smoking area at school, I rarely see her outside the stables. It makes it easier. She hasn’t called me like she said she would, and I am both disappointed and relieved.
    Zelia comes over most days after school. Michael has moved in with her and Lee. She talks fast these days, filled with a bright brittle energy. She jumps from one game, one scheme, to the next, taking me along for the ride. She is like a hummingbird, hovering here and there but never landing. I follow her, feeling slow, clumsy and heavy by comparison. Zelia’s quick fingers lift money from Lee’s purse; they sweep scarves, hats and socks from the shelves at the mall; they wrapthemselves tightly through mine as we walk home together after school.
    One late November morning, Zelia calls. Her voice is low and rough, like she just woke up.
    â€œSoph, can I sleep over at your place tonight?” she asks.
    â€œGran’s going to be here,” I say. What I don’t say is that Patrick is coming round to go over some work stuff with my mother. They’ll probably meet in her office, but still, I’d rather Zelia wasn’t here. Plus, Mom’s being a little weird about this meeting. She keeps mentioning it for no apparent reason. I’m starting to wonder if Patrick might be something more than just another colleague. Anyway, I don’t much want to be here either.
    â€œYou know,” I say carefully, “if I came to your place, we could stay out later.”
    I can hear a smile in Zelia’s voice. “True.” She draws the word out as if it has two syllables: Tah-rue. “And that chick is having a party. You know. What’s her name. One of your Goth triplet friends. Maisie.”
    â€œOh yeah.” I wasn’t planning to go. Maisie, Max and Jas are a year older than us, and although everyone at school has been talking about this party, I hadn’t exactly been invited.
    WHEN I SEE Zelia at school she dismisses my concerns.
    â€œIt’s not that kind of party,” she says. “We’re not in kinder­garten, Sophie. You don’t get a little card with a