Free Real Life by Kitty Burns Florey Page A

sensation, of the same order as the need to drink water or rub her eyes or stretch her arms above her head after a long day at the wheel: reading released tension, it soothed her, it gave her something to think about, it provided company. It did everything Upton’s Grove did for Hugo; it did what a love affair would have done for her.
    She hugged her book to her chest and looked up at Hugo. He said, “Maybe I’ll take a walk down to the pond and then turn in early. This country air sure makes me tired.”
    He would be down on the dock again, crying for those dear dull evenings with his grandfather, and then he’d go off to bed in his alcove to weep himself silently to sleep. She appreciated his good humor, the genuine attempt to conceal his unhappiness from her, even his tries at friendly conversation. He seemed, actually, to like her, and she wondered why. She hadn’t begun to be reconciled to his invasion of her life, nor did she have any particular liking for him. She pitied him, tolerated him, would do her duty if it killed her. If they could only get through the summer, school would start and he would occupy himself with schoolwork and friends and the usual adolescent activities. Until then … If she thought about it, her heart sank. It wasn’t even the end of June.
    â€œThe mosquitoes are really something!” Hugo said, slapping his neck.
    â€œI think we’d both better go in.” Dorrie stood up and looked out over the water. The trees were spiky and stark against the colored sky; the pond was black. “Would you like to play a game of Scrabble before bed, Hugo?”
    His smile was enormous; he hugged himself. “Oh, boy—would I,” he said, and she felt bad, even angry with him, that he was so transparently grateful for an offer so grudgingly made.
    He beat her. She couldn’t believe it. It had been years since she had lost a Scrabble game. She and Teddy used to play, and she had always beaten him—narrowly enough to give him hope, but consistently and without mercy. It had been, she suspected, one of the unacknowledged elements in the breakdown of his love for her. Since Teddy, she had played from time to time with the Garners, whom she beat easily. They didn’t mind; a Scrabble evening was a social occasion, and on the nights when they switched to poker Dorrie always ended up a few dollars poorer. Scrabble, though: it was her strong point. “My one talent,” she called it apologetically to the Garners. She probably hadn’t lost a game since college.
    Hugo played silently, swiftly, with a concentration so intense it changed his appearance; he looked almost gaunt, his features sharpened, his eyes narrowed. At first they were close, but Hugo pulled way ahead of her with RAJAH on a triple word score and then a seven-letter word worth eighty-two points: HALCYON, winning finally by nearly a hundred points.
    He relaxed when the game was over, clearly pleased with himself but chagrined at her loss. “You really play a good game,” he said. He gathered up the letters into a pile. “I mean, that game could have gone either way right up until the end, and then I had some luck.”
    â€œNonsense, Hugo—you’re an amazing player.” She watched him as, in careful handfuls, he replaced the letters in the old felt bag her mother had made: SCRABBLE, it said in bold, fraying embroidery. His face was as round and innocent as a doll’s. His plump forearms were dotted with mosquito bites. He looked no older than eleven or twelve, and he never read a book unless he had to. “Where did you get your vocabulary?” she asked him, not so much because she expected he could really tell her but to see what he would say.
    He closed up the bag, thinking. “Oh—well—I listen pretty hard, I guess. Whenever I hear a weird word or an unusual word it keeps going through my head, sort of. Like music? And then if I learn a