Free The Days of Anna Madrigal by Armistead Maupin

know where she works?”
    Andy panicked for a moment, then shrugged. “Everybody knows where she works. Her roast lamb is world-famous.” This was laying it on thick, but it was the best he could manage under the circumstances. “World-famous lamb” was actually painted on the side of the Martin Hotel, so it seemed a safe enough choice. And it was better than telling the truth, that Lasko had been under polite surveillance ever since Andy had seen him dancing in the park in those sweaty pirate pants.
    Lasko nodded, acknowledging the fame of his mother’s lamb. “Come after dinner,” he said. “We can eat something in the kitchen.”
    â€œSure. Swell.”
    An awkward silence followed while Lasko washed spoons. Andy wondered if either of them had a clear understanding of what had just been negotiated.
    Finally Lasko said, “Scorcher today, huh?”
    Andy whistled— whew —and tugged on his shirt collar, a gesture that didn’t come off nearly as natural—or as manly—as he had planned.
    â€œWant some shaved ice?” Lasko asked. “No charge.”
    â€œSure.”
    In one practiced movement Lasko yanked a paper cone from a dispenser, slapped it into a chrome holder, and filled it with shaved ice, glancing briefly in the direction of Mr. Yee, who was occupied with his ledger. Then, as if to say This is our secret , Lasko pressed a finger to his lips before hitting a tap and squirting cherry syrup into the cone. Andy smiled as the nectar bloomed in the ice like a rose.
    H e left the Eagle as soon as he had finished the shaved ice. It wouldn’t do to hang around. Lasko was popular, and popular boys always knew when other kids were over-eager for their company. Besides he seemed to like Andy (or at least his book), and Andy had just been invited to dinner at the Martin Hotel. Well, sort of invited, if eating in the kitchen counted. The invitation to the train was less clear-cut, since it could have been done to impress Mr. Yee, but an afternoon of air-conditioning with Lasko, whatever the reason, was nothing to sniff at.
    By five o’clock Andy was hitchhiking home on Jungo Road. A breeze had rolled down from the mountains, warm and velvety. Andy felt buoyed by nature and a wondrously unthinkable thought: I have a date tomorrow. He may not know it, and he may not even know my name, but I have a date for the first time in my life.
    A beat-up Packard pulled over and stopped, so Andy ran to catch up with it. The driver was a skinny bald man in an old brown suit.
    â€œWhere you headin’, son? Jungo?”
    â€œNo. Just a mile or two down the road.”
    The man squinted at him. “The Blue Moon Lodge?”
    Andy hesitated, then uttered the all-important “Yep.”
    â€œAin’t you too young for that place?”
    No, thought Andy, I’m too old for it.
    â€œYou ever been there?” asked the man.
    â€œI live there.”
    A slow nod. “You’re Mona’s boy.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œGet in.”
    Andy did as he was told, and the car sped off down the road.
    â€œYou’re growin’ up like a weed,” said the man.
    â€œYes sir,” said Andy. “I am.”

Chapter 7
    THE STUFF OF HOME
    T his house, thought Shawna as she passed through the rose-heaped gate at the crest of Noe Hill, feels like the family seat now. There was a mature garden here, and curling brown shingles, and an air of tatty antiquity that evoked her childhood home at 28 Barbary Lane. Shawna’s new home (a crisp bamboo-floored condo near the Greek Orthodox cathedral on Valencia) was handy to her life—well, her night life, at any rate—but it still felt more like a base camp. Mrs. Madrigal’s flat in the Duboce Triangle was no more than a charming last stop on her journey, and Shawna’s dad’s RV was a journey in itself, hardly the stuff of home if you didn’t actually live in it.
    But