Free Girl in Reverse (9781442497368) by Barbara Stuber

cleverly mixed—part real, part kiss- off. But either way Elliot has got to feel kissed by that exotic, arty, curvy girl who would fit perfectly on any one of these pedestals.
    In a few minutes I stand on the museum steps staring across the Sculpture Park lawn. The shadows of the bare elms look so real, so black and stark that if they were tilted upright, they could be trees themselves. Only after I’ve walked past The Thinker do I remember that I came to see the Chinese antiques.

Chapter 11
    â€œThere’s more in that box,” Ralph remarks, chewing the side of his thumbnail Tuesday morning before school. Dad is warming up the car. Mother is on the phone in the living room. “Under the bottom.”
    I give Ralph a you are so full of it look.
    â€œPhotographs are under the false bottom of the box,” he says flatly.
    â€œOf . . . ?”
    Ralph leans toward me and whispers fast, “Crime scenes and camels.”
    â€œCrime scenes?”
    Ralph grimaces, nods.
    â€œWhaddayamean?”
    â€œBody parts,” he says.
    Body parts. Body parts? “Dead-people body parts?”
    â€œThey usually are.” Ralph raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, Lily.” He holds out his arm, chops his other hand across it above his wrist. “The arm is cut off here. There’s a handcuff and dead fingers hanging down. Another’s a face with a bullet hole in the forehead.”
    I picture the newsreels of Chinese torture camps in Korea, the bloody snow and wooden watchtowers. So Gone Mom was a spy, a pregnant spy—the perfect disguise.
    *  *  *
    After school I weave through cars parked in our driveway, dreading the next five minutes. It’s Mother’s bridge club day and our living room contains two foursomes of ladies, “Girdles,” as Ralph and I call them.
    Our front hall is smoky and smells of perfume. I hang up my coat and— ugh— run into Anita’s mother coming out of the half bath. She says she’s the dummy this round. I half expect her to act afraid of me, the way her daughter does, but she’s friendly, in a distant way.
    I fix a pleasant anticipatory expression on my face, unclench my fists, and follow her into the living room. Everyone looks up—blink, blink, smile. Most of them have kids at my school. Hello. Hello. Yes. Fine. Thank you. Good to see you, too. Thank you.
    Each lady has a little silver bowl of bridge-mix chocolates, an ashtray, and a tally. After the last hand they will switch from coffee to sherry.
    Someone asks me about Neil Bradford and his sister and how they are managing. “We can’t concentrate on our play today thinking about poor Tom,” my mother says. They shake their heads. The Red Horde has invaded our living room and sabotaged their bridge party.
    I describe the flag ceremony and our club projects to support the war effort. I do not add that, for me, school is a war zone. The Girdles nod at my mother in an approving way— Lily is a good girl, Vivian, such a brave thing to adopt her. And how beautifully you’ve raised her—such manners and poise.
    I start upstairs, then swivel and bump through the kitchen door, shoved by my phony, perfect-daughter self. I survey the mess. Washing dishes is a guilt fixer. It is also a detour from the secret stash of gory pictures burning a hole through the rafters. I stack everything in the dish rack. I put the leftover orange cake in tinfoil. I wipe the crumbs into the garbage, rinse and rerinse the dishrag, check my watch.
    I have the remainder of their card time plus the sherry-and-cigarette hour. Mother is preoccupied, Ralph and Dad both gone. Time to prowl the attic.
    I lock Ralph’s door, get his flashlight, and open the attic door. I clear the steps containing his Scout gear and climb toward the disgusting pigeon coop.
    There’s no floor—just raw boards on their edges running parallel, with gray insulation between. My