Free Vintage Veronica by Erica S. Perl Page B

gives me a confused look.
    “Claire?” he says.
    “Nice try,” I say. I give him a look to let him know that I know about Claire.
    “I just wanted to make Violet a blanket out of them. She’s in a lot of pain, and I thought if I had something nice to wrap her in, she’d be able to rest and stay warm. They seemed really soft.”
    I look at him and oh my God, he’s serious. He was seriously planning to make some kind of lizard sleeping bag out of the top he swiped. As if he’s reading my mind, The Nail adds, “She’s not that big. That’s why I only needed the top.”
    I realize that I have two choices. I can walk out the door, break out into the light and the heat of the day, and run back to the store, gasping for breath, my feet slapping on the pavement all the way. Get myself yet another smoothie, round up Ginger and Zoe, and say,
Man oh man, Spy Girls. Have I got a story for you
.
    Or I can stay right where I am.
    The lizard Violet blinks her beady eyes again. Cautiously, I extend my hand and touch her head. She is cool and sleek, not the least bit slimy.
    I close my eyes and pet her again. Her skin feels softer than vintage flannel.

hen I come in the next morning, there’s a snake on my desk. In a fish tank, that is. With a lid, gravel, a water dish, and a note:
    Yours if you want.
Not slimy, no venom.
Len
    It’s a little snake, maybe two feet long, mostly black with a slight sheen. We didn’t make any sort of arrangement about this. But since I ended up hanging out at The Nail’s house after my ambush attempt, I can’t say I am surprised. He talked a lot, giving me details about most of his pets, whichrange from a bunch of tree frogs to an anaconda. There was a pretty interesting newt called an ambassador or something, and some kind of gecko with pale yellow skin like a plucked chicken. And he told me more about Violet, of course, who is clearly his favorite.
    Plus, he cooked me dinner.
    I don’t really remember the last time someone cooked anything for me. Unless you count nuking, which I don’t. And even that’s been a while.
    I didn’t plan on staying for dinner. It just sort of happened. I hung out and we drifted back into the kitchen, and then he just sort of pulled out pots and pans and stuff while we were talking. He definitely moves quickest in his kitchen. It’s a small space, so he doesn’t have to cross any wide-open spaces. He seems to relax there, and his limp almost disappears. Before I really realized what he was doing with the pots and pans, there was a plate of pasta in front of me. With cheese sauce.
    “Do you want grated Romano on top, or does that seem redundant?”
    “Um, wow. No, yeah. Grated cheese sounds good.”
    And it was good. I ate enthusiastically, for once not feeling self-conscious the way I usually do when there’s another person there. I even had seconds.
    “Do you cook much?” I asked him between bites.
    “Why, does it taste bad?”
    “No! I just—”
    He smiled secretively. “I taught myself to cook when I was little. Self-defense—no one in my family can cook. Cheesesauce took a long time to master. I can’t tell you how many times I set off the smoke alarm before I read up and found out about making a roux.”
    “Wow, you’re like a real cook.”
    “Nah, I wish. Maybe someday. That’s why I started taking culinary classes through vo-tech.”
    “My mom would kill me if she knew I ate this,” I admitted.
    “Why? Are you lactose intolerant?”
    “No. But she’s fat intolerant.”
    “Huh?”
    “Forget it,” I said, getting up and clearing my plate. It felt kind of nice that he just didn’t get it. “I should actually get going. Thanks for dinner. It was great.”
    He smiled, a dish towel over one shoulder.
    “Anytime.”
    I got home after seven, which was good because my mom had a yoga student. When she gives private lessons—yoga, modern dance, Pilates, you name it—the living room is strictly off-limits. Which is good because I get to