Free The Beresfords by Christina Dudley

like that. You’re all red, and your hair—!You’d better take a shower. Don’t forget to chop up Lea’s food really small. I swear, at the block party a week ago, that little Lea had a chunk of hot dog that was a textbook choking hazard. Textbook! And if Mrs. Carter doesn’t have cash, have her make the check to me, Frannie, because it’s too much trouble to have your Aunt Marie cash it for you.” Before my aunt was halfway through this speech, I was already back in the house, her words pursuing me up the stairs. While I wasn’t sorry to spend the afternoon with Lea and Aaron Carter, I did hate to leave Jonathan with the Grants. I hoped Tom would have some crazy plan that Jonathan would excuse himself from, but even if he did, that would only take care of one afternoon. What about all the rest of them, and Caroline’s threat that our families would “see a lot of each other”?
     
     
    Little Lea tugged on my hand. “What will we play, Frannie?”
    “Dress-up?” I suggested, spilling out the array of vintagewear I salvaged from Aunt Terri’s Goodwill pile.
    The four-year-old squealed with joy, and her five-year-old brother Aaron dropped his Gobot to come running. Together, the two of them hurled the riches in the air and at each other, occasionally pulling an item over their heads or shoving one at me to try on. “Model, Frannie! Model!” ordered Lea.
    We had a fashion show afternoon, strutting up and down in get-ups we designed for each other and pretending to snap pictures with the old family Polaroid. Lea loved anything shiny and Aaron preferred prints. I only hoped his mother wouldn’t pop home early and find him in a paisley skirt—or, worse, that Aunt Terri would go for a stroll around the block and discover my pilfering.
    Mrs. Carter returned after dinner, before I had a chance to clean up the macaroni-and-cheese pot. “Don’t worry about it, Frannie. I’m so glad you picked up the living room and got the kids in their pajamas. Oh, rats, I thought I had cash,” she added, inspecting her empty wallet. “Let me write your mother a check.”
    Aunt Terri’s instructions stuck in my throat. It was absolutely true that Aunt Marie never got to the bank. She would tell me to just remember how much she owed me and get money out of her purse when I needed it, but months later my employers would ask me if I’d lost the check because it had never been cashed. And who knew, with Uncle Paul in China, if Aunt Marie would even have cash? It was always Uncle Paul who withdrew it and gave her some. On the other hand, I hardly wanted Aunt Terri as my financial go-between. She would certainly have comments on whether or not I deserved my wages and what I should do with them afterward.
    “Could you—could you make it to me, Mrs. Carter?” I blurted.
    “Oh! Did you open your own savings account, Frannie?”
    “I’m going to,” I said.
    “Well, good for you. Just do it soon, okay? Don’t leave this check lying around forever like you did that last one.”
    “I won’t. Thank you.”
    “And Frannie—I was talking to some other moms I know. Everyone needs a little help this summer. Could I give your name around? Would you have time? I told them just as long as I have dibs on you.” She gave me her crooked-teeth smile.
    “That would be fine,” I said. “Thank you, Mrs. Carter. Good-night.”
     
     
    The check folded in my pocket was modest, but I thought the symbolism of it might burn a hole through my jeans as I walked home. Pay to the order of Francine Price .
    “Frannie.” Jonathan’s voice made me jump. He emerged from the garage, a box in his arms that he’d retrieved from the trunk of his car. Books, cassettes, a sweatshirt.
    “The Imperials!” I exclaimed, snatching up one of the cases. “Can I listen to this one?”
    “Sure.” He laid the box on the porch. “Do you need to borrow my Walkman?”
    “Could I?” Then I wouldn’t have to ask Rachel for hers. A thought occurred to me: I