he’d leave it.”
We talked about Willa. About her senior year. About the regional contest and her little house with fourteen windows.
“She’s applying to the architecture program,” I said. “At the state university. It’s her dream school. She’s been working on her portfolio for a year.”
“She’ll get in,” Mrs. Whitaker said.
“I hope so.”
“She’ll get in,” Mrs. Whitaker said again. Like it was a fact. Like she was a principal, telling a nervous student something she already knew.
When we finished eating, I did what I always do. I automatically started stacking our plates. I picked up hers and put it on top of mine and started to stand up to carry them to the sink.
Mrs. Whitaker reached across the table and put her hand on mine.
“Leave those,” she said.
“I don’t mind—”
“Carly. Leave them.” She held my hand on the table. “There’s something I want to show you.”
She got up from her chair. She used her cane. She walked slowly to the cabinet by the back door, the one where she used to keep her emergency list taped inside the door.
She took out a box.
