LITMIR.BIZ

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still, she expected excitement, interest. Instead, he seemed as stimulated by her pronouncement as an eighth grader assigned to plot a time line for the Revolutionary War.

      Starla Fleming slid the window open with a bang. Sparks startled.

      “Are you gonna order something, Emma? If you’re not, I’m gonna sit in the back and watch my soaps,” Starla rasped, then peered at Emma’s scraped face.

      Emma ordered an orange cream shake after a wary look at the scab Starla was scratching on her arm. The woman disappeared from the window, the roar of the shake machine following.

      Emma turned back to Sparks. “My grandmother thinks she can con me into organizing the Jamboree. I have my own life.” Who could she find to take her place? Someone ignorant of her grandmother’s schemes, that was who. She scrolled through a mental list... Empty.

      Her red-faced companion chewed his bottom lip and swept the toe of his sneaker back and forth. Finally, he looked up at her. “She trusts you, Emma. It’s a big year.”

      Emma’s disgust came blurting out in an ugly noise. That was feminine, she thought, duly embarrassed. She cleared her throat. “Big year, my foot. The Jamboree hasn’t changed in my lifetime. She’s charmed you like I hear you’re charming the rest of the town. You don’t know what it’s like. All you have to do is design the fireworks, pass your instructions over to your techs and skip on to the next adventure.” Stop it, Emma. Transferring her anger at her grandmother to this innocent visitor was not cool.

      “Hey, Spaaarks!” kids yelled from a passing car. “Dude!”

      The man was a magnet. Everyone liked him. The hair on her arms prickled, then she gave him a broad, welcoming smile, like a hungry spider that had spotted a fly.

       And he’s new in town.

      The window being flung open startled them both this time. Starla’s arm emerged. After a quick look for the scab, Emma slid her money through the window and grabbed the shake. The window slid shut. A moment later, the blast of a TV sounded.

      “I’ve had things not turn out. I know what it feels like,” Sparks said, his brilliant blues on her boring hazels.

      She jutted out her chin, momentarily forgetting her mission in the rush of resentment. “Sure you have.” But her tone was not friendly. She’d be the first to admit she was acting the drama queen. Pull yourself together, girl.

      Should she ask him straight out to run the Jamboree or make more small talk? Hadn’t he wanted to make it up to her for slamming her into the end zone in front of the under-eighteen population of Heaven?

      “My dream was to have parents. It never happened.” He said the words matter-of-factly, as if he’d commented on the heat, which was substantial and was pitting her underarms out in a most unbecoming way.

      The ant in the crack by her feet suddenly seemed immense compared to how small she felt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” she managed to choke out.

      Sparks must have sat on the front steps like she had on birthdays. She used to imagine her mother was a lost princess held by a wicked king.

      “Maybe you ought to go see your grandmother and get it straightened out,” he said.

      This reminded Emma of her brilliant idea. She sucked up another mouthful of shake while she scrutinized his burned face. “You might want to wear a heftier sunscreen.”

      “My face isn’t always this red.” He mopped his brow.

      But Emma was barely listening. “Didn’t you say you wanted to make it up to me, you know, for tackling me?”

      The color of his faced plunged to a deeper shade. “With food. I said, food.”

      Perhaps, Emma thought, looking more closely—easy to do with Sparks—he was blushing. What had she said that would make him blush? Oh, never mind the man’s skin tone, she chided. Get to the point.

      She leaned toward him, eyes wide in entreaty. She hoped it looked like entreaty and not that her contacts had dried out. “What if you planned the Jamboree? You’re getting to know a lot of people here. They like you.”

      “Me?” His voice shot up. Somewhat cute, really. “I...already have a job. You really should talk to your grandmother.”

      Emma released an exasperated sound. “You only have to design your fireworks. You don’t even have to blow them up. So you’ll have all sorts of free time. Nomi’s created this gigantic black binder with all the procedures already mapped out.” She snapped her fingers. “Piece of cake.”

      Sparks’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Emma, talk to your grandmother.”

      She stepped back. Sparks looked as if he wanted to crawl under the ant.

      A familiar emotion crept up Emma’s neck. “What is it you don’t want to tell me?” she asked. “I can see it in your face.” She hadn’t taught junior high for nothing. Very good liars aside, she’d learned to spot omissions.

      He gulped. “I’m no good at keeping secrets, but she made me, Emma, I swear.”

      So that was the reason for his flushed face and repeated urges for her to talk to her grandmother. For “she” could only mean one person. One person who didn’t need a first or a last name. One person who thought she was the master puppeteer. Emma’s back teeth fused. She gritted out, “What did my grandmother make you promise not to tell me?”

CHAPTER NINE

      EMMA LEANED INTO the heavy glass door of the IGA, still minus a replacement after a night of thinking. One day left to clear up everything and still make her flight.

      Her grandmother was an adult, as Brad had said repeatedly. Nobody could blame Emma. She’d done everything.

      Everyone was afraid of her grandmother. And it didn’t matter that it would probably be a kick to work with resident summer-fun guy Sparks Turner. Chet had been no help. Zoo had run through the same options Emma had conjured up.

      Then Emma had felt guilty about wanting others to solve her problem, then gotten mad about feeling guilty, then guilty about being mad about it. Then she’d eaten way too many slices of butter-soaked cinnamon toast to forget the whole matter.

      The pungent odor of extrasharp cheddar cheese twitched her nose. Mr. Telford and his wife had sold the grocery store to their son Vince. He’d graduated a few years behind Emma. Vince broke off his whistling to greet her from behind the meat counter. Resting his big forearms in front of him, he grinned. “Emma, what can I get you? Got some nice chops. How’s your grandmother?”

      “My grandmother is going to be fine. She’s a Chambers.” Her eyes roamed the deli case. Mmm. Twice-baked potatoes. A little comfort food might help tonight while she changed a lifetime pattern and came up with a good idea fast.

      One crummy day to get it right.

      Vince’s gaze shifted up and beyond her shoulder. “Sparks! Looking for lunch?”

      Emma whirled to find Sparks looking at her, his expression changing the second she locked eyes with him. Those questions when she caught him watching her... Was he thinking, “What is her problem? What is the big deal here?”

      As she hurriedly began to inspect every single item in the deli case as though it was the most fascinating deli case on the planet, a new idea struck.

      “Hey, Vince, I’m looking for someone to run the Jamboree. Wanna apply?”

      Vince laughed as if she’d told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Em, this weekend has been a great start to the summer so far. My barbecue went out the door in slabs.” He tied the string around the potato wrapped in white butcher paper and pushed it toward her. “Hope the Jamboree will be enough.”

      Emma

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