Little Di is Wearing a New Dress

The Lincoln Town Car pulled to a stop at the curb, its engine idling with the smooth, expensive purr that Delia had learned to recognize as the sound of her mother being somewhere she needed to be.

Delia sat in the back seat, her hands folded in her lap the way she had been taught, her dark eyes fixed on the Power house through the window. It looked the same as always—two stories of white siding, a front porch with a swing, a driveway where Mr. Power's old pickup usually sat. But something felt different today. The house seemed to be waiting, somehow. Holding its breath.

Her mother's voice came from the front seat, crisp and efficient, the voice she used for telephone calls and meetings and giving instructions to people who worked for them.

"Now, Delia, I'll be back at four o'clock. Mrs. Power has my number if anything comes up. You remember to say thank you for having me, and keep your dress clean, and if anyone asks about your father—"

"No one asks about Father," Delia said quietly. It came out before she could stop it, and she felt her cheeks warm immediately. That wasn't how you spoke to Mother. That wasn't what polite children did.

There was a pause from the front seat. Karen York adjusted the rearview mirror to look at her daughter, and Delia could see her mother's perfectly made-up face, the dark hair styled just so, the expression that was impossible to read.

"Someone always asks about your father," her mother said. "That's what happens when you're a congressman's daughter. People want to know things. You just smile and say he's working hard for the people, and you're very proud of him. Can you do that?"

Delia nodded. She could do that. She always did that.

"Good girl." The mirror shifted back. "Now go on. I have a luncheon."

The door unlocked with a soft click, and Delia climbed out into the afternoon heat. The car pulled away before she had taken three steps toward the house, its engine fading into the ordinary sounds of the neighborhood.

She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, counting.

One. Two. Three.

The Power house loomed in front of her, friendly and familiar but somehow different today. The curtains in the living room window moved slightly, as if someone had been watching and had just stepped away.

Four. Five. Six.

The front door opened before she reached the porch.

Mrs. Power stood there, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face breaking into the kind of smile that Delia's mother never quite managed—warm and crinkly around the eyes, like she was genuinely happy to see you and not just performing happiness because it was expected.

"Delia, sweetheart! Come in, come in, don't stand out there in the heat."

Delia climbed the porch steps, her feet finding the familiar rhythm. The screen door squeaked open, then banged softly shut behind her, and suddenly she was in the front hall of the Power house, with the grandfather clock ticking its steady rhythm and the smell of something baking drifting from the kitchen.

"Katie's been watching for you," Mrs. Power said, hanging the dish towel on a hook by the door. "She's upstairs, but I think she's been camped out at the window for the last twenty minutes. Let me just—"

She turned toward the stairs, but before she could call out, there was a thundering overhead, and Katie appeared at the top of the stairs like she'd been launched from a cannon.

"She's here! She's here, she's actually here!"

Katie came down fast—not quite falling, but close—her blond pigtails flying behind her, her blue eyes so bright they seemed to have their own light source. She hit the bottom step and crossed the hall in two seconds flat, grabbing Delia's hand before Delia could even think about being nervous.

"Hi, Mrs. Power," Delia managed, because that was what you did. You greeted the mother first. You were polite.

Mrs. Power laughed, the sound easy and warm. "Hi, sweetheart. You two have fun today. Katie, you remember the rules?"

"We always remember the rules," Katie said, but she was already pulling Delia toward the living room, and her voice was already running ahead of her, and Delia could feel the familiar shift happening inside her—the quiet part of her stepping back, the watching part of her taking over, the part that counted seconds and waited to see what would happen next.

Mrs. Power said something else, something about snacks and being careful and she'd be back from the store by three, but Delia barely heard it. She was too busy being pulled, too busy watching Katie's face, too busy feeling the warmth of her best friend's hand wrapped around hers like it would never let go.

The front door closed. Mrs. Power's footsteps faded toward the garage. The car started, then pulled away.

And then they were alone.

The clock ticked. The house settled into a quiet that felt different from any quiet Delia had ever known—not empty, not waiting, but somehow full of possibility. Full of things that hadn't happened yet but could.

Katie was still holding her hand. Still looking at her like she was the most important person in the world.

"We're all alone," Katie whispered, and the words seemed to hang in the air like bubbles, shimmering with the wonder of it. "Just us. No one else. For the whole entire afternoon."

She bounced on her toes, her grip on Delia's hand tightening.

"All afternoon," Katie breathed again. "All afternoon, Delia. Do you understand what that means?"

Delia understood that it meant no Alex, who was fourteen and barely noticed them anyway.

No Jack, who was twelve and always in a hurry.

No Julie, who was sixteen and spent hours in her room listening to music on her cassette player, music that leaked through her closed door in thin, tinny echoes.

No grown-ups at all.

"I guess so," Delia said softly. Her hand was still in Katie's, warm and held tight. She looked toward the front hall, where the grandfather clock stood in its tall, wooden dignity. The door was closed. The welcome mat lay empty in the afternoon light. Outside, a car passed, its engine fading into the ordinary sounds of a Tuesday afternoon.