“If we get stopped by management,” he yelled at me above the whirring of the engine as we blew past Little Feet and my boss, who was selecting socks for someone, “act like you’re injured. Say you sprained your ankle and I’m rushing you to help.”

“Sumner,” I said, but he couldn’t hear me. We did another lap, slowing down a bit for the scenic tour. Sumner beeped the horn occasionally, scattering groups of teenagers in front of the arcade or pizza parlor, before finally being flagged down by a woman in a flowered dress, towing a toddler.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sumner said, pulling up smoothly beside her.

“I wonder if you could tell me where I might be able to buy a personalized letter opener.” She had a high-pitched voice, and the kid was drooling.

Sumner reached to the back of the cart, pulled out a clipboard, and rifled through it, concentrating. “Your best bet would be Personally Personalized.” He snapped a sheet of paper from the clipboard, drew a long winding arrow on it, and said, “Here’s a map. We’re here”—he put a black mark on one spot—“and it’s there.” Another mark. “Ought to be able to find it with no difficulty.” He put his pen back behind his ear as he handed her the page, one smooth movement.

“Thank you,” the woman said admiringly, map in hand. “Thanks very much.”

“No problem,” Sumner said. I expected him to salute or something. “Have a good evening and shop with us again.” And we cruised off, maneuvering smoothly through a thicket of potted plants.

“You were born for this job,” I told him. We took another pass by the stage, coming to a stop by the side steps.

“I was born for every job,” he said with a smile, climbing out of the cart and onto the stage. He walked to the sign in the middle and reached for the calendar, pulling the top sheet so that six days were left instead of seven. Then he stood at center stage and took a long from-the-waist bow, low and dramatic, before an invisible adoring public.

After climbing back down the stairs he jumped back in beside me and handed me the seven. “For you.”

“Thanks so much.”

“So,” he said, shouting over the sound of the engine. “Where do you work?”

“At Little Feet.” I realized how stupid it sounded even as I said it.

“Selling shoes,” he said, smiling. “I did that one summer. It sucks, huh?”

“Yeah.” The mall was whizzing by again, storefronts and people blurring past. Traveling with Sumner next to me, the mall was like an undiscovered country. He’d always had a way of making even the ordinary seem fun; during that summer at the beach he stayed in the water with me almost all the time, bodysurfing and doing handstands, diving for shells and making up games. Ashley spent the whole week on the beach with her towel and sunscreen, tanning, while Sumner and I swam until our fingers were pruny and white. He was the only one who had time to play with me. If Ashley pouted and made a fuss when he tried to include me, he could usually get her to come around. And when he couldn’t and we fought, he had a way of taking my side without it looking like he was betraying her. He stuck up for me, and I never forgot it.

As we zoomed past the fountain I looked up at the huge banners that hung from the ceiling, each with its community motif: a house, a school, a flower, an animal that looked like a goat but I figured was a deer. I had this sudden, crazy urge to stand on the seat and rip every one of them down as we passed. I could almost feel my fingertips on the sheer fabric, smooth and giving as I yanked them from their bases. Speeding through the Lakeview Mall, dismantling it as I went. I glanced at Sumner, thinking of how much had changed, with the visions of those tumbling banners still in my head. I almost wanted to tell him, to ask him if he knew how it felt to be suddenly tempted to go wild. But we were flying along, the engine drowning all other sounds, and I let it go, for now.

Chapter Seven

After my chariot ride through the mall it seemed like I ran into Sumner everywhere. This was partly due to the fact that he had so many jobs. Besides pepper-and-cheese man and mall security, he was also mowing the lawn at the cemetery and driving a school bus for retarded children. Sumner did not believe in idle time.

I thought it must be fate that I kept bumping into him, some strange sign that he was meant to come back into my life and fix or change something, a voice from the past arriving in the present with the answers to everything. I knew this was silly, but it was hard to dismiss Sumner’s timing.

Lewis and Ashley continued to bicker and make up, almost daily. The moods she’d made a habit of inflicting exclusively on the family were now fair game to him as well, and as the wedding crept ever closer he approached our front door as if it was a bomb and the wrong word, compliment, or even expression could cause everything to blow. My mother and I commiserated silently, watching him climb the stairs to Ashley’s room like a soldier going off to battle. I found myself liking Lewis more now that he was suffering with us; I imagined it being the way crisis victims bonded, joined by the unthinkable.

It was now an even two weeks until the wedding. My mother’s lists had taken over the house, yellow stick-it notes flapping from anything that was stationary and big enough to hold them. They lined the bannister, grabbing my attention as I climbed the stairs. They hung from the fridge and the television, last-minute reminders, things not to forget. They were like caution signs, flagging me down and giving a warning to proceed carefully around the next turn. The wedding, so long churning over our house in a steady pattern, was beginning to whip itself into a storm.