Fay chewed on her pencil, swinging her leg under the kitchen table. We’d been at this cursed problem for thirty minutes now and she was beginning to lose interest. I couldn’t figure it out, and by God, I’d graduated from college. This was third-grade math.
“Maybe we put the A here and the C over there, in the corner.”
“No, ‘cause the M has to be touching the A and—”
“Right, right.” I leaned back in my chair. I was sick of this. “They probably made a mistake or something.”
“You said that last time, and Mom figured it out.” She doodled a cat on the paper. “Sheila says I’m too old to be a flower girl. She says only five-year-olds get to be a flower girl.”
“Sheila? Is that the one who told you Tintin was a woman? Anybody can be a flower girl, okay? The bride decides who gets to walk down
