Double Jinx. Nancy Reddy

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      around her feathered neck. She wouldn’t eat

      the meals our mother cooked and instead slurped juice from cans, clawed

      the soft and flaky centers from the caramels

      in the cut-glass candy dish our mother kept for guests. She grew

      bird-boned and slender, a brittle core inside each inky feather. That year,

      though no one had died, not really,

      my mother filled the basement freezer with casseroles,

      each aluminum dish an archaeological dig of hash browns, beef tips

      browned in butter, cream of something soup. In bio lab

we pinned and bisected earthworms, diagrammed their tiny hearts

      on worksheets. Somewhere a teacher called out kingdom, phylum, family.

      We smeared the cultured cells from petri dishes onto slides and marveled

      at their manufactured one-cell lives. I ran the track each afternoon,

      my mix tape turned up loud. The sun set

      earlier and earlier each day behind the goal posts. At home

      my mother diced and browned the onions. My sister

      made herself a feather bed. The first snow fell around us as we slept,

      flakes soft as down, clotting the trees whose leaves had not yet

      turned and fallen, turning the lawn

      bright as a spotlight.

The Case of the Double Jinx

      THE SCARLET SLIPPER MYSTERY

      You’re Nancy Drew and you drive a blue coupe.

      You drive fast. Your mother is dead.

      She’s the new-hired help and you’re a nosy houseguest.

      She’s a model turned jewel thief and you’re hot

      on her trail. She’s a pretender to the fortune

      of the county’s richest missing bachelor.

      You’re solving mysteries that stump the cops.

      You sass them back. You’re flip-haired and eagle-eyed.

      You’re a daredevil detective on the trail of a breathtaking

      escape. She fooled you once and won’t again.

      THE FOOTPRINTS IN THE FLOWERBEDS

      You’re peering in her windows. You’re watching

      as she hides the proof beneath the sink,

      as she scrubs her hands with lye. She splashes bleach

      across the tile. You’re watching as she runs

      the bath. You watch. She’s wasp-waisted

      and flaxen-haired. You’re not the better sister.

      You’re no one’s good-time gal. You’re a bayou,

      a river caught fire. You’re armed with flashlight

      and revolver. You’re casing the estate.

      Ned will get you for your date at four. He’s late.

      THE MYSTERY OF THE WOODEN LADY

      She’s a cocktail dress and you’re day-old rye.

      You find a blond hair on the sofa bed,

      stockings in the spare room. You come home late

      one night and find your house lit like a birthday.

      You tiptoe to the window, your skirt’s hem

catching on the hedges. She’s in your house.

      She’s dancing slow with fickle Ned. She laughs

      at all his jokes. Now you’re a pincushion.

      You’re the sulfur smell of rotten eggs. You do

      the only thing you can. You run.

      THE CLUE IN THE BREAKFAST NOOK

      You run home to River Heights. You bolt the door.

      You’re a sure shot, an expert swimmer,

      a gourmet cook. You bake birthday cakes

      and ice them all with arsenic. You learn to knit.

      You believe in the jinx. You won’t say his name,

      won’t look at the phone. She’s a damsel

      in dishwashing gloves. She’s at your kitchen table,

      sugaring her tea. Ned’s a lost sock.

      She smiles your smile and wears his jacket.

      She hums. You’re gimlet-eyed. You’re losing steam.

      THE SECRET LOST AT SEA

      This time you’re the belle of Miami Beach.

      You’re busting up a gang of smugglers.

      You drink rum and dance all night. You learn

      to surf. A strange man licks the saltwater

      from your hair. The smugglers are setting sail

      for Cuba. You’re an inside job. You’re on their tail.

      There’s a girl here dressed as you. You surprise her

      on the ship’s back stairs. Now the jig is up.

      You’re found out, tied up, left to drown.

      You tapdance SOS against the cabin’s roof.

THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING HUSBANDS

      You’re on vacation in the snow-stunned Alps

      when the innkeeper comes to you for help.

      He’s getting threats from a dark-wigged woman

      who claims that she’s your twin. You’re snowed in.

      He tells you all the town’s most handsome men

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