"No sitting up for you tonight, kidlet, " her mother said. "Bed, and ice on that, before you swell up like a balloon. "

"What started it?" her dad asked from the dining room. "Joanne Virella, " Nita said. "She has a new bike, and I didn't get as excited about it as she thought I should. "

Nita's father looked up from the paper again, and this time there was discomfort in his face, and regret. "Nita, " he said, "I couldn't afford it this month, really. I thought I was going to be able to earlier, but I couldn't. I wish I could have. Next time for sure. " Nita nodded. "It's okay, " she said, even though it wasn't really. She'd wanted that bike, wanted it so badly — but Joanne's father owned the big five-and-dime on Nassau Road and could afford three-hundred-dollar bikes for his children at the drop of a birthday. Nita's father's business was a lot smaller and was prone to what he called (in front of most people) "cash-flow problems" or (in front of his family) "being broke most of the time. " But what does Joanne care about cash flow, or any of the rest of it? I wanted that bike! "Here, dreamer, " her mother said, tapping her on the shoulder and breaking her thought. She handed Nita an icepack and turned back toward the stove. "Go lie down or you'll swell worse. I'll bring you something in a while. "

"Shouldn't she stay sitting up?" Nita's father said. "Seems as if the fluid would drain better or something. "

"You didn't get beat up enough when you were younger, Harry, " her mother said. "If she doesn't lie down, she'll blow up like a basketball. Scoot, Nita. "

She scooted, around the corner into the dining room, around the second corner into the living room, and straight into her little sister, bumping loose one of the textbooks she was carrying and scattering half her armload of pink plastic curlers. Nita's father raised his eyebrows and turned his attention back to his paper as Nita bent to help pick things up again. Her sister, bent down beside her, didn't take long to figure out what had happened.