On Whetsday Read Free

the oil had burned her, but with fast work she could make just a spoonful of the stuff last out a meal.
    Even if the oil had allowed her more time, Denny doubted Talla would have given him a greeting. She seldom said more than a few words in an evening these days and Denny could not remember the last time she had joked, or laughed, or even smiled. People had called Talla an Auntie for years, though she was barely nineteen and never anyone's mother. It was just that she was so serious, and she had watched over Cousin Sirah ever since Sirah's parents were consigned five years earlier. Young as she was, there were already lines of worry pressed into Talla's thin face, and in the last weeks Denny had noticed strands of white mingling with her dark hair.
    Once this would have been about the time when everyone got together and did a jilly-ho for Talla to welcome her into the ranks of adults. There would have been a ceremony, and music, and dancing, and talk about who Talla might marry–Kettle, if it happened now, it would have to be Cousin Kettle or Cousin Haw and Denny could not imagine Auntie Talla with Haw—and more talk about when she might have children. But all that would have to wait until Talla was consigned to somewhere else. There just weren't enough people left in Jukal Plex for a proper ceremony. It didn’t seem fair that Talla was treated like an Auntie, when she never got a jilly-ho.
    Denny stopped beside the stove long enough to make a show of breathing in the scents from the cooking food. It was partly just to be polite, but the green edges of the poppers were just starting to darken, and the smell was good enough that he really was tempted to reach in and steal a bite.
    Auntie Talla had no trouble reading his mind. “Step back, now,” she said with a wave of her oily stick. She smacked it down hard against the metal surface close to Denny’s fingers. Denny snatched back his hand.
    Talla would never actually hurt anyone. At least, Denny didn’t think so, but he stepped back anyway. He fumbled in the pocket of his baggy shorts and came out with three green chips, leftovers from what he had earned at the spaceport. “Is this enough for Restaurant?”
    “It's enough,” said Talla, without bothering to look at what Denny was holding.
    No matter how much or how little Denny brought, it was always enough. More than once he had come to Restaurant with nothing, and Talla had fed him just the same. Denny supposed that if he never brought in another chip, he would still not go hungry, but Denny liked to pay when he could. To get the food, Talla had to trade with cithians and dasiks and klickiks at the big market. If there were not enough chips to buy what she needed, she would have to do what others did all the time. She would have to sell some of her things to Poppa Jam.
    Denny hoped Talla had enough this time.
    Cousin Sirah was busy setting out dishes and cups even more mismatched than the tables they sat on. She flashed Denny a white smile as soon as she saw him.
    Next to Denny, Sirah was the youngest human left in Jukal. She was not really his cousin, of course, any more that Talla was his Auntie, but for a long time now—generations, his father had said—all the adults in Jukal Plex had called each other Auntie or Uncle. Had called all the old ones Poppa or Non. Had named all the children Cousins. It was just something you did when everyone all together was not much bigger than a family.
    Denny had not paid much attention to Sirah, not when there were other kids around. She had always been too serious. Too much like a little adult. Sirah had never wanted to play when she was smaller. Never wanted to dance when she was older. Sirah had never been someone to go to if you wanted fun. These last two years, there had been no one else much for Denny to talk to—no one human, at least—and he had decided that talking with Sirah was not a bad thing. Maybe that meant that Denny was also becoming an adult. Maybe it