The fox is staring, lonely in the brush, at the upstairs window where the bride is checking the mirror and thinking about something, something she keeps thinking about throughout the ceremony. It was Jeremy Tyber who did it, in a shiny car, two blocks from Santa Rosa High School. He stopped first for Darla Rochelle, offering her a ride, in exchange, when she hopped in, for sucking him off. She said what, and no, and gross, and let me out, and then watched, eyes wide and gossipy, as the car slid farther up the block and Rachel got inside. To Rachel he said nothing untoward and nothing happened, just a quiet ride and a smiley thanks on the way out the door, but in that time Darla told her tale, and Rachel was ruined in high school, nastily and absolutely. Even nice boys grew indecent when they got her alone, and girls were feral at her. It was something she could not shake, something she took with her, like some bullet lodged too near for surgery. The door handle, meaningless then, bland Jeremy Tyber with sunglasses and a creased belt, loomed large in reexamination, but she could never calculate what insult she had caused to him, or Darla Rochelle, that painted such a target on her, and at night, every zap of a dirty thought was alarming evidence that everyone, wrong, was sort of right about her, even her best friend saying finally, “But you did do it, didn’t you, Rachel?” in a plastic place in the outdoor mall, such that chocolate frozen yogurt, the smell and the sprinkles, still makes her queasy mad about it, and she frowns under her bridal hat, with feathers.