for a few weeks more.

Late spring everywhere,

flowers

poking up

here and there,

peach trees blooming like crazy.

Miss Pearl,

Lizzie said that day,

wants me to interview

someone

I have a lot of respect for.

For a report.

Oh yeah?

I said

all worried

about math

and how confused

I was even at

just-about end of the year.

That’s right,

Liz said.

She pulled the ponytail holder

from her hair

that fell long around her shoulders.

The sun shone on her,

making her auburn hair

golden and

bright.

So?

I said.

So

I picked you,

Liz said.

You’re the person

I respect most.

Me?

I was so surprised

even math

was forgotten.

For a second.

Sure,

I said, pleased.

Wow.

Okay.

Liz took her pencil,

licked the tip,

and said,

What’s your name?

Oh, Lizzie,

I said,

my face going red

at the attention,

you already know that.

This

is an interview.

You have to

answer.

Your name?

It’s Hope Kristine Chapman.

Smells of roses

blew past

us.

The sun was

hot and yellow-white.

I fanned my face

with homework.

What are your goals?

Goals? I said,

I didn’t have a-one.

Not yet.

They came overnight,

much later.

Hmmmm,

I said.

What did I want

from me?

For me?

You have to have

one goal,

Liz said.

Me,

she tapped her chest,

I want

to sing.

Well, me too,

I said.

I want to be a famous

singer.

With you,

Liz.

Okay then,

she said.

And like she meant it

Liz wrote

the words down.

Hey.

Maybe you and me and Momma

could be famous

together,

I said.

The Chapman Girls,

Country and Western’s Best Family

Trio.

Liz made an

ugly face at

that.

Just with you,

she said.

Is that your onliest goal?

For now,

I said.

That’s it.

Lizzie closed her eyes

chewed on her pencil.

The sun

seemed to pat her

head.

My second goal,

she said,

her words all breathy,

is to get the hell outta here.

39.

Looking back,

I can see

Lizzie

meant what she

said.

Her going, I mean.

Her getting the hell

outta here.

Now

I think of my sister,

gone from our town

but still in

Florida.

I close my eyes

tight.

What is she sick of ?

Is the hospital

far enough away for

her?

Or is death

really what she’s after?

40.

Bad dreams.

More than a month ago.

The sky brittle.

Crying

all night it seems.

Then wake with a start.

Shaking.

Sweaty.

Lizzie?

I whispered my

sister’s name.

But Momma

I know

came in here earlier.

She led my sleepy sister out.

Why?

I asked.

She’s been sick,

Momma said to me.

When?

I said.

Right now, Hope,

Momma said.

Right now.

Momma?

I called out,

my voice slight with fear.

You go back to sleep in there,

Hope,

Momma said.

You stay in there.

I don’t want you catching

what Liz has.

There were voices in my head.

The dream cried on,

sounding too real for comfort.