I say to Mari

when she opens the

front door

to my tapping.

We have the house to

ourselves,

Mari says,

Mom and Dad

are at the greenhouses

checking the watering

system.

They’ll be late.

My hands still shake

because of Liz.

I rode my bike fast

to get here

letting the hot air blow

in my eyes,

drying

tears before they could

appear.

Cool,

I say

and breathe deep

the Mari scent.

Just you and me?

Well almost,

Mari says.

Mattie’s here.

Mattie

makes me crazy.

She’s a

spitter.

Every time she sees me,

she lets go

a glob of spit,

sailing it through the air,

aimed right at me.

Now I roll my eyes at Mari.

Mattie’s sleeping, though,

Mari says.

As long as we’re quiet . . .

We turn on Ian St. Clair

music

and sing.

I do the harmony.

Mari is the melody.

The first song ends.

I throw my arms out

for the grand finale,

wishing my sister

could see me singing this

with background

music,

when all the sudden I hear

ka-too-ee.

A gob of spit

comes at me.

I jump.

Mattie’s goober

hits right where I was.

She’s awake,

Mari says.

I see,

I say.

And I wish

it was Liz

standing there.

Even if she was

spitting,

and trying

to make me

mad,

though she wouldn’t,

not at fourteen,

I wish Mattie was Liz.

62.

That night,

as darkness fills Mari’s bedroom

and presses on my eyelids

like a pair of cold thumbs,

I remember Lizzie

telling me

why me and Lizzie

are best friends.

Here’s the story,

Hope,

Lizzie said in my memory.

It was a warm day,

that telling,

full of sun

and cabbage moths

and summer smells.

Maybe I was four

when this happened,

she said.

So you were almost

three,

a little ol’ thing,

with blond hair

so curly

Momma couldn’t get a brush through it

when she tried.

Late one night,

when Daddy was working,

or that’s the

way my memory

has it written,

Momma hollered

me awake.

And you, Hope,

just a baby, you cried.

Lizzie was quiet a moment

remembering.

Whimpers,
she said.

that’s what your cries were.

So what happened?

How did we get to

be best friends?

For the telling,

we sat in the grass

at a park,

kids calling

back and forth to

each other

while they played

on the swings

and teeter-totter.

So I went to

Momma’s room,

Liz said.

Her diaper’s wet,

Momma said,

and her bottle’s empty

again.

Lizzie sounded just like Momma

when she spoke

even wagging her head

the way Momma

does.

You took care of me,

I said, smiling at the thought,

didn’t you, Lizzie?

She nodded.

So Momma handed the bottle to me.

Fill this,

she said.

Lizzie lowered

her voice

like maybe Momma listened in

though she was with a customer

and didn’t even

know me and Lizzie were

at the park.

I saw you, Hope,

laying on your side

reaching for Momma.